Saint Lawrence Gridiron: Well Done.

I usually know when someone's pulling my leg.

"---and then he told him, 'Turn me over, I'm done," said Chef Brian Garrett, as he leaned over the high, high window of the Saint Lawrence Gridiron's food truck. He was giving us an explanation of his business's name.

"---and that's why he's the patron saint of cooks and chefs," the rolling restaurant owner concluded.

I looked over at my foodie friend, Sarah, who'd randomly agreed to join me for lunch. She wasn't grinning. I looked back at Chef Brian, but his face gave nothing away. On the tip of my tongue was a big, 'Yeah, right,' but I didn't say anything.

We were at the corner of 11th and State street in Boise for lunch, the Gridiron's location of the day. The flow of customers leading up to the window never ceased; a very good indication of the food quality.

We assessed the menu board. What was that? Could it be?

'Poutine' jumped out at me. My Canadian friend Vaun had been talking about it for years. Fries, a special gravy, cheese...what's not to like?

Sarah, who'd never tried poutine either, said she'd split an order with me, as long as we both ordered a sandwich so that we could sample not just one, but three menu items in one shot. We're frequently strategic like that.

I got the Boise Cheese Steak, and Sarah ordered the Smoky Loaf Sandwich to go with our gravy-covered fries.

Intending to sit at the cafe table out in front of the Gridiron, to soak in the whole experience, we found that we failed miserably at it. We made a beeline for the shelter of my car.

"I enjoy food much more when my teeth aren't chattering," said Sarah. I heartily agreed. Now, for the task at hand. Crispy fries, 'Chinden Sauce', drunken cheese sauce, brisket and Gorgonzola cheese sat between us on the console. Civilized dining was tossed to the brisk Idaho wind as fingers were used on this dish.

"What is that darker sauce?" I asked, between bites, "It's got so much depth, it's hard to tell. Drippings? A condensed au jus? I just don't know."

"...It tastes almost like it's got balsamic vinegar in it," said Sarah.

So different, so difficult to pin down.

My Boise Cheese Steak sandwich had a spice-rubbed brisket, drunken cheese sauce and pickled vegetables. The meat was tender, and the spices had a kick I appreciated. I thought I detected some chili powder in that rub.

Sarah's Smoky Loaf Sandwich was a hearty slice of moist meat loaf on a bun with Gorgonzola, aioli and also pickled veggies. We both agreed it was the texture that sold us, paired with the flavor. Had it been any juicier, it would've been too mushy. Had it been any drier, we discussed, it would've been...

"...Too dry," we both said at the same time. Egads, we're almost acting like food critics now.

There were no leftovers, it was all happily devoured. A meal like that on a chilly Idaho afternoon is just the thing for culinary appreciatives.

We snapped a few photos of the food truck, then picked Chef Brian's brain.

"I wasn't sure about the name," he told us, "but when I heard the 'turn me over, I'm done' story, I was sold,"

I once again had the uncomfortable feeling we were being had.

"What was the darker sauce on the poutine?" I asked, wanting to change the subject.

"It's got a fermented bean paste base," Chef Brian told us. I looked at Sarah, who'd been on sort of the right track when she'd mentioned balsamic vinegar.

"I borrowed that from Asian cooking," he added.

How clever to cross lines of culture in culinary creativity. I love it when chefs do that. And it was tasty. Who knew I'd be eating fermented bean paste on this day...and like it?

Chef Brian confirmed that the brisket had ground chili powder in the rub, but offered us no further clues as to the other ingredients. He just leaned over the high, high window with a knowing grin on his face, not divulging.

We took a few more pictures and parted with a friendly wave.

Later, I asked Sarah, who'd studied religion extensively, what she thought of the barbequed saint story.

"It sounded like a typical saint story/myth. But I'd definitely want to check it out," she replied.

Hours later, I was looking up 'Story of Saint Lawrence'. There appeared links upon links of 'St. Lawrence Martyr', 'St. Lawrence Cathedral', 'St. Lawrence University', etc. This Saint Lawrence guy was certainly well-known. Had I been Catholic, I'd have been a lot more clued into that.

