We squeezed into a parking spot. The time was half past five.
The small town, country diner was about to come alive.
Inside you’d find a welcome, by the fire a cozy seat.
And a menu with one entree, the county’s finest prime rib meat.
We chose a table that was set away from all the light.
Then our waitress asked how we would like prime rib prepared tonight.
My wife likes prime rib medium. I like it juicy rare.
The chef knew how to cook the meat. None better I could swear.
The waitress brought our dinners. Culinarian first rate.
That’s when I noticed drippings at the bottom of my plate.
My mind went back when I was young, to a life of work yet joy.
We were raised and fed on meat and spuds like every country boy.
Our grain fed beef was marbled. Soon the butcher they would meet.
Providence was having two stocked freezers full of meat.
But somewhere in between the butchering and the eat,
we wasted many T-bones, fried too long with too much heat.
No one asked if we would like our steak a medium well.
‘Cuz the one who fricasseed your steak would burn it plumb to $@##.
The cast iron pan was fired up and as far as we all knew,
the steaks fried in the pan cooked tougher than a leather shoe.
Chewing takes some effort and especially when grown old.
‘Cuz if you sport false teeth for sure your polident won’t hold.
But then one day, while out at camp, I gained a life remake.
A man from South America cooked all of us a steak.
He sprinkled all our t-bone steaks with powdered garlic salt.
Then placed ‘em in a hot pan. Watched ‘em almost to a fault.
He cut a chunk of rare red meat and placed it on my plate.
I popped it in my mouth. Dang sure, the best I’d ever ate!
My taste buds have convinced me, never overcook the meat.
I learned from my experience that the drippings are a treat.
The cowboy and the rancher raised and fed the steer for you.
They eked out a small living on what both knew how to do.
When grilling on your camp chef, thinking you’re a cook somehow.
Remember that the beef is prime and not just plain old cow.
