I made Jim Jones’s Texas Chili and it did not disappoint. It was delicious. I needed something sweet to eat afterwards so I turned my attention to Liz Markley’s Chocolate Cake from Scratch. While the cake was baking I took some time to finalize travel arrangements for the WWA convention next month. I’m excited to attend the event and see all the good people involved with the organization, but not excited about flying.
Flying has turned into an amazingly arduous process, especially boarding the plane, which has now become this tedious Bataan death march with American Tourister overnight bags. I always get stuck behind the guy that takes forever to get situated. He clogs the aisle like a human piece of cholesterol jammed in the passengerial artery. If I am not behind the human piece of cholesterol I’m behind the wizard who wants to beat the system by gaffer-taping a twine handle onto a refrigerator-freezer box and calling it a “carry on.” It takes him forever to shove the box in the overhead bin.
And now all the flight attendants are touchy and cranky. You never know what’s going to set them off and whether or not you’ll be bounced from the flight. I know it’s a tough job. There’s got to be a thousand different ways to tie that neckerchief but why take it out on the rest of us?
You know who I feel sorry for in the whole air-travel scenario? It’s the poor guy who has to drive the jetway. You know that little accordion tentacle that weaves its way out to meet the plane? Everybody else is Waldo Pepperin’ around in their Bobby Lansing leather bombing jackets, the right stuff coursing through their veins as they push the outside of the envelope. Your job is to drive the building.
After enjoy several pieces of Liz Markley’s chocolate cake I’m convinced the way to bring peace between the passengers and crew is to serve everyone Liz’s cake. It’s exceptional. Things would work out even better if Liz served the cake herself. She is one of the nicest people in the world and she would never use a refrigerator-freezer box as luggage.
The Western Writers of America Cookbook: Favorite Recipes, Cooking Tips, and Writing Wisdom is filled with more than 150 recipes, anecdotes, and stories from some of America’s most popular writers and personalities, this collaborative effort has a writers sensibility and a Western point of view. Including recipes for drinks, appetizers, main dishes, side dishes, desserts, and fun extras—as well as stories from and profiles of the contributors, this is both a Western book and a cookbook that moves beyond the genre.
The Western Writers of America Cookbook was edited by Nancy Plain and Sherry Monahan. Nancy Plain is an award-winning writer of biographies and histories for readers of all ages. Sherry Monahan has her own column (Frontier Fare) in and is a contributing editor for True West magazine.
Now that I’m spending a more time in the kitchen with the WWA cookbook I realize I need to go shopping for those things most found in kitchens. For example, oven mitts. I made Quackgrass Sally’s Myrna’s Marvelous Mashed Ranch Taters last night and when I went to take it out of the oven I realized I don’t even own any oven mitts. But luckily, since I’m a baseball fan, I had two Number One! foam hands. It made the presentation of Quackgrass Sally’s recipe oh so much more dramatic.
Myrna’s Marvelous Mashed Ranch Taters were indeed marvelous, but I did cheat a bit. The recipe called for a teaspoon of onion powder and I left that out. I hate onions. There’s only one other food I will not eat besides onions and that’s movie theatre hot dogs. I feel there are no USDA preparation guidelines for this meat. They used to be impaled on spears rotating inside a Timex case. Suddenly that’s gone and replaced by the foot massage-log roll jamboree. And they never look like they’re cooking; they just look like they’re sweating.
Think I’ll try and make Jim Jones’s Texas chili next. I’ll get some oven mitts, but I’m saving the foam hands for the next time the Royals win the World Series. The way the season is going though I may not get to use them for a while. Oh well, at least the recipes in the WWA cookbook are Number One!
The Western Writers of America Cookbook: Favorite Recipes, Cooking Tips, and Writing Wisdom is filled with more than 150 recipes, anecdotes, and stories from some of America’s most popular writers and personalities, this collaborative effort has a writers sensibility and a Western point of view. Including recipes for drinks, appetizers, main dishes, side dishes, desserts, and fun extras—as well as stories from and profiles of the contributors, this is both a Western book and a cookbook that moves beyond the genre.
