Tonight, I ate a heart that was ticking less than 12 hours ago, cooked in a stew with broth made from a tail that was twitching less than 12 hours ago. Number 16 became food today, and it was not nearly as upsetting as you'd think.
Last night it poured rain, and we woke up wondering if we'd be standing in the rain all day. But the sun was shining on the clean, wet grass, making little sparkly rainbows all over the pastures. We went next door at about 8:15, to study the chart of a black angus steer, and all its parts. And also because we were nervous. I wore my baseball cap, old clothes, and muck boots. So did J. Dale pointed out all his pictures of grandkids on the wall, and we killed a little time until the other buyers came.
About 8:30, the butchers showed up. Three steers would be slaughtered today. Two of them were Dale's, and one of them from another farmer down the road who trailered him in this morning. Dale let the butchers through the gate, and they drove through the pasture to the trailered steer. The butcher rig is a large diesel truck (350-class), towing a tall (about 10'), narrow (about 4') trailer with solid sides and back. It's refrigerated inside. On the outside, there are rows of garbage cans, stainless steel sinks, a water spigot and hose, and assorted cabinets to hold knives and other gear. From the top of the back of the trailer, a steel rod sticks out about 5'. It has a pulley arrangement attached about 3' from the doors to the trailer, and a steel cable hangs from it that is run all the way up while the rig travels.
Once in the back pasture, they pulled the rig around by the trailered-in steer first. Dale, Mike, John and I were all looking at Dale's steers, since one of them was exploring whether he could climb the manure pile and jump over the fence. I watched as Shayne stepped out from behind the trailer carrying a gun. I was the only one turned that way, and so was the only one who didn't jump when the shot rang out, and there was a loud thump as the steer hit the floor of the trailer. J turned a little white, but held his own. Within about 5 minutes, they had a line tied around the leg of the steer, and had hauled it out of the trailer and hung it from the back of the butchering rig. Shayne slit its throat, and it bled out on the grass.
We went into the barn to do some paperwork (We had to sign some papers that said we knew the killing site had not been inspected by the USDA. Well, duh. We inspected it ourselves!) We also had to choose how to have the steer cut up. Many parts were mentioned. I said 'yes' or 'no', primarily depending on whether I recognized the part so named. It was interesting that this was clearly my job. Thayne (the father of the butchering company) looked only at me, and not at J for this information. It felt like respect.
By the time we came back, the steer had been moved over onto clean grass, and laid down on its back so that the apprentice, Rusty, could begin taking off the legs and the hide.
We watched as Shayne went into the corral where the other two steers (No. 13 and No. 16) were penned. They were mildly disturbed by all the strangers, but not panicked. Just moving around a bit. Shayne waited patiently, sighting down the barrel, and then, when No. 13 turned toward him, and was still for a moment, he pulled the trigger. It felt like we heard the shot and saw No. 13 hit the ground at the same time. He just... went down. Thunk. He was there. And then he wasn't. There was just a big pile of food where the steer used to be. Some more waiting, as No. 16 tried to figure out what just happened, and then it was his turn. Bang! Thump! It takes longer to say it than it does for it to happen. There was some residual struggling, but if you've ever put a dog down, you know what this looks like. There's nobody in there, willing the legs to move. They just do, all on their own.
I don't know where they go. But clearly, they are in there and then they aren't.
Shayne backed the trailer up to the steers, and one at a time, he hung them, slit their throats, removed their heads, took the tongues out, and drove the carcass over to lay them in the clean grass. A Thai man, Jom, was there, and he took the heads and the tongues, along with several other choice portions that I would have no idea what to do with. Apparently, a man needs a girlfriend after eating gall bladder...
After that, it was an awful lot like re-upholstering a sofa. The hides were carefully removed, the ribs were split with a special reciprocating saw, the stomach, intestines and lungs were removed and the apprentice carried them over to one of the trash cans. The heart and liver were separately saved---good for eating. (We now have about... oh... maybe 12 POUNDS of liver in the freezer. Oh dear.) During this process, the steers were gradually lifted off the ground, so the meat never touched the ground, only the hides. In the end, a steer would be hanging by its hocks from the butchering rig. Labels were attached through the front and back leg tendons, so they'd know which steer belonged to which person. The steers were sliced down the back, their spinal cords removed, and they were suddenly clean, recognizable sides of beef, like you've seen in the movies a thousand times, hanging by the hocks from hooks on pulleys. The apprentice opened the doors to the trailer, and I could see that the pulley rail ran all the way inside. Rusty pushed each side of beef in to the front of the trailer, one at a time. No. 16 went in first, probably because he was heaviest (his hanging weight turned out to be 896 pounds! Can I pick a good-lookin' steer, or what?!).
It was a pleasure to watch people who were so competent at their job; focused; careful; working so well together that they barely needed to speak. And they did the job with such respect. They were done by about 10:00. In the time it took them to take apart three steers, most slaughterhouses would disassemble 300.
Afterwards, Dale spread shavings over the bloody spots, and the magpies carried away the stomach contents and other bits and pieces. By early afternoon, you couldn't tell that just that morning, 3 steers had been slaughtered just over the fence there. Our dogs each got a shin bone and hoof. Happy, happy dogs. The four remaining steers wandered about, in grass up to their chests, soaking up the sunshine.
No. 16 will hang for about 10 days. Then approximately 630 pounds of him will come back to us in shrink-wrapped, labeled pieces; 2 steaks to a pack, 2-3 pound roasts, 1 pound hamburger packs, stew meat, soup bones, bbq ribs, all other assorted pieces.
And tonight, we started to eat him. I made stock from the tail (oxtail soup!), and we cut up the heart into stew chunks and browned it and stewed it with onions in the stock. I served it over mashed potatoes, made with raw milk and homemade butter from Ropaleto's dairy, down the street. J made a cucumber and tomato salad to go on the side, which came from our CSA, along with the onions and potatoes. We looked at our plates, and every single thing on them came from someone we know. For the first time in my life, I felt like praying over my food. I was overwhelmed by a deep sense of gratitude that I get to live here, in this time, with these people, and this steer. It didn't matter if anyone heard me say grace. It mattered that I said it.
Thank you, Number 16. You were a good-looking steer. And now you are a tasty one.
