We started our tradition, homemade berry pie, each night. While camping on the
trail, they were a pure perfection bite.
The trail boss and the cook would always pass the pies around. The cowboys
filled their mouths so full they couldn’t make a sound.
But we soon found out that homemade pies were not the way to go. ‘Cuz when
we got a brand-new cook our tastebuds told us so.
That fateful year the cowboys stood there waiting by the fire. One cowboy said,
“My belly says we’re ’bout to plumb expire.”
The novice cook was Wyatt, and he baked the berry pies. He used no recipe and
might as well had closed his eyes.
The cowboys took a bite and crunched down like a bag of rocks. The taste was
like the house cat used ’em for his litter box.
Wyatt guesstimated ’bout the filling in the pie. And when he offered seconds,
’twas enough to terrify.
One cowboy said, “I think he cooked the pie deliberately. And every time I gag a
bite it’s certain agony.”
Wyatt learned to make the crust. Said, “Grandma taught me well.” But I don’t
believe he listened ‘cuz the crust was tough as @#%%!
So, we gathered up his pies and promptly threw ’em in the trash. I heard one
fellow tell him, “We’d been better off with hash!”
If there’s a cowboy code, you don’t call one of yours a fool. I guess we’ll ask
forgiveness ‘cuz we up and broke that rule.
Our cowboys cooking skills don’t mean a whole lot more than fodder. ‘Cuz most
the cowboys that I know could possibly burn water.
So, we turned to desperate measures. Would we vote for pies from town? The
only nay was Wyatt. Trail Boss slammed the gavel down!
And now we’re eating berry pie straight from the bakery. We’ll keep this fond
tradition ‘cuz homemade was misery.
But someone said that Wyatt wants to give it one more try. The Trail Boss offered
his advice. “You make ’em, say goodbye!”
