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Government cheese
May 21, 2007This blog is for my sister's friend Texas Chad (named thusly because she had two friends named Chad at that time, and this Chad was from -- you guessed it -- Texas). He's overseas right now and reads this blog because he said it reminds him of his roots in North Texas.
***
I'm hooked on $4 cheese.
OK, so technically it's just $3.79 cheese.
It's made by The Laughing Cow and comes in a colorful circular container, which contains eight little wedges.
I'm no mathematician, but my calculator said that comes out to 47.375 cents per wedge.
That's almost more than a Coke.
The irony is that I'm not a big cheese fan. I eat it, but I don't crave it.
Until now.
The last time I loved cheese this much was when I was about 7.
That captivating cheese of my youth had no real name, that I recall.
We just called it government cheese.
I don't know all the details, I was just a kid, but once a month, the government would give away what were called commodities. All the folks in town would go down to the old school to pick up their monthly allotment.
(I think you had to either be low-income or a farming family or something to qualify for the goods, which basically meant the whole town of Paducah was there.)
Anyway, there was rice, peanut butter, powdered milk, butter, I think, and a few other things they distributed.
And cheese. The most glorious log of cheese I've ever tasted.
It wasn't American or cheddar. It was some random blend, but not in a gooey, you don't have to refrigerate it like Velvetta kind of way. It was pale yellow, but not pre-sliced.
It was just wonderful. And I was in love with it.
I don't know when the government stopped this program, sometime in my teens I think, but I've had a soft spot for government cheese ever since.
No sandwich has ever tasted the same.
Posted by Lara Richards at 1:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)
Cat math
May 18, 2007Our girl cat out at the farm -- Pinky -- started hanging around the front door of the house several months ago.
Used to, she'd run at the first sound of a human.
"She sure is getting friendly," I told my pop.
He replied: "She sure is getting friendly with somebody. She's pregnant."
I asked him, innocently, if we had another cat out at the farm that I didn't know about.
You see, the only other boy cat out there is Blackie.
Her brother.
Pop quickly explained to me that "that" didn't matter to cats.
"That," meaning incest.
Ewwww.
***
Fast forward three months. Pinky and Blackie's offspring are born, the cutest four kittens you've ever seen.
One is black tiger striped like his father. One is black and tan, and two are yellow.
"Those two yellow ones look like Fred," I told my pop.
Fred was Pinky and Blackie's father.
"Well, they should look like him," Pop said. "He's their double grandfather."
Ewwww.
***
I told my dad the other night that we needed to get Pinky, Blackie and the four tots fixed.
That we didn't need an overpopulation of cats out at the farm.
He explained that six cats weren't too much, that we needed them to catch snakes, mice, etc.
But that's not the point, I wanted to tell him.
It's not the number I'm concerned about.
It's the inbreeding.
Ewwww.
Posted by Lara Richards at 2:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Napkin notes
May 17, 2007I'm driving through Henrietta when I notice a new barbecue joint.
The business' phone number is plastered on its marquee, so I start scrambling -- while I'm driving and probably talking on my cell phone -- for a pen and a piece of paper.
Pen and paper. Pen and paper.
I pull over to the side of the road.
I'm a journalist. I should have something to write WITH and something to write ON in this car.
Instead I found a marker and a slightly used Allsup's napkin.
Good enough.
So I scribbled away, writing down the restaurant's number as well as a few others that caught my eye as I drove through town.
When I got to the newspaper office in Wichita Falls, I sat down at my desk and pulled out my makeshift napkin notepad.
My pod-mates laughed.
I guess it means you're officially a country reporter when Allsup's plays a crucial role in your job performance.
Posted by Lara Richards at 1:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Maternity leave
May 15, 2007I realized when I wrote my "testicle" blog last week that it'd been a few months since I'd posted.
I have a good excuse, I promise.
I was on maternity leave.
Of sorts.
I have a baby.
(A gasp from the peanut gallery!)
Calf, that is.
Her name is Cherry. My dad and I found her under a tree out in the pasture about two months ago, almost dead. We guess her mama abandoned her or something, and little Cherry was left to die.
But we've nursed her back to health, bottle feeding her four times a day. My pop takes the Monday-Thursday shift and I'm on duty Friday-Sunday.
We have about three more months until she's fully weaned, and not a moment too soon.
This mom stuff is getting old.
But at least now she answers to her name.
And after I feed her, she does a little dance.
Posted by Lara Richards at 12:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
Testicles
May 12, 2007Testicles. Testicles. Testicles.
I have said that word more in the last two weeks than I have my whole life.
What started with a simple story about the upcoming Rocky Mountain oyster festival in Throckmorton this weekend turned into a long, in-depth piece about the Old West cuisine, complete with a pseudo-expose about the shortage of calf fries.
Apparently, pharmaceutical companies are buying up the balls to use in drugs like Viagra.
Or so that's what numerous calf fry afficionadoes told me.
I spent one day calling basically every meat supplier/trader in North Texas to see if they a) sold calf fries and b) if they were also experiencing a shortage.
The conversation always went the same.
"Hello, my name is Lara Richards and I am a reporter with the Times Record News in Wichita Falls, Texas. I'm doing a story about calf fries, and I was wondering if you packaged and shipped them?"
What?
"You know, mountain oysters?"
What?
And then I'd get exasperated and immediately un-shy.
"Testicles. Do you sell calf testicles? Bull balls?"
This is the point in the conversation when they assumed I was a prank call. Or crazy. Or nuts, ba-dum-pum.
(Yes, I'm full of bad calf fry puns at this point.)
One meat supplier simply said, "There's not that many people eating organs anymore."
Another man acted completely disgusted.
"We don't deal with that kind of situation," he said, and immediately hung up.
That kind of situation?
I'm a reporter doing a real, live story.
I'm not a perv. I'm not some testicle enthusiast. I'm not dealing beastiality porn.
I just wanted to freaking know if they sold calf fries.
I know, I'm getting testy. (Bad pun No. 2)
Some people didn't even bother to call me back. They left me hanging. (No. 3)
All in all, it has been one of the strangest, most humorous stories I've ever worked on.
But I'm glad it's come to a close.
So are my pod-mates at the paper. They told me the other day that they're getting tired of the testicle talk.
Me, too.
Testicles. Testicles.
I promise, that's my last pair. (No. 4)
Posted by Lara Richards at 12:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
