It's What's for Dinner

Nebraska's European roots go back to people who chipped shovels into frozen ground to bury their dead. Lacking trees, they lived in homes built from sod that oozed and slid into mud when it rained. Hail, blizzards, drought, floods, tornadoes, dust, grasshoppers, Indians.....only the strong survived, and the rest either died or turned tail and ran back to the East where there were doctors, and real glass in the windows.

Before Nebraskans had even settled enough to quit living by the rifle, BEEF was the protein of choice. It was probably as tough and stringy as the people who ate it.

I grew up in Texas. We like beef there, too, but I lived in the city, where people brazenly served chicken at social functions, or even fish or shrimp, without apology. On my first trip to Nebraska, just after John and I were engaged, his aunt and uncle took us out for a formal dinner. It was a chance to get to know me and to help us celebrate. When I said to the waiter, "I'll have the salmon," the table fell silent. "We're a little land-locked here," John's uncle muttered. I was too new to know the rules.

The same rules mean that no self-respecting seed corn dealer would serve fish or chicken at an August appreciation dinner. John's been attending these dinners for over thirty years, frequently with me at his side. No poultry or fish for thirty years. Maaaaaaybe pork, especially if the host happens to also raise hogs. But mostly.....beef.

Usually the beef is prepared by a caterer, and served alongside canned green beans, mashed potatoes, and corn. Last week's gathering was a bit more innovative, a poster child for Nebraska's love of beef.

Impale the USDA Choice on a pitchfork, and drop it into a vat of boiling tallow. If you try this at home, do not simply grab a fork out of the barn! Spend the extra few dollars to buy an implement solely dedicated to this purpose.

Four minutes later:

I hit my fat quota with the steak alone, so I passed on the sides: fried biscuits, fried onions, fried potatoes. Instead, I watched the grain elevator turn colors behind the small-town talk of farmers and friends.