Bon Appetit

Today we had stew. Not just any stew but stew from our own steers. Which steer I don't know. One of the dead ones anyway. And it was tender and delicious and I enjoyed it way more than the parsnips that were also part of the dish. But  I still had a few pangs. My granddaughter had more than a few.
 "Is this meat beef, Daddy?"
"Yes."
"Is it from our cows?" Solemn blue eyes staring at Daddy.
"Yes."
"I'm not hungry."

And she stuck to it. She had some bread. She even had some carrots. But she didn't have any beef.

I can't claim this is a 3-year-old's hunger strike. She wouldn't even know what the term means but she does know that this was once 'our cow'. One of our neighbors eats meat but not her own meat. Perhaps Alessia has come to that compromise. I don't know but I seem to be more and more accepting of the idea. After all, the meat is good and it is healthy and it is cost effective (translation: cheap)!

It has been a very interesting journey. From the point the meat was hauled off in the refrigerated van until we hauled it back to our oversized "coffin" freezer was 10 days. By the way, "coffin" is what the appliance store called this huge freezer but it fits.We picked the meat up and it took two loads in the station wagon to get it all back. We waited another week before I defrosted some meat for tonight's dinner.

The primary problem I'm having is that I don't recognize any of the cuts. Yes, each package is individually labeled but I don't recognize the names and most meat looks pretty much the same when freeze packaged. I can tell the difference between a roast and a Scotch fillet but what is a Scotch fillet anyway? Is it a rib eye? Or a sirloin? Or what? So now this becomes a journey of discovery not just of the limits of my conscience but of what the meat actually is.

The meat I used in the stew was called BBQ steak. It turns out to be a very thin piece of meat, somewhat the texture of hamburger, and rolled in a ball. Imagine my surprise when  I unwrapped what I thought was a thick piece of meat and got what looked like a Salisbury steak. It was good tho. But I am worried that I might have made stew meat out of what was suppposed to be a prime cut. I think I'll google some of these names and see what I come up with.

Home Kill Day

Today worked out well for us. Well, for some of us. Great for the humans, not so great for 2 steers and the 2 ram lambs. It was home kill day. We had been thinking about this day, planning for this day, and agonizing over this day for literally months.

We came to these conclusions:

We were uneasy (hard to reconcile with our ‘do no harm’ philosophy) carnivores and it was hypocritical to eat other meat and not our own.

We wanted organic meat, mainly to avoid the toxins and hormones and chemicals that we pay for when we buy store meat. This then means that we eat our meat which has ingested pure water and grass. Nothing else.

We would not allow our animals to be frightened or in pain.

So we had moved the chosen animals to the paddock next to the road several days before D (dispatch) day. I had been wondering how we would avoid stressing the animals if they were loaded into a van and taken off to the slaughter house. “Not a problem” I was constantly reassured. I still fretted. But needlessly; a huge refrigerated truck pulled up to the driveway a few feet from where the stock was.

Dan led out the steers and as they approached the truck, the home kill guy shot them in the head and they dropped in their tracks. It was over; no pain, no stress but some conflicted feelings on all our parts. These steers had been a focus of our lives for months now.

So anyway, then the two butchers went to work separating the heads, skinning and quartering the caresses. They had some kind of honing instruments strapped to their thighs and constantly sharpened their knives as they went along. It was amazing to watch the speed and deftness with which they worked. They then carted off all the unusable parts to a special trailer behind the truck and hung the meat in the refrigerated sections of the van.

Then on to the two rams. The men’s friendly advice was to castrate the rams next time. It made the skinning much easier and lessened the chance of hormones in the meat. Good to know, I guess.

So all that meat is presently hung and will be packaged and ready for us in 10 days. The storage facility is beyond clean, we get to choose our cuts,and it is all very efficient and rather overwhelming.

 I have read that some kids today don’t even know what a cow looks like or that hamburger comes compliments of the mooers. This certainly won’t be the reality for my granddaughters. Dan came in tonight with the livers of the two steers and 1/3 of 1 liver fed all of us very comfortably. He sliced it thicker than you find in the supermarkets and it was excellent. Not really a ‘liver’ taste. I enjoyed it but I  confess I had to drive thoughts of our steers out of my head once or twice. But I ate it and I enjoyed it.

Starlight Dodges a Bullet - Literally

It’s shearing day here at the farm. We’re all ready. The shearers and their dog are here. Dave and his sheep are here. Guess who isn’t here. Right! Our sheep are AWOL. Up the hill go Dan and Yael. The girls and I wait in Dave’s yards while they bring down the flock.

Did I mention that the flock didn’t want to come? They are pretty definite about staying where they are. Finally one of the shearers summons her dog and goes to help. We all hear weird noises up the hill but no sheep. Loud barks and frustrated yells, but no sheep.

At last, down come the sheep with the humans and canine far, far  behind. Yes, folks, the sheep have bolted. The dog is only half trained and can’t hold them by herself. The other shearer and his assistant bolt themselves and throw themselves in the path to block the stampede. After all, it’s a long way down to the next gate and nobody wants to take that hike.

