On Mooving to Montana...

Montana had been a fantasy life. A place of wonder, freedom, and independent living. When an opportunity to move there arose from a contract job offer, we jumped at the chance to experience Big Sky Country. At last, I could be a mountain girl, a frontier woman, a hardy lass who wore turquoise and laughed at danger. I’d dance under the wild Montana skies!

At least, that was my little delusion. In reality, I’m an Oregonian who grew up with two seasons—wet and not-as-wet. My fashion sense depends largely on name-brand rain gear, layered over drab sweaters and khaki pants. My idea of severe weather involves an inch of snow or a single rumble of thunder, and my truck has anti-hydroplane tires.

Clearly, I had much to learn about living there and I make a confession about my primary handicap. I did not understand steak. I couldn’t tell a good petite sirloin from a package of “reduced for quick sale.” When necessary, I select beef cuts based on price: anything under $2.99 is fair game for my George Foreman grill. I’m mostly used to poultry; simple, small portions of boneless, skinless delicacies.

Not that I have anything against beef. In fact, some of my fondest memories include cow flesh in one form or another…I’m sure of it. I mean, you know, Arby’s Beef’n’Cheddar. I’m no vegetarian.

And yet, when dining at “The Oasis,” a famous local steakhouse in Belgrade, Montana; I wondered what, exactly, it was an oasis from? Certainly not cow. I faced a menu rife with beef options, and experienced a strange sort of protein anxiety. Filet mignon, porterhouse, T-bone, flank, tips, tops, bottoms… rounds… I became lost in the shear range of bovine portions and found myself searching desperately for something familiar; something with feathers. It felt easier that way; safer. I know a good bird breast when I see one. Appreciate a juicy thigh marinated in some tangy herbal rub.

I panicked. I did. My heart beating, my mouth dry, my eyes clouding, the waitress waiting… I meant to order steak, it was all about the steak, and at the moment of commitment, I uttered quietly, “Um, I’ll have the broasted chicken…with…ah…Jo Jo’s.”

At that moment, I realized my faux paus. The steak house quieted, eyes rolled, throats cleared, and someone sipped a clink of ice water. The waitress paused, wrote quickly on her pad, swallowed and asked if that was all. Yes, yes, what else could I say? Damn you, familiar chickens.

John Denver did not prepare me for this.

Maybe Montana was just too much for me. Perhaps I’m not the redneck I’d always thought I was…We’re back in Oregon now and I sure do miss those skies and the live and let live philosophy; but I admit the chicken here is delightful and nobody holds my poultry preference against me… Well, you know, except vegans.

mln