Then, I saw it. The story of Saint Lawrence, martyr. 

It seems that the Prefect, having a fit of anger sometime during the year 258, sentenced Saint Lawrence to a torturous death by gradual, sure burning. Saint Lawrence was tied atop a grill of iron and slow-roasted. The story has it, however, that through his love of God, he was protected and didn't feel the pain. He was comfortable enough to have said to the nearby judge, "Turn me over, I'm done on this side!"

Chef Brian hadn't been making it up, it was all true.

And now, like me, I'll just bet you'll never forget the name of Saint Lawrence for as long as you live.

Which is good, because for some of the most incredible food on four wheels you've ever had, St. Lawrence is a name you're going to want to remember.

*Follow the Culinary Club on Twitter @Amy_Larson, @IdahoFoodie and @EatingIdaho.



 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!

IdaSnow

Thwap!

In the event of a snowball war, that's a sound we absolutely love to hear.

Unless, of course, we're the recipient of the frosty missile.
In that case, the name of the game is revenge, and how sweet it is when we get it. There's nothing like the sight of seeing a former assailant wearing an unintentional snow collar to make a winter's day.

Wikipedia defines the snow war like this:

 "A snowball fight is a physical game in which balls of snow are thrown with the intention of hitting somebody else."

---I know, I'm smirking too.

Years ago when the snow flew out at the former country home, we'd get out the four-wheelers and drag brave inner-tubers around the pasture, often flinging riders into the soft drifts amongst shrieking laughter. First-timers were the best to mess with, they had no idea what they were getting into. Hot chocolate and some serious snacking followed, as per tradition, and we'd get a roaring fire going in the fireplace to help us thaw out.

Snow can be illusive in the Treasure Valley these days. No matter how many creative snow dances we do, we're still left hoping for flake-laden storms. When it gets to be December several of us begin to get a little desperate. The other day the neighbor kids got up first thing in the morning to attempt sledding down what was barely a slope on a skiff of what might have been snow, but what more likely was just a thick frost. Many residents take matters into their own hands by loading up vehicles with tubes, ski pants, toasty beverages, snacks and a shovel (if they're wise) and heading to Idaho City. There's usually snow there this time of year. Even if it's a week old and covered in a layer of gray road dirt, if we can sled on it, we'll take it.



 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!

Idaho Potato Faux Pas

When the parental units told my siblings and I that we were moving to Idaho, I was only ten, and got Idaho confused with Iowa. Since that wasn't too far away from Pennsylvania where we lived, I told the friends I was leaving that we'd see them every now and then.

Just about the time we hit Illinois by car, it began to dawn on me that Idaho was a ways away.

Lots of things about the state I didn't have a heads up on. I envisioned everyone with horses in their back forties, living on ranch/farms. I found that it wasn't as rural as I'd expected, although our next-door-neighbors who lived in town did have a dry farm for potatoes up in the hills.

What I really would've appreciated a heads-up on was the fact that potatoes were really BIG in Idaho. People grew them, they ate them, they had them on their license plates. I was only ten and unaware, and no one sat me down for the Potato Talk.

Which is why the major social faux pas occurred.

Our new Idahoan neighbors invited us to dinner at their home. I had no idea what was cooking in the kitchen when we walked through the door, but it smelled delicious. While the woman of the home was bustling over last minute preparations for our meal, the man of the house made conversation with us in the living room. He asked each one of us a question. The one he sent my way was, "So, do you like potatoes?"

At ten, I was no less painfully honest than I am now. I thought about it for a half second, recalling my experience with potatoes in the past. My mother, who, bless her heart, was an uncreative cook, had often boiled potatoes until they were a colorless gray and covered them with a bland, saltless gravy. The texture all-round was actually pretty gross.

"No," I answered, "Not very much."

Insert here an image of the clock on the wall stopping, and several adult mouths falling open. In one fell swoop, I'd not only just insulted the cook (who had made us baked potatoes with an array of toppings to choose from, expecting to delight us with our very first introduction to Idaho potatoes), the man of the house (a potato farmer), and virtually the entire state, who took tremendous pride in their product.