The Western Writers of America Cookbook was edited by Nancy Plain and Sherry Monahan. Nancy Plain is an award-winning writer of biographies and histories for readers of all ages. Sherry Monahan has her own column (Frontier Fare) in and is a contributing editor for True West magazine.
The stress of my weight loss resolution led to relentless binge eating. I’m not complaining. After making Sandra Dallas’s blueberry coffee cake recipe I needed to generously sample the goods. I couldn’t have done that if I was sticking to some boring resolution. If I’d had any coffee cake left I would have taken some to church yesterday to share. Who am I kidding? I planned on NOT having any left to take to church yesterday.
I love food and I hate to exercise. I figure by the time I make all the recipes in the Western Writers of America Cookbook: Favorite Recipes, Cooking Tips, and Writing Wisdom I’ll look like Bib the Michelin Man. When I think about it, the only exercise that has ever worked for me is occasionally getting up in the morning and jogging my memory to remind myself of exactly how much I hate to exercise. I tried running. I hated it. I hear walking can make a difference. I don’t think that’s entirely true. If it’s so good for you why does my mailman look like Jabba the Hut with a quirky thyroid?
I joined a health club once, but everything there seemed too complicated. There’s nothing quite as humiliating as finishing a thirty-minute workout on a piece of gym equipment only to have the instructor tell you you’ve been sitting on it backward. So, there’s nothing left to do but continue making the rest of the recipes in the Western Writers of America Cookbook: Favorite Recipes, Cooking Tips, and Writing Wisdom and not worry about anything else. Next up, I tackle Sandra’s zucchini bread recipe and look into whether or not the Michelin tire man has a clothing line for women.
The Western Writers of America Cookbook: Favorite Recipes, Cooking Tips, and Writing Wisdom is filled with more than 150 recipes, anecdotes, and stories from some of America’s most popular writers and personalities, this collaborative effort has a writers sensibility and a Western point of view. Including recipes for drinks, appetizers, main dishes, side dishes, desserts, and fun extras—as well as stories from and profiles of the contributors, this is both a Western book and a cookbook that moves beyond the genre.
The Western Writers of America Cookbook was edited by Nancy Plain and Sherry Monahan. Nancy Plain is an award-winning writer of biographies and histories for readers of all ages. Sherry Monahan has her own column (Frontier Fare) in and is a contributing editor for True West magazine.
While purchasing ingredients to make one of the dishes included in the Western Writers of America Cookbook: Favorite Recipes, Cooking Tips, and Writing Wisdom I saw a product called Mr. Salty Pretzels. Isn’t that nerve? Everything nowadays is low salt or salt-free but here’s one company that believes the heck with that. Meet Mr. Salty Pretzels. More companies should be as honest when it comes to advertising their products. Like Mr. Tar and Nicotine Cigarettes or Mr. Gristle and Hard Artery Beefsteak.
After contemplating the merits of truth in advertising I pressed on and gathered all the items I would need to make Barbara Dan’s Pumpkin Applesauce Muffins. That recipe is included in the section of the WWA cookbook entitled Cowboy Up! Breakfasts and Quick Breads. According to Barbara Dan, “These muffins have been a long favorite of mine. When my father-in-law lived with my family, he and the children occasionally had a sore throat and had trouble swallowing. Fortunately, these soft, nutritious muffins were regarded as a treat by everyone.”
As I was mixing together the ingredients for the muffins I was thinking about the very thin woman that was standing behind me at the checkout stand earlier in the day. She was purchasing lettuce and Greek yogurt. She gave the items I was purchasing a once over and then tossed me a smile. “Good for you,” she said. “I wish I didn‘t care about what I ate. Summer is coming and I’ve got to keep in shape. Truth is, sometimes I forget to eat.” Now I’ve forgotten my mother’s maiden name, and my keys, but you’ve got to be a special kind of stupid to forget to eat.
Barbara Dan’s Pumpkin Applesauce Muffins were delicious. The skinny, lettuce eater doesn’t know what she missed. I’m sure all the recipes in Western Writers of America Cookbook: Favorite Recipes, Cooking Tips, and Writing Wisdom are delicious.
