One of the assumed advantages of living on a hobby farm is the splendid opportunity to raise, butcher, then eat one's own food. One of those advantages is that we know what's gone into it (and what hasn't); in short, we know its health(y) history. Said food could include beef, chickens, turkeys, and pigs, with side dishes of milk and eggs; and when there is enough cream, my wife is able to make yogurt and cheese.
Back when I was living the life of a confirmed city slicker (in 10 BC, as in ten years ago in British Columbia), I knew nothing of the gore, guts, grime, and gloop (yes, Maurice, I'm not just being witty—it is a word) of butchering animals.
I assumed all animals just simply came in small wrapped packages, lying side by side in the meat department, conveniently labelled with their expiry date.
Well, now I know that all animals on our property have an expiry date, for sure, though not quite the one intended at the local grocer. Okay, not all animals: So long as dogs can howl away at coyotes and cats can munch away on mice, they are safe from the butcher's knife.
Currently, we are in the process of raising chickens. Those little, yellow things that arrive in a box at the local Post Office soon become loud, white things that live to eat and eat to live. Perhaps I should be a little more specific here: I've seen a lot of loud, white things that live to eat, down at the Golden Corral—but that's another discussion.
It does seem cruel to pamper these chicks for so long, with the sole purpose of making them fit yet fat for the fate of a fete someday. Maybe that's why people turn to vegetarianism (the philosophy of not eating animals) or veganism (the same philosophy, only it also includes not eating animal products).
Both would be a stretch for yours truly, as I love most (normal) meat dishes, plus I love all dairy and egg products. I would think my penchant for a Monte Cristo sandwich must be to a vegan what a ham sandwich is to Muslim.
The gang was gone the other day, so I was in charge of all the fowls, plus the new batch of little ones. I was told to take care of the “chicks.” I thought to myself, I'm almost 58; how do I handle this one? I misunderstood, but it all worked out well.
When it comes to the day of reckoning for the chickens, I am the scalder. (If other jobs aren't done right, I'm the scolder.) It's one of those rare moments in life when I'm in hot water and it's appropriate. The last couple times we've actually gotten by without pulling pin feathers galore. You see, the right heat means the best result. That, of course, applies to much in life—be it pasteurizing milk, refining silver, and even cooking dinner.
Speaking of cooking dinner, we generally stick with pizza on the butchering day. For myself, I have seen just enough of a chicken's back end and bloody neck to keep me from eating chicken for a while. You might say it leaves a fowl taste in my mouth (but then again, you might not).
There are some significant ironies here: The government can be too overbearing in telling us what we can and cannot eat, on the one hand; but, on the other hand, the food that has been inspected by Big Brother may or may not pass the basic fit-for-consumption test. That is one reason why more and more common people are raising their own animals for personal consumption. I think if we had any idea what happened to these animals in the food chain, from birth to death, we would be outraged and devastated.
And sick. Actually, maybe that's why so many people do have unexplained illnesses.
However, to keep some balance in my life, I still visit places with my favourite initials: A and W, D and Q, as well as K, F, and C.
I like to think of them as my occasional junk-food vitamins.
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