Oops.

Decades later, negative memories of watery gray blobs with flavorless gravy are long gone. Nowadays, I do like potatoes. Famous Idaho potatoes (refer to some of our vintage license plates), I've learned, are best baked, broiled or fried (my preference). The perfect potato is all in the preparation.





 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!

Wilson Ponds Walk

Wilson Ponds in Nampa holds the curiosity that can only belong to wilderness that's been planted right in the middle of suburbia.

On a windless morning or evening, you can hear Skyview High School's marching band practicing out in their parking lot, less than a mile away, while at the same time viewing native grasses,  and marshy areas with a plethora of cattails. A strange contrast among   nesting birds and burrowing critters who find their homes at the Ponds, but the animals are no doubt used to the music by now.

Although this morning had a crisp autumn bite to it, when blogger Erica Diamond suggested a sunrise walk via Twitter, the idea was planted with no turning back.

I've walked at Wilson a time or two, and have begun to notice some regulars. A man with the name HENRY solidly announced on his ball cap. (Is this a brand, or is this his actual name? I haven't been bold enough to inquire.) This morning I saw an older gentleman with a woolen cap, side braids and pom-pom moving with him as he took each determined step.

"Are you wearing enough clothes?" he asked me, a rather personal question, but I was game to answer.

"You warm up once you get moving fast enough," I told him.

"Bah!" he said, swatting his hand into the air and walking away.

Henry was next on the paved pathway, smiling and nodding like the last time, but not speaking, also like last time. I passed the Duck Tree where I once noticed a dozen ducks perched. I have questions about this, not knowing ducks liked to hang out in trees or hold onto branches with their webbed feet.

I encountered the man with the pom-pom hat again on the return.

"Warming up yet?" he asked. Then he said, "You should talk to that guy over there," and he vaguely gestured with his hands over 'that-a-way', "He's ninety!"

He paused, then shared, "I'm eighty and he's got ten years on me."

Safe to assume he was saying that the ninety-year old was out walking, too.

"I plan to live until I'm at least ninety-five," I told the Pom-Pom Man.

"Keep walkin'!" he told me with a smile and nod of his woolen-covered head as he walked away, calling, 'Have a good mornin'!' over his shoulder.




 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!

Sun Valley: Music in the Mountains

I'd heard of this jazzjamboreefest thing for years from my friend, Janet.

Her family had made a tradition of it, attending each and every year.

"The baseball is always on, he always liked to watch baseball," said Janet's mom with her cute New England accent, "That's just how we do the jazz festival."

She clicked on the large screen tv and rested herself on the plush sofa behind a newspaper as the game blared happily in the background. I knew she was referring to her late husband, who'd passed a few years back. They'd both loved this time of year in Sun Valley.

Comfortably seated in the elegant living room of our condo, what I thought would be a simple setup turned out to be the Sun Valley Inn's finest, on a corner with our own private entryway. We each had our own bedrooms, and the floors and walls in the bathrooms were marble. Everywhere we looked was old school and upscale.

"You'll need this to keep your strength up," said Janet's mom, presenting my friend and I with a tray of Havarti and herbed crackers with a dainty knife. Since we were hungry after our journey to the valley of the sun, we didn't eat daintily.

After partaking, we left the suite and walked out into the fresh air. Fall in that area is a sight to behold, and it smells like you're atop a mountain peak. We crunched through the leaves to the opera house, where I got my first taste of live, world-class jazz. I found that I'm an involved listener that can't sit without tapping something. A toe, a couple of fingers. Something had to be moving whilst this rhythm was about. We stayed for almost an hour, then took a break.

If you've ever been in Sun Valley, you'll see multiple evidences of Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway was their guy. Photos of him line the walls of the Sun Valley Lodge (a sister establishment of the SV Inn), and it's obvious that he's revered here. I had never read much of his work, and was intrigued by the mystique of the late writer. I asked Janet and her mother what they knew.

"I started to read his book once," Janet's mom told me as we dined at Gretchen's.
"And?" I asked.
"--And I don't remember if I ever finished it," she told me, matter-of-factly, as is her style.

