Year of the Cow

by Jared Stone

  “Well, what are you going to do with it?”

  “Eat it.”

  “You’re gonna die.”

  “I’m not gonna eat it all at once,” I counter. “Nobody’s trying to reenact a Monty Python scene here.”

  “You’re gonna get so sick of beef.”

  “Maybe. I’m gonna try not to repeat myself, though. Try and make the most of the beast. Branch out. See what I can learn.”

  “Well, good luck to you, man. It’s honest, at least. That’s a hell of a thing.” He raises a glass. “Here’s to your cardiovascular health,” he toasts with a wry gallows grin.

  I raise my own glass. “To a hell of a thing.”

  Our glasses tap, and he continues. “So, this cow. Is it a heifer, then? What are you working with here?”

  * * *

  First things first: I should really stop calling this beast a cow. Technically speaking, a cow is a girl of the species, specifically one that’s had a calf. (Girl cattle that haven’t had a calf are indeed called heifers.) The beast in my backyard is actually a steer. A boy cattle, if you will. Boy cattle that have been—ahem—“fixed” are steers, and steers that have been trained as draft animals are oxen. Boy cattle left unaltered are bulls.

  That’s a lot of terms for different ages and sexes of what is essentially one species—but cattle have been with us a long time. It stands to reason that we’d have a huge number of very specific terms to describe them. Similar highly specific language has cropped up around sheep and chickens, for example—themselves agricultural staples we’ve long relied on.

  This steer came to my house in the back of a Prius from Oroville, and as a species, it’s come even further. Yet in our imaginations, beef is the quintessential American food, associated with wide-open spaces, the Wild Wild West, and backyard barbecues everywhere.

  How precisely this happened can’t be completely definitively answered. But we know of some key moments—sort of a This Is Your Life review of American beef cattle.

  Ten thousand years ago, what we think of as modern beef cattle didn’t exist. Instead, a species of massive horned ungulate dominated the landscape from Spain, all across Europe and North Africa, and through large swaths of Asia. This was the aurochs (like “deer,” the plural and singular version of the word is the same). And by any measure, aurochs were terrifying.

  A complete aurochs skeleton can be seen on display in the National Museum of Denmark. The animal stood six feet tall at the shoulder and weighed in the neighborhood of 2,200 pounds. That’s about twice as heavy as my steer weighed when it was alive and somewhere around ten inches taller, give or take. (My animal provided me with 420 pounds of beef, but the steer on the hoof weighed much more.) Aurochs were more comparable in size to American buffalo (or bison, if you prefer) than beef cattle.

  The aurochs on display in Denmark was found along with three stone arrowheads fired by Mesolithic hunters. The arrows didn’t bring the beast down, though—he fled and drowned in a bog. The hunters were denied a meal, but they were also spared what could have been the fight of their lives. Even wounded, the aurochs were more than capable of killing a human.

  Aurochs are depicted in the famous Paleolithic cave paintings of Lascaux as fearsome beasts. They share wall space with rhinos and bears—animals firmly at the other end of the kill-or-be-killed spectrum. In a Lascaux chamber called the Hall of the Bulls, two tremendous black aurochs dominate the walls. The largest of the two animals is a whopping seventeen feet long, drawn so that the natural curvature and undulation of the water-carved walls accent the musculature of the beast. Clearly, these animals were revered, even in prehistory.

  Nobody knows precisely how the first cattle were domesticated from aurochs—Neolithic hunter-gatherers didn’t keep written accounts. All we have to go on are the archaeological record, a timeline of genetic changes coaxed from cattle DNA, and a rough history gleaned from those pictures daubed on the walls of caves. From these, we can tell that the first cattle were likely domesticated in the Fertile Crescent, approximately 8,800 years ago. These cattle would eventually become Bos taurus, or the taurine cattle breeds. Then, fifteen hundred years later, in the Indus Valley along what is now the India/Pakistan border, a second domestication event occurred, giving rise to the cattle that would become Bos indicus, or the modern zebu.