Filled with more than 150 recipes, anecdotes, and stories from some of America’s most popular writers and personalities, this collaborative effort has a writers sensibility and a Western point of view. Including recipes for drinks, appetizers, main dishes, side dishes, desserts, and fun extras—as well as stories from and profiles of the contributors, this is both a Western book and a cookbook that moves beyond the genre.
The Western Writers of America Cookbook was edited by Nancy Plain and Sherry Monahan. Nancy Plain is an award-winning writer of biographies and histories for readers of all ages. Sherry Monahan has her own column (Frontier Fare) in and is a contributing editor for True West magazine.
Muffin eaters unite!
I don’t cook. I sustain largely on Pop Tarts (frosted cherry to be precise) and any cereal. I like the idea of just eating and drinking with one hand, without looking. Because I don’t cook I don’t really shop for food outside of the Cap’n Crunch aisle. I’m not familiar with the varieties of products available at the grocery store. For example, I was at the store not too long ago and accidentally found myself in a section with spaghetti sauce and salad dressing. Paul Newman’s face was on every item in that aisle it seemed. If I didn’t know he had passed away several years ago I would have thought he was missing.
But seriously…
I believe the Western Writers of America Cookbook: Favorite Recipes, Cooking Tips, and Writing Wisdom could change my eating habits. Although I am disappointed there are no Pop Tart recipes in the book I find myself wanting to cook after reading this manual.
Filled with more than 150 recipes, anecdotes, and stories from some of America’s most popular writers and personalities, this collaborative effort has a writers sensibility and a Western point of view. Including recipes for drinks, appetizers, main dishes, side dishes, desserts, and fun extras—as well as stories from and profiles of the contributors, this is both a Western book and a cookbook that moves beyond the genre.
The Western Writers of America Cookbook was edited by Nancy Plain and Sherry Monahan. Nancy Plain is an award-winning writer of biographies and histories for readers of all ages. Sherry Monahan has her own column (Frontier Fare) in and is a contributing editor for True West magazine.
If you’d like to break out of your Pop Tart rut and take on a few delicious recipes this book is for you.
Dora Hand
A fresh mound of earth covered Dora Hand’s grave and a sweet breeze danced around the crudely fashioned marker stuck in the dirt where she had been buried. Several bouquets of wilted flowers encircled the wooden tombstone. Although their blooms had faded somewhat, they represented the only color in the soap weed infested cemetery. For a short time after James Kenedy’s acquittal in December 1878, mourners returned to Dora’s plot to deposit fresh flowers, remember the entertainer and reflect on the shooting that took her life.
The news of what James had done and the posse that pursued him followed the cattleman to Texas, and he reveled in the notoriety. Youth often wobbles dangerously, then steadies to follow the straight and narrow path, but not in his case. The injuries he sustained during his capture had left him a cripple, and he was anxious to prove that the disability had not affected his gunplay.
He learned to use his left arm to draw his weapon and rumors prevailed that he killed several men with his quick hand during a brief stay in Colorado in November 1880.
By 1882, James had settled down and married the daughter of a wealthy landowner. He focused on the family business and worked closely with his father, earning the man’s respect and confidence. Neighbors and acquaintances considered James to be a “man of industry with good business qualifications and a trusted manager of Mifflin’s large ranch and cattle business.”
James Kenedy died on December 29, 1884 of tuberculosis, shortly after his son, George Mifflin was born. News of his death was slow to reach Dodge City, but well received. Mayor Kelley was particularly pleased. He had taken the death of Dora Hand hard. His emotional attachment to her, combined with the fact that a bullet intended for him had killed her, had left him devastated. Like many Dodge City residents who had been fond of Dora, Mayor Kelley felt “the only punishment meted out to James had been the sickness he endured from being shot by the posse.” After James was apprehended, Mayor Kelley expected the gunslinger to be found guilty of murdering the songstress and subsequently hung. The mayor was disappointed with the judge’s ruling to acquit.
Mayor Kelley served four terms in office, stepping down from the position in March 1881. He left the job after being accused by his business partner of allowing a customer to pass a counterfeit dollar to him. In spite of the embarrassing incident, residents viewed him as an effective town leader. He helped pass ordinances outlawing houses of ill repute, increased licenses for taverns to help provide services to the community and organized a law enforcement team that eventually became known throughout the territory as the “toughest group of men in the west.”