"I've read several of them," said Janet, "They were good," she added, not elaborating.

I decided to research the author myself. One thing I did know was that he was fond of talking with the common person, people who wouldn't ordinarily get noticed. This is a passion of mine, believing that no person is uninteresting or unimportant. Because people have blessed me with sharing their inner secrets and dreams, I've been privy to the most sacred of tales. I knew this was a commonality.

That night, we entered the Limelight Room and found the place to be hopping. There was a larger crowd here than in any other venue so far. I didn't yet get the attraction. Just minutes into the performance, I got it. The band, High Street, was extremely interactive. The lead singer had a way of engaging the audience that few groups came even close to. Now High Street, I thought, where have I heard that name before?

It wasn't until the lead singer introduced the trombone player as 'The Mayor of Nampa' that it dawned on me. These guys were Canyon County people! That was our mayor! And High Street....weren't they the band the Civic Center had hired for the New Years Eve Party, the one that was said to get everyone out of their seats?

I looked around. People of all ages were hitting the dance floor, and even the seniors were moving in ways I'd bet money on they hadn't moved all year. People were throwing their heads back, laughing and gleeful. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

Both nights we stayed up too late, ate too much, and we were hoarse from talking over the music. Loved every minute of it. We sat in the lobby by the fireplace, strolled through the gift shoppes, hiked around the hills.

On Sunday, our golden-rust colors outdoors changed to more of a pristine white. It began to snow, with big, fat flakes that fell without apology. The combination of the autumn colors, mixed with a pure white blanket on the ground created a stunning effect. We almost reverently walked down the quiet, richly carpeted hallways of the Inn to where a Sunday Jazz service was offered. Being from a rather conservative religious background, a Sunday Jazz service raised an inquisitive eyebrow with me. I wasn't expecting a spiritual experience, but I was wrong. That is exactly what I got.

If you've never heard world-class jazz musicians play and sing the hymn 'Come Thou Fount', or 'How Great Thou Art', your life is not complete. I shed tears, I did. I realized that this magical week was coming to a close, and I didn't like the thought of that. After seeing the performers giving their all for hours on end, interacting with the other jazz enthusiasts for days, and making so many new friends, it was a melancholy thing.

I noticed that the woman sitting in the chair beside had been singing, and that she had a pretty voice. After the service's benediction, I commented on her beautiful singing, asking her if she'd done that in a group or professionally. She laughed and said no, that it was her husband, Harland Belisle, that was the musician. She told me he'd passed away some years back. Then she blew my mind by telling me she remembered sitting with her husband in the Jamboree organizer's living room in the late eighties, helping to create this venue. I just blinked. Really?

I couldn't help but ask her what it felt like, over two decades later, to see so many people coming from all over the world to attend an event she helped to organize. She remembered helping people to park, taking tickets, and so many other things. This woman now lived out of town, but had the opportunity this year to attend with friends. And there she was, sitting right next to me. I felt as though I'd just met royalty.

The Jamboree was over, we were settled back into our comfortable suite.

"Amy," Janet's mom said, "I grabbed this paper before I left Boise. They have an article in here about Hemingway, and since you've been curious about him, I thought you might like to read it." She slid me Saturday's paper. Front page and back were devoted to none other than Ernest Hemingway. I devoured the information, then jerked my head back with a start.

"He wrote 200-plus pages of 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' at the Sun Valley Lodge!" I exclaimed. "In room 206!"

I read that many fans had made pilgrimages to that room...and it was literally steps away from mine. Since Janet's mom had to leave town early, we said goodbye and then did the Hemingway tour. Janet took a picture of me with my hand on the knob of door 206. We drove off in search of the little museum I remembered from seven years ago that contained Hemingway memorabilia. I had no clue where it was located. Almost by accident, I noticed a 'Ski Museum' sign on the side of a cluster of white cottages. Memory awakened and I knew this was it.

Janet hopped out to see if they were open.

"It's closed," she told me, shaking her head. She'd tried the door and no luck.

