I learned in a West Texas cookhouse that when your mouth is full of bull its best to keep it shut. I was a journeyman journalist that had been sent to a 200,000 acre West Texas ranch that was long on history but short on social graces. It was my misfortune to show up the same day as a visiting professor from the University. I was there to write a story, the stall-fed Professor was there to be critical. We were both about as welcome as a wet dog.

When I was introduced to the visiting Doctor I was sure they said he was a range scientist but after 10 minutes I was convinced he was a geologist because he was looking for faults all over that dried up piece of real estate. The Professor was the kind of a guy who would ask you a question, answer it for you and then tell you that you were wrong.

I'll admit that I got off on the wrong foot right away with the Professor because he jumped in the middle of the pick-up seat leaving me to ride shotgun and to open every tight wire gate on the ranch. But at least I got away from the Professor for brief moments when I got out to open a gate, the range boss driving the pick-up was cooped up with him all morning and what little sense of humor that he did have to begin with was rapidly vanishing. I've never heard a person be so critical about everything from the personal appearance of our host to the way he drove the pick-up, which could both be described as scary.

Unfortunately the Professor had been invited to share a bean with us at lunch. As we ate, the talk was about everything from foot rot to football and the Professor won all the arguments, but he sure didn't win any friends, especially with the camp cook.

The "cookie" was a real throwback to bygone days. The seasoned old codger grew up in another era when you didn't say one bad word about the grub and if you did you had better be wearing your firearm loose and low because them was fighting words. As the cook stirred his pot with wrinkled hands and as the Professor padded his belly with free beef we all had to listen to his many complaints. "Why this soup tastes like you strained it through dirty socks," he said. "And this beef is so tough it tastes like it was sawed off the front end of an old range bull,"                        

Just prior to the peach cobbler the Professor, already suffering from bowel complaints, excused himself to visit the little boy's room out back and I noticed the cook followed him out. While they were gone everyone who had come in contact with him that day complained about the Professor's manner. I finally got a chance to do a short interview and was asking a few questions when the cook came back in the grub shack by himself. "Will you stay for supper?" he asked me. I'll admit that the lunch was not the greatest meal I'd ever had, but I didn't want to offend the cook by saying so. "What are we having?"

"Son of a gun stew," is the polite way to say what the cook actually said. “And it will be real fresh," he said with hate in his eyes. All the cowboys in attendance gave him nods of approval as if he had just done the right thing.

I looked at the empty chair that the Professor had long since vacated and then I looked at the camp cookie with a razor sharp knife in his hand. Surely the cook wouldn't have been so offended that he...?

"Sure I'll be glad to stay for d-d-d-dinner," I replied quickly. "I've met a lot of S.O.B's in my time but I never ate one before."

The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of Farm World. Readers may log on to www.LeePittsbooks.com to order any of Lee Pitts’ books. Those with questions or comments for Lee may write to him in care of this publication.