The Sandpoint Eater Dear Mother

stayed there. If that weren’t bad enough, it was during the heart of the calving season, proving that Mother Nature can be one unforgiving bitch!

The cattle were burning calories like mad (so were the ranch hands), and we couldn’t feed them enough to satiate them. So, to ensure the cows were being fed, the diesel-fueled tractors and pick-up were left idling for days, fearing they would never start up again if we turned them off. I helped when I could with the cows, but I had two small children to tend and a dozen men to feed three times a day.

Between the price of extra feed, fuel and vet bills, we took a hit that winter and weren’t alone. It wasn’t only Mother Nature’s bitter-cold biting us. That year, interest rates were climbing (up to 18%), and the cost of diesel doubled nearly overnight (it seemed).

We were knocked down a few notches, and never recovered. Even now, when calving season nears, I offer up a lot of prayers for the cows, the calves, the cowboys, and yes, even the cooks. It was a lot to cook for ranch hands. So besides being chief cook and calf-bottle washer, I titled myself “HR Director.” We usually had a great group of guys, but because they shared our long dining table with my young children, my radar stayed on high alert until I got to know them better. If a new guy put me on edge, he didn’t stand a chance at long-term employment.

Looking back, I’m sure many of them had some undesirable history. When we were short handed during calving, fencing or haying (there are a lot of seasons to cover on a ranch!), my husband would drive to the unemployment or veterinary offices in Helena,

Butte or Missoula (we were equal distances from all three), and bring back a laborer or two. Of course, I insisted on some type of paperwork to verify their identity (well before the internet and background checks), which was usually a dogeared (and often expired) driver’s license.

Once they settled in, they were always hungry and always grateful for a home-cooked, hot meal. I was raised on my mom’s goulash and often relied on pasta for a main course (and still do). On the ranch, it was hearty servings of Mom’s Hungarian goulash, meatballs, spaghetti and large pans filled with layers of cheese laden lasagna. Every dish invariably included vast quantities of homeground deer, elk or beef.

Most of my pasta dishes have been modified to feed my growing group of vegetarians, so I often serve meat or seafood on the