"I went through a period where I was embarrassed to mention that my family butchers its own meat, knowing it marked me as the country girl I am, thinking civilized society would be shocked at an educated girl being part of so base a process. But in the past few years, after moving out and discovering what I'd left behind, I decided that the people who are shocked don't have any business picking up those Saran-wrapped Styrofoam trays of beef at the grocery store. This is the reality of eating meat: The animal has to be killed and butchered."
Christmas is important, but Butchering, that four-day event directly after, is sacred. This is not an unusual thing where I'm from in rural Pennsylvania, although it seems families scale back more and more over the years. We definitely have: We no longer make lard; we don't save and scrape out the intestines for sausage, buying premade casings instead; we don't boil down the bones to make scrapple, that delightfully Dutchy, suspicious meat by-product. Family tradition is important, but it only goes so far when dealing with us practical Pennsylvania Germans. We buy our chicken at the store now, like most other Americans.
But the cow and the three pigs, whichever makes it out of the stall first, these are the constant, even more essential than the overabundance of dessert and the annual scuffle over how much coriander to put in the sausage. Five days straight of family members coming and going from my grandparents' crooked log-cabin farmhouse, of endless piles of dishes to be washed, of grabbing handfuls of cookies with hands only perfunctorily wiped on greasy, hand-stitched aprons. It's the time to spend time with cousins, aunts and uncles seen too rarely; a special holiday disguised as everyday life. The point is that we get a yearful of meat out of it, even as it is beside the point.
I've never made it out to the barnyard early on Killing Day: I've tried twice now, and each time get out there to meet my uncle and a cousin-in-law or two. They pick up their guns, and I say, "Um ... I'll just meet you in the garage for the skinning." Maybe next year.
I haven't quite figured out why I want be in that barnyard, rather than contenting myself with the meat wrapping like the other girls. Partially it's because my uncle, the last farmer in the family, is getting older and no one in my generation is stepping up to the plate; partially it's because I feel this is a rare opportunity to really see where my food comes from, from start to finish. Part of it is the individualism that's been bred into me, a stubborn Pennsylvania Dutch self-reliance as ingrained as my polite-yet-distant approach to strangers, my repressed Protestantism. There's a certain allure in saying, with certainty, "Yes, in case of the apocalypse, I can feed myself."
It's more than that, too. I take joy in pulling a white lumpy package of family-farm meat out of the freezer, the same way I take joy in the scarf my sister knit me, the journal I hand-bound. It's about creating something I can use, with my own hands, and finding meaning in the process. In this way, butchering is another form of craftsmanship, just ... bloody.
Back in the garage, we start at the hooves, slicing a shallow ring around the first knuckle and then drawing a line down the back of the leg toward the rump. The first time I skinned a cow, slicing and peeling, I overcame my kneejerk revulsion to delight in thinking, so this is why leather feels the way it does. There are five of us, one on each limb, with my uncle tending to the head. We haul the animal up by its back legs with a winch, finish skinning, and then stand around and munch freshly baked cookies while my uncle eviscerates it. It's family bonding time.
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I went through a period where I was embarrassed to mention that my family butchers its own meat, knowing it marked me as the country girl I am, thinking civilized society would be shocked at an educated girl being part of so base a process. But in the past few years, after moving out and discovering what I'd left behind, I decided that the people who are shocked don't have any business picking up those Saran-wrapped Styrofoam trays of beef at the grocery store. This is the reality of eating meat: The animal has to be killed and butchered. If we can do it ourselves, have control over the process, all the better -- especially if we can make some traditions along the way. ...... more