Something made me exit the car and tromp through the snow towards the front door of the main cabin, anyway. I tried the handle and found it to be unlocked. I entered, with Janet following behind. There were three women in there, reorganizing the building. That day was their first day of slack time. I told them I'd remembered a Hemingway display from years ago, and asked if it was still around. They said yes, but that they were now closed for slack time, and wouldn't reopen until December. Upon seeing my disappointment, one woman told me that she'd unlock the Hemingway building just for us, and that we could take all the time we wanted. I'm sure I beamed like a little kid.

Once in the building, the woman turned the lights on. She told us she'd just finished attending a Hemingway Symposium last weekend, with all the Hemingway-Heads and groupies. I had no idea people got this nutty about one person, but then again look at what I'd done that morning. I asked what her opinion was. She gave me the summation.

"Some people loved him, some couldn't stand the guy. A lot of people thought he was the greatest thing ever, many people thought he was a jerk. It just depends on who you are, and how you want to look at him."

Just then I turned, and was startled to see HIM looking at ME. A life-sized photo of Ernest's face was aligned with mine, and was staring straight at me, and with such a poignant look! What does it mean, I asked myself, what do you want of me, Mr. Hemingway? Do you know I'm a writer? Do you know that I like to interview everyone and anyone? Do you know how ingrained that writer's blood is for me? Why did you call me here?

The woman left us to look, read, and ponder.

The guy had four wives, a depression problem, and he ended up shooting himself. How am I supposed to get a role model out of that?

But, on the flipside, he was an artist, a lover of the word.
This I could relate to.

I stared at his photo, the one of him as an older man with white hair and a sad look in his eyes, not the other robust movie-star like photos of him that surrounded it. He loved to write in the mornings, mornings were for writing. He loved the Fall, same here. He treated children, the elderly, the underprivileged like they mattered, something I've always tried to do. Huh.

When we returned to the main cabin to thank the museum women, Janet told them, "She's a writer!"

They said, "We really need writers to promote us after slack time. This year we're going to expand our Hemingway section, and we need people to create blogs and articles about that, would you be willing to do that for us? Come back and see us, take some pictures, and whatnot?"

I said that I would, making a mental note and promise to myself not to become a Hem-Head groupie. We'll see how that goes.


Thank you, Jazz Jamboree organizers, thank you Sun Valley, and thank you Hemingway.

For a Fest-full of photos, click here.

We had a very memorable visit. I'll be back to write about your guy, your mountains, and your music.

 *For more adventures in Idaho, (with recipes between the stories!) get the "Appetite for Idaho" book here.

And visit the Appetite for Idaho Facebook page, with new stuff to do posted every weekday!

Patriot Night at the Stampede 2012

Their faces are taut, concentrated, and often a little pale.

No, not the little old ladies on the pew at church, clutching their purses for dear life. I’m talking about the bronc and bull riders at the Snake River Stampede.

Our announcer-on-horseback, Boyd Polhamus, occasionally interviews the riders right after their eight seconds or less. The great part about that is that although breathless, you can hear the adrenaline rush in the cowboys’ voices.

Watch a bronc jump straight up in the air like Tigger the Tiger-but with a lot more attitude-and you’ll think breathless. On patriot night clear from the other side of the arena we could see the gates rattling with an antsy, agitated bronc that was just busting to be set loose. Steven Dent was declared at one point as ‘the new sherrif in town’, with a ride scoring an 82. From the stands, the ride looked unbelievably intense, with the cowboy’s legs looking like wet noodles flopping around.

As bullfighting clown Justin Rumford did a run past the seats by the dirt, he high-fived everyone. A grandfather picks up his young grandson, holding him just high enough over the fence to get a high-five, too, putting his little one before himself, as grandparents are prone to do.

