Cows: Hats, Boots, Boys & Balls

I’ve told you, in gory detail, about all the new experiences I’ve had since shedding my Fudgiedom and staying Up North all permanent-like.


Last week, I shed my puffy vest and headed back to Texas for a little HenFest, which is a bunch of women getting together and clucking incessantly.

After landing at Dallas/Ft Worth Airport, I did something a little different. Instead of turning right to go to Dallas, I turned left and headed into Fort Worth. Ok, I don’t actually know which way I turned or if it was East or West or what. Let’s just say I turned the Other Way, okay?

Now, I don’t know diddly squat about Ft. Worth. Dallasites consider it the country cousin although there’s probably more money floating around Ft. Worth than there are pageant queens in Plano. Still, Ft. Worth is way more Texan than it’s shiny counterpart. More cowboy history, more cowboy boots and cowboy hats, more cow …um… everything.  
                Better watch where you walk.

Us chickens decided to plop down in the very heart of it – The Fort Worth Stockyards. The Stockyards are what everyone outside of Texas thinks Texas is really like. It’s like going to Mackinaw Island and saying you’ve been to Michigan. It’s the Texas Fudge Spot.

Where else do they actually have a cattle drive down Main Street? Well, nowhere because it’s stupid. They drive the same fifteen longhorns down the same three-block stretch two times every day. All the little Yanklets squeal and point and back up in case there’s a stampede. Not much chance, I think I saw an Eli Lilly brand on a few of them. They get free Prozac samples from their vet.

Now, let’s talk food. Specifically calf fries. That’s a little more interesting. Especially after you’ve seen the size of the bulls in the cattle drive.

There are plenty of farms Up North so I’m sure there’s lots of necessary cutting of the dangly parts, right? You with me? But, do y’all actually dredge said parts in cornmeal and fry ‘em up? I’m thinking not - but you do that to your baitfish, so who knows?

Here’s some helpful signage showing the actual gonad before and after a boiling bacon grease bath.

Tasty looking, huh? Let’s just cut right into that, dip it in some ketchup and pop it in our pie-holes!  (1/3 of you saying “Hell yeah!”, 1/3 gagging & 1/3 crossing your legs protectively)

Before laying a lip on any animal testicles, it’s best to prepare your palette with plenty of; oh I don’t know, say, beer? Tequila? A combination of the two? Luckily, I kept that bottle handy because I definitely felt the need to rinse and repeat afterwards. I don’t think Scope wudda cut it.

There’s no better place to getcher Courage Juice on than Booger Red’s.

Sam “Booger” Privett was a famous red headed bronc rider born in 1864. Unfortunately he was also an idiot who boogered up most of his face up in a fireworks snafu. From then on he was nicknamed “Booger Red”, a name he made famous in The Booger Red Wild West Wagon Show. Me? I just like saying “booger”.

The bar has saddles for barstools and a signature margarita that was just calling my name. No, really, it’s called the Anita-Rita. It’s made with fresh limes and Serrano peppers. Refreshing with a bite, thank you very much.



We girls ate beef (several parts, unfortunately), drank tequila, bought a cowgirl costume and cat-called cute cowboys. I have to tell you, I acted just like a picture-takin’, finger-pointin’, cowboy-oglin’, squealy little tourist. In other words, a Fudgie. In my own damn state. Whooda thunk it?




P.S.  When I got back to D/FW to wait for my flight back North, this was my view:
 

And, of course, this guy was sniffing around the “hen house” all weekend.