  Two domestication events, giving rise to all the cattle in the world. Domestication is rare, and domestication of a bad-tempered herd animal the size of a Volkswagen is rarer still. Then, as Neolithic humans spread out from the cradles of civilization, they took their cattle with them. Very generally, the taurine cattle breeds went west, and the zebu went east.

  These new bovine allies conferred tremendous benefits on human populations. Cows eat grass. Suddenly, grassland could be converted into a reliable protein source without the risk associated with hunting game. Cattle could provide enough milk to feed both their own offspring and their human herders, allowing humans to incorporate dairy into their diets on a regular basis. Hides could be converted into any number of leather goods, and—though over time they became generally smaller than aurochs—domesticated cattle were the best source of draft power available.

  Aurochs didn’t immediately vanish, however. They still roamed Europe during the time of the Romans, where they were popular antagonists in the arenas of the empire. Julius Caesar himself noted in his Commentaries on the Gallic War that aurochs were “a little below the elephant in size, and of the appearance, color, and shape of a bull. Their strength and speed are extraordinary; they spare neither man nor wild beast.… But not even when they are taken very young can they be rendered familiar to men and tamed.” The last true aurochs died in 1627 in a forest in Poland.

  Meanwhile, the taurine cattle multiplied and diversified into animals of all shapes and sizes: huge white cattle in France, mousy-brown cattle in Switzerland, short-horned red cattle in England, shaggy brown cattle in the highlands of Scotland. Then in the late 1800s, cattlemen began actually recording their pairings, leading to the formalization of many of today’s cattle breeds: France’s Charolais, Switzerland’s Braunvieh, England’s Shorthorn, Scotland’s Highland cattle.

  Speaking of Scotland, the beef in my backyard came from a Red Angus/Black Angus cross—named for County Angus on the northeast coast of Scotland, where the breed began in the eighteenth century. There, in the counties of Aberdeen and Angus, the native cattle were a unique strain of hornless, or polled, cattle. These cattle came to be called humbles, for their lack of horns, or doddies, because names are more fun when they sound utterly ridiculous.

  These cattle were something of a curiosity, until a breeder named Hugh Watson began assembling a herd of doddies in County Angus. Watson came from a family of cattle breeders and had a knack for breeding the animals to bring out the traits he was looking for. In Angus, he developed a herd of polled cattle of exceptionally high quality—strong, symmetrical animals with gentle dispositions. Besides breeding exceptional animals, however, Watson had two notable insights. First, he showed them off, taking the animals to livestock shows to tout their quality far more than was common at the time. And second—he selected only for animals that were entirely jet black.

  Hugh Watson was branding. Not in the Ponderosa, iron-in-a-fire sense, but in the modern marketing sense. He was forging a brand identity.

  At a time when most steers were multicolored, Watson’s jet-black animals stood out. And they were naturally hornless, which also stood out. And because he was an excellent breeder, they were big, beautiful examples of the species, which definitely stood out. As a result, Watson’s distinctive beasts started winning livestock competitions. And they won a lot.

  Watson’s herd was the foundation of what would become known as the Aberdeen-Angus breed. Other breeders in those counties started breeding for similar characteristics. Then in 1867, Queen Victoria herself accepted a gift of beef from an Aberdeen-Angus steer for her Christmas dinner, and the Aberdeen-Angus was famous.

 
The first Aberdeen-Angus cattle arrived in the United States in 1873, when George Grant, a Scottish expat, transported four bulls to Kansas with a mind toward starting an empire. He called his new town Victoria, after the monarch who enjoyed Aberdeen-Angus beef. That fall, two of the bulls were shown at the Kansas City Livestock Exhibition. American cattlemen, however, weren’t used to seeing polled cattle and considered them freakish. Grant’s venture failed, and he died penniless a few years later.

  The Aberdeen-Angus cattle, however, had arrived. They proved adaptable and hardy on the High Plains, and an American breeders association opened ten years later. In 1917, the association forbade the registration of any nonblack cattle, in accordance with Watson’s desire for a solid black breed (hence, Black Angus). Then in the 1950s, the name was shortened to the American Angus Association. Today, Angus cattle are the most prevalent beef cattle breed in the United States.

