#20 Pioneer Potatoes

Late one spring we received an unusual request.

We received a call from a tour company with which we'd often worked. They had representatives from a European company in town checking out the city for a tour they were booking. We were asked to provide a "breakfast" trail ride for these folks and to provide it next day.

I scrambled and not just eggs. The potential of this group was huge, for the tour company we worked with, and... for us.

"Sure, no problem." I said completely unsure and overwhelmed by the problem.

The breakfast was hastily planned and executed. I was organizer but more dauntingly, I was chef. My cooking experience was limited and it was always for a captive audience. But no one else in our organization could cook any better, in fact they ran for the hills, so I became the "cook".

I drove to town and purchased fresh ingredients and stayed up late into the night preparing. Collecting all the items to eat with, to serve with, to cook with and to clean up with and then the food itself.

The last thing I worked on, at 1 AM in the morning, was potatoes. I peeled what seemed like several tons of tubers to provide the basis for "country hashbrowns" that the tour requested. I was exhausted by the time I tumbled into bed.

The group arrived early and set out on their trail ride. I packed up the pickup truck and was driven to a site, accessible by road and deep in the desert. At the site, everything was unloaded including firewood. Then the truck drove away, leaving me completely alone. We had decided that a pickup truck would destroy the image of an old fashioned cookout that we were trying to portray.

I stood for a moment, looking around. There was a hushed silence, with a quiet only found when away from civilization. It was very early but the sun was rising slowly over the mountains, birds were beginning to tweet with a sweet celebration of a new day. I took a deep breath and savored the moment... for only a moment.

I was scared to death...

My first task was setting up a fire. At least I'd been a girl scout as a child... where I'd succeeded in learning fire skills but discovered I was a total failure at knots. I was knot challenged and still am today, having no ability whatsoever in putting knots in a piece of rope or even shoelaces. BUT fires, that was a piece of cake.

Soon my fire burned away, creating coals over which I would cook.

I set up a place for everyone to eat. I set up a place to serve and I created a western ambiance for that important first impression. I had given great thought to that first impression and decided that the "impression" needed to be expanded beyond the actual campsite. I wanted that impression to be carried on the wind.

I filled a blue enamel coffee pot with water to boil and when it did so, I added coffee. Soon the fragrance of brewing coffee drifted down the arroyo. Next I put bacon on to grill and that fragrance also joined the mix. Then I put biscuits on to bake.

The air was filled with the mouth watering scents of a country breakfast and that fragrance drifted upon the early morning breezes.

Next I heated a large cast iron skillet and added oil. I opened the container of shredded potatoes from the evening before and... gasped.

"Oh no-o-o-o," I moaned.

In my exhaustion of the evening before, I'd forgotten something very important. I'd forgotten to rinse the potatoes before I packed them. The potatoes before me, exposed to air and un-rinsed, had turned color. They were not the ivory beauties I expected but were instead were grey.

Alone in the desert I had no options. I couldn't go back and get more, I had to work with what was there before me in all it's grey-colored splendor.

I prayed to the cooking gods as I dropped the now seasoned potatoes into the oil but the gods were out that day. As fate would have it, the potatoes crisped beautifully and were seasoned to perfection. But they remained as they began... grey!

Soon I heard the clink of  horseshoes from the riverbed and I started the scrambled eggs, adding diced green chilies and a dash of garlic to the mix. I put out orange juice in ice filled tubs and straightened my cowgirl hat.

This was it.

This was the big moment.

My wind enhanced ambiance paid off. The fragrances had carried a long distance and by the time my group arrived, they all were famished. Score one for me but I would need all the help I could get.

The jovial group dismounted and crowed around the cookout fire. Eagerly everyone held out plates.

"Aaaaaaah" everyone said as I served fluffy eggs.

"Aaaaaaah" everyone said as I served crispy bacon and biscuits covered in melting butter.

"Uuuuuuuh" everyone said as they reached the grey potatoes.

"What are these," they collectively uttered.

My days of living with cowboys had taught me something important. Years of listening to cowboy BS now paid off. I had learned the art of tall tales and now used it.

"Why these are Pioneer Potatoes" I said with a completely straight face. 

"Just the way pioneer women of the old west made them" I lied shamefully.

"OOOOOh" my group responded.

Later everyone commented on how good the meal was. My Cowboy said the potatoes were wonderful but looked weird. I never told him the real story, my mistake would die with me I vowed.

The meal was a great success and the tour company received the booking they sought. We too shared in that booking, providing a large trail ride with a cookout site. But the group insisted on their own catering company... one which didn't serve grey colored potatoes.

This was the beginning of a long career in cookouts which became our most popular event. Eventually leading to a fully functioning mobile commercial kitchen and catering to groups of 200 or more. In later years, this grew to an independent catering company and a business all it's own.

I eventually passed the mantel of chef on to staff, but only once did I serve Pioneer Potatoes. Once was, in this case... enough.

A rope was strung across the wash to tie the horses. Here they are patiently waiting for us to finish breakfast.