We done did go get some beef

Most days, living in Wichita is pretty typical suburbia, but occasionally I get reminded Kansas has its own character.

This morning, we got up at the crack of dawn (or as close as possible considering the place didn't open until 8) to go pick up a side of beef. "We" in this case was Carl's mom and I. The processor was in Halstead, about fifteen miles from the edge of town (fortunately, same edge she lives on).

The cow was raised by the family of a co-worker of Carl's stepdad, so I'd actually met the folks a week or two ago, at the estate sale where we picked up a waterfall desk for the kiddo (at half off its $15 price tag). And there I learned that they are in fact the sort who un-ironically use phrases like "done did go," which you tend not to hear in Wichita proper. Much. Fortunately, the cattle weren't where the estate sale was, so while kiddo got to meet some pork on the hoof, we shouldn't have another "That Cow" problem.

Halstead is between the Big and Little Arkansas Rivers, so it's prime irrigation land, and you see a lot more corn on the way there than you do in most of south-central Kansas (green circles are pivot irrigated):


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Not all the fields we saw were irrigated. We could tell, because those were thoroughly dead. (Take note, Hollywood. Serious corn in Kansas is pretty much all north of I-70. Kansas switched to winter wheat after the grasshoppers of 1874 and several droughts.)

The processor was on Main Street (of course), and had a sign in the front window: We Kill It, You Grill It. (I really, really need a working camera. Streetview's got nothing.) Loading that up was pretty much non-noteworthy, largely due to the number of young employees idling in the lobby, who lugged five bags of frozen beef in about as many minutes. And because this time we didn't do any weird "third" splits, they came handily bagged with our names on it, so no sorting beef in the driveway. A good thing, because it's insanely hot - mid-80's already when we got there, and 90 by the time we got home, en route to 105 sometime this afternoon.

On the way home, MIL swung into an access drive next to one of the irrigation pumps.

Her: "You know what I'm doing, right?"

Me: "Yes, and I'm hiding and pretending I don't know you."

Now, there's two types of corn, field corn and sweet corn. Farmers gleefully tell tales are told of ignernt suburbanites pulling into access drives to steal corn, only to find they got field corn when they wanted sweet corn. Well, we got sweet corn (or at least corn in the milk) when she wanted field corn. Go figure.