  My steer, however, isn’t a Black Angus. It’s a Red Angus/Black Angus cross. As one might surmise, the difference is a matter of coloration. Black is a dominant genetic trait in Angus; red is recessive. (Really, it’s more of a reddish brown, but who am I to quibble?) Watson, back in the 1800s, kept only the black individuals, and other breeders followed his lead to capitalize on the marketing campaign that Watson had set in motion.

  In the United States, however, savvy ranchers quickly realized that quality animals were being eliminated from Black Angus herds simply because of their color. Some ranchers began buying up these otherwise excellent Red Angus. In 1954, the Red Angus Association of America was founded.

  My Red Angus/Black Angus cross, then, is an Angus steer, without regard to coloration. I like that. I like that my rancher valued form and function over fashion. Seeing Angus beef in restaurants or supermarkets is a branding statement—just as it was for Hugh Watson’s herd in the early 1800s. It isn’t necessarily an indicator of quality in the same way that, say, Prime, Choice, or Select is. It’s an indicator of the breed of steer that the beef came from.

  Because Angus beef reaches full size so quickly, everyone raises them. They’re an impressive breed of cattle, if not a unique one. Even if beef isn’t specifically labeled Angus beef, it probably is anyway.

  * * *

  Burgers. I should really do burgers.

  Summer and I are tiptoeing between the cars in our garage, arms loaded with bags from the supermarket, as our son walks ahead of us at a brisk two-year-old pace. Of course, this pace is painstakingly slow from a fully grown human perspective. Even more so when those humans have each arm loaded with forty pounds of groceries. But with both cars parked in our two-car garage, there’s no room for us to pass him.

  “Do you have anything in mind for dinner, Sum?”

  “No, I haven’t thought about it.” Then, to Dec, “Keep going, honey. These bags are heavy.”

  “I thought I’d make burgers.”

  Dec spies a particularly interesting pebble on the floor of the garage. Or maybe it’s a mote of dust. He pauses to examine it, and the Grocery Train stops.

  Summer sighs. “Honey, why didn’t you tell me? I would have bought hamburger buns while we were at the store.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about making burgers when we were at the store. Do I need to go back?”

  The Grocery Train starts moving again. “No, it’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Sorry, Sum.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Declan reaches the back of the garage and the person-sized steel door that leads to the backyard. It doesn’t shut all the way—I should fix that, maybe tomorrow—so he grabs the edge of the door and pulls. It swings open with a creak. Then it begins to swing shut.

  “Honey, could you hold the door for Mom—”

  “Buddy, the door … Don’t let it—”

  It slams back against the door frame with a loud clang, leaving Summer and me standing in a cramped garage, overburdened with two armfuls of groceries.

  * * *

  A few hours later, I’m standing in front of a small grill while two double handfuls of lump charcoal glow fiercely from beneath a coating of snowy-white ash. Lump charcoal is nothing more than pieces of hardwood heated to high temperatures without oxygen so they don’t combust. The result is a wood-shaped block of almost pure carbon, which burns at temperatures much higher than the original wood. (Charcoal briquettes are made from sawdust by the same process and use chemical binders to form them into blocks.)

  My charcoal is ready for cooking, so I slip back into the house. I’ve already divided one pound of ground beef into eight patties. On another counter, I cut some very sharp cheddar into slices about an eighth inch thick and an inch square.

  I season the meat with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. Then I place a square of cheese on top of four patties, then place another patty on top of those, crimping the edges of the meat. These quarter-pound burgers will be cheesed from the inside. Cheesed sneakily.

  “Those look good,” Summer says, drifting through the kitchen.

  “Thanks. You get the bun situation figured out?”

  “Yep! Look at the oven.” I turn and see a timer is set with only a few minutes left. Summer has been baking.

  “Oh, nice! You made hamburger buns.”

  “I made sharp cheddar hamburger buns.”

  I look in the oven and see that she’s shredded cheddar onto the top of the buns. It’s turned a lovely golden brown. “Impressive.”

