Where's the (Black Angus) Beef?

Nobody here but us chickens cows. That's right. Cows.

When I was growing up, Dad liked to terrify me with his plans for his future retirement. "Your mother and I are moving in with you Murray so you can support us in our old age." Nothing frightened me more.

Shortly after I graduated from junior college, Dad announced that I would be pursuing a journalism degree at the University of Missouri-Columbia (news to me) while he pursued the life of a gentleman farmer on 10 acres just outside of town. It was everything Dad had ever wanted--a charming little spread with a red horse barn and matching outbuildings. Most importantly, it offered him an opportunity to raise Black Angus cattle.

I don't know why Dad obsessed over Black Angus in particular. One cow is as attractive as another to my eye and although I understand the difference between a Guernsey and a Texas Longhorn, I was not the discriminating carnivore my father was. He held Black Angus Beef up as the pinnacle of man's pursuit of the ultimate steak. At long last, he had an opportunity to become a serious cattleman.

My Dad was one of those people who can succeed at just about anything they put their minds to, be it real estate, banking or sales (he excelled at each of them and more). However, Dad was a master at talking other people into doing what he wanted. Enter the 4-H kid from down the road.

Anyone who's ever attended a decent county fair knows that 4-H has a number of great programs that introduce young people to the animal sciences, teach them self sufficiency and give them an opportunity to demonstrate what they've learned by raising livestock. My Dad knew this important fact and he immediately put this knowledge to use by scouring the nearby farms and finding a 4-H kid. (I was a suburban kid; we had Junior Achievement instead of 4-H. I can't milk a cow, but I can sell you a coffee mug.)

I don't remember the kid's name but Dad put him to work right away assassinating the pigeons roosting on the horse barn and soiling his shiny red aluminum siding. He was very happy to go 50/50 with Dad in purchasing and raising five or six young Black Angus for his summer 4-H project.

City folk, such as we were, are not meant to raise livestock. We don't understand the mechanics of it and, what's more, we don't have the right mentality. We didn't see future steaks or burgers. We saw overly large dogs with soulful, liquid brown eyes that cut us to the quick. Those stupid, staring eyes bewitched us and we became servants of their growing, insatiable need for food. (There were times, I confess, where we considered fitting them with collars and leashes so we could take them for walks in the cool of the evening.)

The 4-H kid was responsible for purchasing and stocking feed supplies for the small herd, and he was very dutiful in ensuring that food was fairly distributed on a timely basis. But, again being city folk, we knew that all dogs--even pet cows--love treats. Dad grew up during the Depression and he was always keen to pinch pennies wherever possible. So, taking a cue from Woodrow Wilson's herd of sheep on the White House lawn, Dad set up a system to distribute lawn clippings to his beloved cows.

Dad had many pursuits in life but he had one overriding passion: his lawn. In my father's world, the quality of a man's lawn was a reflection of his stature. The better the lawn, the better the man, and Dad's lawn was like a golf course. The cows loved it and Dad loved feeding them. He'd spend hours petting them and scolding them for humping one another when they got bored. He knew each of them by sight, gave them nicknames and faithfully remembered which of them liked a good belly scratch or nose rub. Each week, he carried a bright yellow plastic bin full of grass clippings and fed them by hand or scattered the treat along the ground. Soon, the once timid cows learned to recognize the bin and anticipate the reward it contained.

Dad always insisted that the clippings not be dumped over the fence but, instead, that they be scattered on the ground inside the corral as neatly as possible. This wasn't always easy to do. Mom took the bin in one day when the pack stampeded up the hill and surrounded her in eager anticipation. Being stared at by 2,000 pounds of cow can be pretty intimidating--especially for a 65 year old, 5'2" woman with a heart condition. She screamed, threw the bin at them and ran for her life.

Eventually, the time came for the kid to present his project at the county fair. The corral was empty save for the yellow bin, a haunting reminder of our dear, departed pets. As I recall, the kid got a blue ribbon. More importantly, Dad got five sides of hand-raised Black Angus Beef.

It took about a week for the slaughterhouse to process everything and deliver pound after pound of pet cow wrapped in crisp white butcher paper that Dad enthusiastically piled into a brand new freezer. Finally, after months of patient, diligent feeding and care, Mom placed an ample, medium rare porterhouse on Dad's plate. His excitement knew no bounds--until he took a bite and chewed. And chewed. And chewed. The meat was as tough as an old shoe.

Angry, Dad called the slaughterhouse and accused the man in charge of switching his beloved Black Angus for inferior cuts and keeping the best for himself. He'd been swindled! No, insisted the man in charge. He'd done no so such thing. That was Dad's herd.

"How do you explain this then?" Dad demanded. "This is prime Black Angus Beef I raised myself! I fed them by hand since they were calves! Why is it so tough and stringy?"

"I dunno," said the man. "I can't explain it. Unless, of course, you fed them grass clippings."