Food as a Weapon of Choice

I’m working on developing new ways to cook my beef and lamb.

The irony of this is not lost on me.

I’ve almost killed people twice, using food as my weapon of choice.

One time was intentional.

I was working on a ranch in Utah.

Periodically, a rancher who owned nearby pasture would bring his crew to stay overnight while we all worked his cattle.

My responsibilities included waking early to catch and saddle the horses, then make breakfast for everyone and wake them up when it was ready.

After a few days, I got tired of the inequity in this schedule.

Of course, ranchers rarely address potential conflicts verbally so I made pancakes for breakfast.

I gave the crew fair warning, which I thought was generous.

I ate cereal instead of pancakes.

Word to the wise: If the cook doesn’t eat her own food, you should eat something else, too.

The room fell silent as the crew swallowed the first bites of their pancakes.

I heard each bite land in the pit of each stomach like a boulder hitting a tar pit.

Thunk.

I might have missed the target for light and airy puffball pancakes, but I nailed the message.

The men were gracious enough to eat every bite.

Nobody except me was hungry for lunch – fortunately I had stashed snacks in my pocket.

The next morning when I came inside after saddling the horses, breakfast was on the table.

Someone had made scrambled eggs, with no pancakes in sight.

I didn’t intend to inflict harm the second time I almost killed people.

A few years ago, I invited friends to come help me brand my calves.

Of course, I planned to serve lunch.

Gathering the cattle would fill my time before noon so the night before the branding, I pulled out the crock pot and stuck a roast in.

When I woke up the next morning, the crock pot had switched off so I absentmindedly pressed the button to start it again.

Then I started to worry that I didn’t have enough food so I stuck a second roast in the oven to cook slowly until we came in for lunch.

At noon, I grabbed drinks while my brother, Roger, took the roast out of the oven and set it on the table.

Roger didn’t realize his small act of heroism saved several lives.

The oven roast disappeared so I served myself from the crockpot roast.

That afternoon, I managed to brand the calves, but only barely.

That same afternoon, I used my expanding detective skills to determine that broken crockpots can keep vulnerable meat at the ideal temperature to grow massive, food poisoning bacteria populations.

I thought about giving that crockpot to a thrift store until a friend pointed out that I could inadvertently kill an unsuspecting frugal little old lady.

Ever since that fateful day, my mom has cooked lunch for the branding crew.

I am not sure whether they realize the enormity of the gift she offers, but I do.

Fortunately for my beef and lamb customers, I sell frozen meat and it is up to them to cook it.

Fortunately for potential new meat recipes, government safety regulations will keep me from inadvertently adding botulism.

It turns out that regulators impose an extensive list of rules that I will follow when I cook for others.

An inspector will check in to be sure I do.

I’m not a fan of anyone telling me what to do, but science-based, food safety regulations save my detective skills from working overtime.

Still, if a kitchen inspector gets too persnickety, I’ll invite her to come for breakfast.

I’ll serve pancakes.