  “Glad you think so.” She winks, then turns on her heel to leave.

  Twenty minutes later, Summer and I bite into our burgers, while Declan noshes on their component parts. The burgers are simply seasoned, cooked medium, and earthy from the sharp cheddar both within the patty and atop the bun. It’s an excellent, if simple, variation on this most American of dishes.

  “These buns are silly good,” I tell Summer between mouthfuls. “Really lovely.”

  “Burgers are nice, too,” she says. “The cheese inside is a nice touch.”

  “Stealth cheese,” I offer. “Glad you like it.”

  * * *

  America, from Colonial times, inherited Britain’s fondness for beef. No less a personage than Shakespeare commented on the British love of beef around 1599 on the plains of Agincourt in Henry V. In Victorian times, vegetables were incorrectly considered nutritionally deficient (it was thought that they would ferment in the stomach, as grass does in a cow’s rumen), whereas grains were associated with the poor. Poultry and game were expensive, but beef was both accessible and retained a cultural history of vitality and yeoman pride.

  When the first Aberdeen-Angus cattle arrived in the United States in 1873, they happened to arrive at a particularly formative time in U.S. history—the heyday of the cowboy and the romanticization of the West. At the time, America had a lot of open rangeland, most of it having been recently vacated by the nearly eradicated American buffalo. This landscape is an excellent habitat for large ungulates (e.g., hoofed mammals, such as buffalo), and cattle could thrive with minimal human intervention. The grass ocean of the Great Plains, then, provided a gigantic expanse of terrain ideal for raising cattle—and Americans raised a lot of them.

  In Texas in the 1870s, longhorn cattle were the dominant breed. Semiferal holdovers of spectacularly horned taurine cattle brought to the New World during Spanish colonization, they roamed in enormous herds across the prairies. They were so numerous that cattlemen could just ride out onto the range and take them. There in rural Texas, however, a steer sold for three dollars. In the meat markets of Chicago, the same animal sold for forty.

  This brings us to another major factor in Americans’ love of beef—democratic meat distribution. In Europe at the time, because they lacked America’s wide-open spaces, beef was largely funneled to and consumed by the aristocracy. In America, however, it could be purchased by anyone, regardless of class. All anyone needed was the opportunity.

  This demand for beef in the city led to the development of the epic c
attle drive. Getting those cattle from the frontier to city markets was a tremendous undertaking. Cowboys would guide enormous herds along the Chisholm Trail from the wilds of Texas to the nearest railway terminals in Abilene and Dodge City, Kansas. From there, they would be shipped to meat markets in Chicago and elsewhere.

  These cowboys—romantic figures, alone on the prairie, pitting their wile and guts against an ambivalent yet savage nature—captured the imagination of a nation still reeling from the Civil War. Cowboy dime novels flew off the shelves. In 1883, the same year that the American Aberdeen-Angus Breeders’ Association was founded, Buffalo Bill Cody first staged his Wild West show. It depicted an exotic, untamed West where a man could start anew. Where it didn’t matter what kind of family he was born into or where he was during the still-recent Civil War. Cowboys lived by their own code and by their own rules—largely free of hierarchy, intrusive government, a moralizing church, or the limitations imposed by large cities. In this, they came to represent a new and uniquely American vision of what it means to be free.

  In 1893, twenty years after George Grant arrived on the High Plains with his black Scottish bulls, historian Frederick Jackson Turner presented a paper at a meeting of the American Historical Association in Chicago, entitled “The Significance of the Frontier in American History.” In it, he argued that the unique situation of the American frontier was the crucible in which the essence of our democracy was forged. In adapting to the difficult and varied challenges of frontier life, Turner argued, useless or outdated European customs and thought patterns were burned away. Adaptation to the frontier transformed immigrants into Americans. The frontier was the scene of a democratizing process that enabled our unique experiment in government to thrive.

  Turner presented his hypothesis at a significant time—census data published in 1890 had officially noted that scattered settlements throughout the West had erased any true geographic line denoting an end to U.S. occupation. Put another way, by the time Turner published his paper, the frontier had already vanished.