The Saturday Morning Post: Rocky Mountain Oysters

Debra's comment on last Saturday's post prompted this memory, a  story about Rocky Mountain Oysters.  

Back before my ABA days, I was a consultant for AARP, hired to do training across the country, I forget the exact numbers but it was over 30 programs in about 25 states over about 8 years. Marcie, the training coordinator had a Mac Truck rule, that you always had two trainers on each project, so if one of us was run over by a Mac truck on the way to the training the show would go on.  I suggested that she make it the PowerBall lottery rule, I'd much sooner win a billion dollars and not be able to focus on the training, than be mangled by a truck.  

Hence I did several programs with Jane from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.  Jane and I covered similar and overlapping issues.  Are working styles were different, she was better at showing up and winging it, I prepared meticulously and obcessed over staying on time.  I have relaxed a lot over the years.  I am probably today, where Jane was 20 years ago, I have forgotten more than most people know about the core issues I work on.  

That summer we did two programs together in two weeks.  North Dakota, and South Dakota a week apart.  Lots of frequent flyer miles. 

We did a training in the basement of a small casino in Deadwood, South Dakota.  When there was a quiet moment in the training room, you could hear the slot machines going ding, ding, ding upstairs in the cassino. The training space was comfortable, the food was good and inexpensive.  

We arrived mid afternoon the day before, drove over the Lead, to see a massive mine, we visited the graves of Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok, then headed downtown for dinner.  We stopped in a casino for a minute, and Jane said how much she hated slot machines because she always lost.  She put in ten dollars, and a couple of minutes later she was up by about a hundred dollars, I urged her to cash out and walk away, but she kept pulling the handle and five minutes later she was down to zero.  (The next morning while waiting for breakfast I put one-dollar in a machine, and two minutes later cashed out with $45.) 

I don't remember much of the restaurant, but I do remember that the menu featured Rocky Mountain Oysters.  Jane, being from Louisiana,  became quite excited by oysters, explaining how much she enjoyed them, how she had gone oystering with her grandfather while growing up and how wonderful oysters are raw and fresh out the water. Marcie and I knew what kind of oysters these were and kind of egged Jane on.  

You see there are no salt water shellfish in the Rocky Mountains.  Rocky Mountain oysters are what you get when you turn a bull into a steer, or a ram into a wether (I had to look that one up.) Bluntly they are testicles.  They are generally dusted with flour and fried. I am not a fan.  But they are on my list of "Oooooo you tried that foods."

We were encouraging Jane to order "oysters." Then she asked the server if she could get them raw on the half shell, not fried.  He rolled his eyes, and sighed, and probably for the 20th time that day, explained to Jane's horror that Rocky Mountain Oysters didn't come out of shell, they came out of a scrotum - from a cow or sheep, and no they were not served raw.  Marcie and I were all but falling out of our chairs trying to suppress laughter.  Jane turned fifty shades of red with embarrassment.  I don't think Jane will ever forgive us.