Maybe It's Less Traceable Than Arsenic

Farmer H grilled steaks this evening. He grilled a steak for himself. And one for The Pony. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had a hot dog. She bought only two steaks, you see, because her faith in Farmer H has been shaken.

Farmer H has always been a fantastic griller. Of course, having only my own father to compare him to, he has an advantage. My dad was known for incinerating all cuts of meat. I didn't know any different. Until I met Farmer H. We had a BBQ at Mom and Dad's house one summer.

"I can't believe what your dad did to those hamburgers! I asked him, 'Aren't they getting a little done?' And he said, 'Oh, I have to make them like that. That's the way the girls like them.'"

"WHAT? I though all BBQ hamburgers were like that. Dry. Tasteless. Hard to swallow. I always added a lot of extra sauce to mine."

"He thought that's how you and your mom liked them."

"Her, maybe. But Sis and I didn't know any different."

So...Farmer H always made juicy hamburgers, tender steaks pink in the middle, pork steaks moist with just the right char on the fat along the edges. So great I even complimented him. Until lately. The past year or so. Let the record show that Farmer H decrees who gets what cuts of meat.

"This hamburger is kind of medium. You'd like it. That little one there is for The Pony. He doesn't like much meat. That pork steak has a lot of fat and no bone. I know you like them that way. Here are the black hot dogs. You'll want them."

Of course I had no issue with this procedure. It worked out fine. Until lately. I would say that the last four steaks Farmer H has fed me were virtually inedible. Oh, I could chew on them like gum, and perhaps gain some protein. But they were tough. Gristly. Meanwhile, The Pony and Farmer H raved about how great their steaks were. Not lying, either. No spit-out parts left on their plates. Mine went straight to the dogs. They never complain about ABC meat.

No matter what steaks I bought, mine always seemed to be the bad meat. Two ribeyes and a T-bone. Never specifying who got what. And Farmer H plied his magic, and I got the one full of connective tissue. So I gave up. The Pony leaves tomorrow for a week-long engineering camp. I wanted to give him the proper send-off with one of his favorite meals. Steak. Corn on the cob. Homemade garlic bread. (He decided no baked potato this time, because he wanted to fill up on bread).

As I said, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had a hot dog. Which was done to perfection, if you can overlook the bucket of BBQ sauce coating it. I prefer my hot dogs with a black crust, not BBQ sauce. The Pony likes his hot dogs grilled with no visible char, and no sauce. I hope my dad didn't tell Farmer H that was how I like my hot dogs.

I may need to make a chart to hang over Farmer H's grill, showing how we each prefer our meatstuffs.