Looking around at the audience that evening, I kept hearing the phrase, “I see tough people,” in my head. It was military night, and tough doesn’t even begin to cover what they or their families do. Like the cowboy mentality, our military gets the job done, no matter what, and they don’t let anybody or anything stand in their way. They’re our human barrier and buffers, maintaining our freedoms, and we’d do well to never forget that. The writer in me knew that I was sitting amongst a sea of heroic stories of how individuals and families ‘cowboy up’, for our benefit. I wished I known them all. Our announcer reminded us at the beginning of the program (which always includes the presentation of the flag, and the singing of the National Anthem, and a prayer) that our freedom to pray openly and wherever we choose is initiated by the Constitution, and preserved by our military.

Because of the kind of country we lived in, we got to enjoy a rodeo where the only harm we were worried about at the present was what might come to a cowboy or cowgirl during an event. With bull’s names like Insaniac, Dirty Deeds, Pure Poison, Squeeze Play and Forensic Files, we had reason for concern. When one cowboy limped off after a bull ride, it was pretty clear that a limb or two was going to need some ice.

How can you give a kid a name like ‘Rusty’ and not expect him to rodeo? I got a kick out of going down the program each night, searching out great cowboy names. I found D.J., Guy, J.W., Sunshine, Guytin, Dalton, Wace, Mac, Chase, Cody, R.C., Zack, Cooper, Gabe, Kollin, Jhett, Tate, K.C., Jacobs, Cade, Tyrel, Cort, Merritt, Sterling, Tyrell, Spud, Clayton, Riley, Dallee, and one of my all-time favorite cowboy names, ‘Buster Barton’.

We continued to get mini-bios on the riders, whenever there was a second or two to squeeze it in.

‘Heath Ford writes gospel music songs,’ we were told.

A clever steer went running out of the chute and stopped short, letting the steer wrestler on his horse run right on past. Tricky little devil.

Justin Rumford was and Boyd Polhamus were at it again.

“How many people here are teenagers?” Justin called out cheerfully. A big cheer came from the stands.

“Pull yer pants up, for Heaven’s sake!” said Boyd Polhamus, as the older set laughed in agreement.

Polhamus’ chaps were a sight to behold. I remembered last year I’d blurted out, “Those are colorful pants,” to past rodeo queen Courtney Crowe, who laughed, “Those are chaps.” I’m learning. This year, the announcers ‘chaps’ were fringed with shimmering silver. Fancy Chaps…vs. Fancy Pants.

When a saddle bronc dropped to the ground in an effort to throw its rider, even though a very intentional, calculated movement on the bronc’s part, it still meant a re-ride opportunity for the cowboy. This was reminiscent of a two year old taking issue with something.

“He threw a fit!” Polhamus said, summing it up perfectly.

Halfway through the rodeo, I left my seat near the front and joined a friend and her family that were seated in the upper level.

“Where are you?” I texted to her on my phone, “At the Boise Office Equipment sign, under the horse’s backside,” she answered. Where else but at a rodeo might we be able to have such an exchange?

Since my friend was originally from out of the country, she had a few questions about the rodeo. Flashback to 2010, when I knew next to nothing. Back then, I was doing all of the asking, and my new-found rodeo friends were doing a lot of the educating. (Luckily they were patient with me). There I sat, explaining that to be born a rodeo animal was a good deal, they only really ‘worked’ for minutes per week, and were very well-treated. I told her about how it’s their nature to buck and kick, what they liked to do, and related that to any free-spirited child. (We all know one… and I am one!)

I hadn’t realized just how much I’d learned over the past couple of years from others, a bit of reading, and from a lot of observation. What an opportunity for a mind-opening experience, and I’m so glad I took the Stampede up on the blogging position they offered in the Press Tribune once upon a time. I have a lot of rodeo heroes, a favorite bucking horse (Bottle Rocket, because he’s simply an incredible animal), an event I love to watch the most (steer wrestling), and event that makes my heart stop and turns me into my worrisome German mother (bull riding), and good rodeo friends to continue to glean information from. The rodeo friends were the link between my city world and their country world, being willing to stand between both and provide a buffer where it was safe to learn and explore.

We were surrounded by people who provided a buffer on Patriot night at the Stampede, keeping us safe, protected, and allowing us to become whoever we want to be without boundaries or restrictions. We should all thank God for our Military.

I hope they and their families had a wonderful night out at the rodeo.

