A poem my grandfather wrote down in his ledger while sitting around a campfire or a bunkhouse with other cowboys about 100 years ago, which gives us some humorous insight into the anonymous author’s experience with food preservation!
Those Deadly Pies
I loathe, abhor, detest, despise,
abominable dried apple pies.
I like good bread, I like good meat,
or anything that’s good to eat;
but of all poor grub beneath the skies,
the poorest is dried apple pies.
The farmer takes his gnarliest fruit,
’tis wormy, bitter and hard to boot.
They leave the hulls to make me cough,
and don’t take half the peelings off.
Then on a dirty cord ’tis strung,
and in a garret window hung.
And there it serves a rest for flies,
until it’s made up into pies.
Tread on my corns and tell me lies,
but don’t pass me dried apple pies!