The evening air was so dang cold. We moved in by the fire. A cowboy tossed a block of wood. He’d get the flames up higher.
The trail boss talked about our day, then gave some good advice. And then he passed the berry pie. Each cowboy cut a slice.
We’d started this tradition of a berry pie at night. The pies were pure perfection as we gobbled down each bite.
But let me take you back at least a year or two ago. The berry pies were all homemade. Your taste-buds told you so.
One cowboy, name of Wyatt, said,”There weren’t no recipe.” He’d baked the pies that morning, but each bite was agony.
He said he’d learned to make the crust. His grandma’d taught him well. But I swear the pie crust tasted more like pie dough straight from @##%!
Well, Wyatt guesstimated ‘bout the filling in the pie. And when he offered seconds, ‘twas enough to terrify!
So, we gathered up his pies and promptly threw ‘em in the trash. I heard one fellow tell him, “We’d been better off with hash.”
I’ve never heard a cowboy code ‘bout calling someone fool. But if those words are written we for dang sure broke that rule.
And the other cowboys cooking skills would cause a human slaughter. I swear that every cowboy there would probably burn water.
So, we turned to desperate measures. Would we vote for pies from town? The only nay was Wyatt. Trail boss slammed the gavel down!
And now we’re eating berry pie straight from the bakery. We’ll keep this fond tradition ‘cuz homemade was misery.
But someone said that Wyatt really wanted one more try. The trail boss offered his advice. “You bake ‘em, say goodbye!”