Stampede for the Cure: Real Cowboys and Cowgirls Never Give Up

What’s a good way to start out the Stampede for the Cure night?

With pink cotton candy. Pink cotton candy equals happiness. Seeing those kids outside the Idaho Center selling their hearts out made me say, “Oh, why not!” and purchase a bag. I gave them the raised eyebrow when they asked, ‘What color, pink or blue?’ On this night, they should know which would be the most popular, and I hoped for their sakes they’d stocked up on one particular color more than the other.

There was a lot of pink to be seen, everywhere I looked. The security guards, the volunteers, the Stampeders wore pink shirts after their performance (with some majorly bling-bling belts). The Cervi stock guys wore pink from head to toe. I thought I was seeing things, but nope. Those were pink jeans those boys were wearing.

Some kind of weird, pink-focused dream?

Nuh-huh. This was real life, and as good as it gets. We were all wearing pink to fight breast cancer, something far too many of us have been affected by. We could all tell stories of loss connected with those two words, ‘breast cancer’. The disease is detestable.

What can we do? We can raise awareness, money, and we can wear pink.

“I only wear this shirt once a year,” said one of the male Stampede volunteers.

Good enough.

The evening started off with a triumphant ride, totally busting the mutton with a score of 94.

When the main program got started, it was apparent that this was going to be a different kind of night. Ladies all decked out in every shade of pink possible were here with their daughters, sisters, mothers, aunts, and best girlfriends, and they were letting their hair down. There were people dancing in their seats, waving their arms to the music, living life out loud. It made for a rowdier audience. We girls know how to have fun!

The other difference was that whenever someone fell off or was in harm’s way of a kicking, bucking animal, the sounds of sympathy or concern were more audible than they’d been on opening night. We women tend to be caretakers and nurturers to the core, even at a rodeo.

Announcer Boyd Polhamus, was literally ‘back in the saddle again’. It’s hard enough to announce for 2 ½ hours, harder still to do that with a mike in hand, program schedule, working the reins and on horseback. He did a great job of building the excitement and suspense by giving us a run down of all of the world champions that were present, ready to compete, while dramatic music played in the background. He knows how to put an exclamation point on an event. He introduced Dan Tiller, Snake River Stampede’s president, and then Nampa Mayor Tom Dale and another man who’s name I didn’t catch (feel free to comment), who sang an impressive rendition of our National Anthem, all as a girl held our flag on horseback. Knowing that virtually everyone had their hands on their hearts at that moment (or should have), gave me a feeling of connection to everyone in the arena. One nation under God. Speaking of God, it’s a big thing at the rodeo. I don’t think there are too many bull riders that don’t believe in a God of some sort. I could be wrong on that one, but I saw plenty of them take a knee in the dirt after a ride last night.

Featured on this night was the pink bull that they called ‘Victoria’s Secret’. According to Boyd Polhamus, it had only been ridden twice for the duration of eight seconds in the last ten years. Polhamus gives us background on just about everything, if he has time to. Scheduling-wise, they run a pretty tight ship. Conversely, he’s great about filling up the time with interesting talk, too, a definite skill when there’s a delay with an animal, cowboy or something going on in the chute. Polhamus told us about Tilden Hooper, bareback bronc rider.

“Someone you hope your daughter never brings home, because he’s someone you’re gonna like.” Not too many moms dream of their daughter marrying off to a traveling rodeo cowboy.

He commented on the animals, too.

“Love those undomesticated farm animals! They won’t come when you call ‘em, and they won’t sit around beggin’ for doggie treats.”

During steer wrestling, more than a few cowboys struggled to get those horns down, but wrestled them till they could, even if their time was toast by then. Tenacity and showmanship can be thanked for this. The people came to see a steer wrestled, and they were going to see it.

A person could learn a lot from a rodeo, there’s object lessons a-plenty if you’re really looking. Cowboys and cowgirls don’t give up, a good thing to remember in a sea of pink for the fight agains breast cancer. You never, ever give up.

“Cowboy up!” said one parent to a child in the stands last night in a good-natured way.

We have, we are, and we will.