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.

That's Doctor Redneck to You!

Oh honey. The South is alive and well. It’s living in a bar off M-72! Turns out there are Rednecks on this side of the Mason-Dixon, too! Their boots aren’t as pointy but their trucks are just as tall!

When I asked what beer was on draft, my choices were Bud, Bud Lite, Blatz and PBR.  I went with the house Merlot. The waitress laughed in my face but returned with a stem filled to the brim with wine.  A clue, perhaps…

I clunked crystal with my pals, Sharon Chardonnay and Ivana Shiraz. All I can say is there is a shriveled bag inside a box somewhere under that bar. Lesson learned. We switched to Blatz – which was much smoother. Ouch.

Still, cerebral lubrication was required. So, down the hatch!

Open Mic Nights are always a delicate balance of talent, charisma and balls. I’ve found you get more bang for your Bud Lite from the balls and charisma. Betting on the talent is pretty darn tricky.

I usually put my money on the guy with the longest ponytail, nursing the cheapest beer with the most boogered up instrument. On this particular Thursday, I had several choices in that category. It was clear I was going to have to add a few more parameters.

The thing about Rednecks – be they sunburned in the South or snow-blasted Up North – is that you never know if the ZZ Top lookin’ dude with the mandolin just crawled out of his cave in the mountain side or is a brain surgeon.

I was leaning toward brain surgeon because the MC introduced every picker as “Doctor SoandSo”.  A closer look at the Fingernail Situation told me none of these guys was gonna doctor any part of my SoandSo. Again with the “Ouch”.

So I started judging by their Get Ups. Their costumes. Stage Attire. I mean, you know you’re getting up in front of a bunch of people who will be focused solely on you, right? Mmmmmm…not so much. They were all very authentic. Focused on their craft. We’ll leave it at that.

Country boys, in general, love ‘em some plaid. I’ve seen some dern dang hot little cowboys with thermal undershirts under their plaid flannel, tight Wranglers with symbolically big belt buckles and buttery leather boots.

I did not see that guy last Thursday. I didn’t even see that guy’s second cousin.

Here’s what I did see. A five-piece combo of dads and granddads pickin’ and grinnin’ fit to kill. An angel faced bass player a full twelve inches shorter than his instrument. A full-gray longhaired, longer bearded dude with a hot pink guitar who had me jumping up to hug his neck. Three very classy women gingerly sipping wine. (oh wait, that was us) and one full-on Glee Wanna Be in a sailor shirt.

This bar could be in Wapanucka, Oklahoma, Kalamazoo, Michigan or Podunk, New York. All comers’ welcome! It’s a refreshing slice of Americana that makes us all feel just a little bit more normal. Need that – love that!

Can I hear a "Hell Yeah!"??