With the exception of his daughter, Irene, there was no other significant woman in Mayor Kelley’s life. He consorted with very few ladies in public after the loss of Dora and focused much of his attention on his purebred greyhound dogs. In November 1885 a fire burned one of Mayor Kelley’s saloons to the ground. He rebuilt the saloon, but never fully recovered financially and was eventually forced to sell all of his real estate holdings to sustain himself. When his health began to fail in late 1910, he moved to the Soldier’s Home at Fort Dodge.
James squirmed uncomfortably in the saddle and slowed his horse from a fast trot to a walk. The renegade’s attention was fixed on the countryside that unrolled before him. There were miles and miles of open range as far as he could see. The sky directly above was clear with fuzzy pinches of cotton-like clouds scattered here and there, but dark thunderheads were piling up a few miles out. He led his ride around the bones of a buffalo that had fallen some time prior to his passing through the area, and the horse balked and snorted. The mount was apprehensive about moving forward. James strained his eyes over the rugged trail, but failed to see anything that warranted the horse’s obstinate behavior. He poked the animal with his spurs, and the horse continued on.
Bat peered over the mound of earth he and the other posse members were positioned behind and watched the fugitive they’d been pursuing draw slowly nearer. “We’ll stop him out here,” Wyatt announced. “I don’t think he’ll make a fight. Most likely he’ll run for it.” “If he does… I’ll drop him,” Charlie promised. “Kelley wants Kenedy alive,” Bill reminded the men.
Charlie looked around for their horses and noted that the animals were scattered about the vicinity – too far away for the lawmen to reach without being seen. “Damn-it,” Bat spat under his breath realizing along with Wyatt and Bill the location of the mounts. “I’ll attend to the man,” Bat told his fellow riders after contemplating the distance a bullet would have to travel to hit James. “If he runs, shoot his horse,” Bat ordered Wyatt.
James rode on lost in thought. The closer he got to the acres of pastureland outlining the sod house, the more nervous his horse became. The animal raised his head and neighed. James surveyed the region and again saw nothing out of the ordinary. He kept going, but stopped every few yards to make sure the way was clear. Seventy-five yards away from the posse’s location, James brought his ride to a stop. He could hear only the cold wind blowing over the withered grass.
He scrutinized the prairie for a third time and noticed four rider less horses milling about. Anxiety swelled to fear and broke out on him in a cold, clammy sweat. A charged silence descended on the spot as the outlaw and the posse held their positions like graven images, waiting for someone to make a move. James’s face was bloodless and in one quick simultaneous motion, he removed his gun from its holster and swung his horse around.
Wyatt, Bat, Charlie and Bill jumped up and leveled their weapons at James. “Halt,” Bat shouted, cocking his weapon. James was defiant. He fired a shot at the same time he dug his spurs into his mount’s sides. The animal launched into a hard gallop. “Halt,” Wyatt warned the killer again. James refused. “Last chance, Kenedy,” Wyatt warned, “Halt!” James raised his whip to strike his ride and urge the horse to go faster, but a bullet fired from Bat’s .50 caliber rifle struck his left arm and he dropped the quirt. Thoroughly spooked by the violent exchange, the horse hurried to escape the scene. The lawmen let loose a volley of shots. Wyatt took careful aim and fired at James’s horse. Three bullets brought the animal down. James fell out of the saddle just as his mount received the fatal blow and the horse landed hard on top of him, crushing the arm that had just been shot. Horse and rider lay motionless on the ground.
A cold morning broke in rose and gold colors over the vast Cimarron grassland. James Kenedy tumbled out of his rocky bed tucked under a long, narrow mesa and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He hauled his weary frame to a depression in the earth, turned his back to the frigid, biting wind, and began relieving himself. His tired horse meandered behind him, alternating between gnawing on bits of brush and drinking from deep puddles made by the rain that had assaulted the region.
James finished his business and dragged himself to the saddle and bit he had removed from his mount the night before. The horse gave the outlaw a disapproving look as he approached him with the harness. Dried lather from profuse sweating beaded across the animal’s backside and his unshod hooves were tender and chipped.