The sheep are startled and mill around. Naavah (age 1 ½) is laughing and wants to go join them. Alessia (age 3 ½), ever the more sober one, wants to get back in the car. “You can put down the window, Grandma. I can see that way.” So in she gets. I hold Naavah and the shearing begins. Finally the shearer and Dan and Yael arrive. None of them are too thrilled with our sheep by this time.

They eventually had to pick up one of the ewes and toss her over the fence. She really, really didn’t want to go through that gate. The rest raced up hill and down leading the humans on a merry chase. At least it was merry for the sheep. I'm thinking that RAMbo didn't want to lose his poodle cut. It had served him well. In the picture below, you can see precisely how thrilled he is to get shorn.

We had left the three lambs out from the shearing because they were slated to become lamb chops in a few days. Why pay for shearing when the wool and life were both going away? But Nature always has a giggle up her sleeve. It turns out that Starlight is going to be a mommy. So no home-kill bullet for her!

We had thought that we had one ram and two ewes but no, we have two rams and one ewe, Starlight. And she is pregnant by one of her two half brothers. This means she is doomed to be sold off from our flock. We only have one ram and he’s her Daddy. No incest on our farm! Rather, no more incest on our farm. In the meantime we can’t kill her and her unborn lamb. We just can’t. So she gets sheared with the rest and goes off to join her own mommy and daddy. The two young rams settle down in their lowly corral to await the home kill guy. And that’s our next blog. Stay tuned.

The Animal Revolt Continues

The family was going to get here at the farm late on Friday so Dan asked me to shift the steers from Paddock #2 to Paddock #3. I said that I would ‘give it a go’. I am trying to learn New Zealand speak; normally I would have said that I would try.

Here’s the setup (American for the picture). The steers and the 3 lambs are in Paddock #2. The flock is in Paddock #4. Paddock #3 between the two is empty. My mission was to move the steers into # 3 so they could fatten up on the good grass even more before the home kill guy shows up to prepare two of them for our freezer. I am trying to avoid saying kill them so we can eat them but that's the reality of it.

The lambs were to stay in #2 because they were to be given to the home kill guy on Tuesday so we didn’t want them mixed with the flock and then have to separate them out again. They are skittish and not easily corralled.

How skittish I didn’t know until I hiked my way through Paddock #4, Paddock #3 and opened the gate between #2 and #3. I never thought the lambs would come anywhere near me. They never do. Correction: they never did. This time they charged the gate – and me – and ran as fast as fast could be to the final fence separating them from their Mommys and dear old Dad, better known as RAMbo.

I was furious. I tried to herd them back into #2 but no dice. They ran with carefree abandon and I finally gave up. It was getting dark and I still had the steers to move. Usually this would be simple but lately they have been rambunctious. Perhaps they recognized the home kill guy when he came out and gave them the once over. I only know that our previously placid animals were definitely jittery.

I went through the gate and called down to them. They stood there looking up at me. I begged them. I threatened them. I coaxed them. They didn't move. Finally I started down the hill to get behind them and push them up. They moved. In the wrong direction and away from the fence and gate. Muttering a promise to myself that next cattle auction I would buy steers with a double digit IQ, I trotted after them.

All the way down the hill we went. And lo and behold, there was the bottom gate which I had forgotten about because we never use it.  I opened it. I do have a double digit IQ, not much more than that but at least I could figure out to open the bottom gate if that is where the steers were. This was all taking a lot of time and I had a dinner to cook. Friday night meals are special in our house and I had planned a doozy. But this would only happen if I could be there.

Okay, finally 4 of the steers wander slowly, slowly through the gate and start munching on the ‘good’ grass. Steer 5 stops dead in the gateway and begins eating. I am trapped behind the gate and if I push the gate, he’ll back out into the wrong paddock. So I’m stuck. But I’m not alone. Steer 6 has his nose plastered against the fence a scant 4 feet from the gate. He is looking piteously at his buddies on the other side who are happily eating away. He never figures out that all he has to do is take one sideways step and he is at the gate. Again – double digits, I don’t think so.

The last steer has wandered off into some alternate universe halfway across the paddock. This can’t be good so I decide to leave the gate and climb the fence and go round up the two brain dead ones and push them toward the gate. Then the one in the gate will have to move and I can get back to the kitchen.

Now remember I never claimed a triple digit IQ and this plan proves it. I was making all sorts of assumptions about bovine behavior. I know I got my PhD in human behavior but cows are different. Not harder; just different. First of all, Nirvana cow scares piteous cow who then bolts up the hill. Dumbo in the gateway turns around and joins him in this headlong race to the top. Nirvana cow follows.

I resignedly shut the bottom gate and follow the errant three to the top. They race back down the hill. This gets old real fast. I repeat the previous sentence one more time and then give up. I stamp my way across the upper paddocks, miss the gate into #4 (in my defense it is pretty darn dark by now) and have to climb yet another fence.

I finally got back to the kitchen. Dinner was late; the lamb was undercooked and I began to campaign for turning 3 steers instead of 2 over to the home kill guy on Tuesday. I leave you to figure out which 3 I nominated to become T-bones.