Our cow we had hit, char cross cow, she got killed with her calf she was birthing halfway out of her. Big mid-summer thunderstorm caught her out in the open in the valley where she was the tallest for a quarter mile. The burnt cow, birthing goop, and associated festered in that summer sun and the smell that drifted on the wind reminded me of cheese toast for some reason. Rest of that summer, you passed me the cheese toast at breakfast, you got it right on back. I was cooking venison steaks out back over chipped peach wood from one of our trees that died one afternoon after me and my cousin had worked about a mile of fence and that wind blew that stuff right up my way. I just about didn't eat that night.
Awful as it is, we all have stories slickers wish they could have. There's something good to that.