The idea of riding on wasn’t anymore appealing to James than his horse, but it was necessary. The downpour from the previous evening had no doubt raised the level of the river further, but James was hopeful that the water had crested and would begin receding by late afternoon. If that happened, the ford would be passable and James and the cowboys he was sure his father had sent after him, could make it across.
No matter what trouble James had ever managed to get himself into, he knew there was sanctuary in Texas. His father had recently purchased Laureles Ranch; a one hundred thirty-one thousand acre spread 20 miles from Corpus Christi, and had hired a team of ranch hands to fence in the property. Mifflin Kenedy planned to build up his herds, raise a better quality of livestock, and isolate his rebellious son from persistent police or vengeful gunslingers.
For a brief moment in time Mifflin believed his spoiled boy had a future with the Texas Rangers. In November 1875, James joined a company whose main objective was to reduce the raids on cattle ranches by Mexican bandits. His knowledge of the wild territory made him a valuable asset to the troops, but his term of duty lasted only five months. In April 1876, he voluntarily left the Rangers earning a mere $59.72 for his time served.
Law and order was not in James’s nature. He thrived on misdeeds and violent confrontations with competing ranchers outside of the Texas Panhandle. He relished indulgencies of every kind and came and went at his sweet will. He could not conceive of a single circumstance where he would not ultimately be rescued from the consequences of his vicious actions.
Fog and a heavy morning mist danced across the wet scrub and brush grass that stretched toward the sun. The posse rode through the somewhat eerie scene without speaking. Their faces a study of relentless purpose, their every senses alive and straining. Their keen eyes searched for vegetation that had been trampled, twigs that had been broken, ground that been packed down, remnants of clothing, any sign that a desperate rider had passed through the area.
Wyatt Earp leaned slightly out of his saddle to study the terrain and the crude path they were following. His expression was resolute and competent. He sniffed at the wind that began to rise and coaxed his horse into a trot beside Charlie Bassett’s and Bill Tilghman’s roans. The men rode three abreast spurred on by an unspoken belief that they were headed in the right direction.
Bat Masterson lingered behind the others, glancing back over his shoulder at someone he felt was following them. Wyatt caught a glimpse of Bat bringing up the rear and pulled back on the reins of his mount, turned the animal around and rode towards the lawman. “Bat,” Wyatt said, scanning the surroundings cautiously. Bat smiled at Wyatt, but behind the smile was a look of uneasiness. “Remember when we were hunting buffalo?” Bat asked. Wyatt nodded. “We’d find a spot up wind of them and pick them off one by one,” Bat continued. “They never even stampeded when members of their herd began dropping. Not so long as they didn’t get a whiff of the hunter. All we had to do was make sure we stayed out of smelling range and drop each animal with one shot.” Wyatt peered warily into the distance they’d traveled. The significance of Bat’s memory resonating in his head. Bat walked his horse past Wyatt’s animal. “All we had to do was stay out of smelling range,” he repeated as he rode by. Wyatt gave another guarded look over the countryside then fell in after Bat.
In the two years Wyatt and Bat had served together as lawmen in Ford County, they’d had numerous run-ins with rowdy Texas cowhands. Both men knew any of those vengeful drovers and their crew could be just out of sight waiting to gun them down.
There were most assuredly rogue Indian braves, either Cheyenne or Comanche, keeping a watchful eye on the posse, but the policemen didn’t believe they were a threat. The bulk of the Plains Indians had been confined to reservations and generally would not launch an attack unless provoked. If there were anyone lurking beyond the tall grasses and iodine bushes, anyone following the lawmen using the crevices in the earth for cover, it was presumed to be the cowpunchers from the Kenedy family ranch. “They’re on their way,” Bat said, referring to James Kenedy’s fellow drovers.
After eight years in law enforcement, Wyatt Earp knew the risks and sacrifices that came with keeping the peace. Many of his friends and acquaintances insisted he was born for the job. One of the men who hunted buffalo with Wyatt recalled that he had “absolute confidence in himself that gave him an edge over the run of men.” Bat Masterson regarded him as someone who was “absolutely destitute of physical fear.”
