The Camp "Coosie"....

No Sir....tain't no spellin mistake....the wurd be "Coosie"....that was anuther name fer the Chuck Wagon cook on cattle drives....Coosie (No smart ass comments please...I can just see's em comin now)

I posted a post similar t'this bout a year ago...so I thought I'd re-post most of it agin fer ya.....



I was perusin round the blogosphere and come across this here website with a similar name as mine..."Cook Shack"...so's I checked it out. Now this here feller had a great soundin recipee fer "Rattlesnake Chili"...so much so's that I wanted t'go out and kill me a Rattlesnake...ceptin we don't have too many of them critters here in upstate New York...so I continued lookin around his site and found some "Cowboy Poetry".

After read'n a verse or two of this one poem...I know'd immedjiately that this here poet...Baxter Black... was definately describe'n my poor deceased (God Bless his soul) Great Grandpappy.... Camp Cookie. Now...Great Grandpappy Camp Cookie was nice anuff t'pass all a his cookin secrets down through the family (some a which are mentioned in the poem)...and I still uses them to this very day....here's the poem that eulogizes him....

The Camp Coosie.

He's the tumble weed chef and rides the wagon ahead of the thunderin' herd.
His pots and pans clack like a diamondback's rattle, he growls or he don't say a word.

His face is a roadmap, Looks like a carcass hung to many days in the sun.
He smells like a mule and cooks with a shovel and his fly is always undone.

The riders kin tell when he's in the kitchen--the buzzards all come into view.
He spits in the pan and shaves in the taters and clips his toe-nails inta the stew.

His gunpowder biscuits explode in the fire; his beans explode in your bowels.
His medda lark souffle is hard on the belly; they say it tastes 'bout like owls.

His coffee's so rank a housefly won't touch it, even buckshot float in the slop.
You don't pour a cup, you twist off a swaller,then chew a sip offa the top.

Now, cowboys are tough guys who face death each dayin blizzards or stampedes or storms.
They ride them bad horses and sleep with the snakes and duel with the hooves and horns.

But many a cowboy who follered the wagon has joined the "last roundup club.
"Not from indians, gunfights, or even bad whiskey,but from eatin' Camp Coosie's grub...

Baxter Black
Yupper....that's m'Great Grandpappy.......