What's in a name?

This blog brought to you as an additional comment to Miki's blog about killing chickens. 

Meat. 

I hate the word "meat".

I grew up on a small 'hobby farm' with horses. Besides a horse for everyone we were also able to keep feed animals, at various times, we had a cow(Julie), goats (Nanna & Sal and their little girls), ducks(Daffy, Frank, Jo to name a few), turkeys(too many to list)and pigs (Buddy, Sheila & nine others I don't remember).

My mother, Me, My Dad, and Daffy & Frank

I knew from a very very young age (like before kindergarten young) which animals we were raising to be butchered and eaten. I don't remember it ever bothering me, because I knew each of them and loved them all - with maybe the exception of the pigs - my brother took care of them and yes he named them and loved them.. but I had a hard time getting over the smell.. and before we got them I had heard a story about pigs eating a man alive so I was a little (a lot) terrified of them.

Because we were a small farm, the only butchering we did were the birds. I was responsible for bringing them to my dad and his axe, keeping the headless runaways away from the road and after the last bird, I was stuck with helping my brother pluck.

Oh god, I hated plucking... hated it. Not because of the slain bodies of my friends.. they were just a pile of dead birds now, but it was a dirty, tedious job..and hard! Fortunately, I was the baby of the family and decided I wouldn't get good enough at it to ever be put in charge of it. *sly grin*

Each and every meal that was raised in that barn had a name, was spoiled rotten and doted on by me (with the exception of the pigs which was all my brother).  The ducks you see in that picture up there would follow me everywhere that summer.

I was also very aware when they were on the table in front of me dressed with gravy and served with taters. I had no guilt over it,because a) I knew them well b) my dad always let me say goodbye and c) I knew without a doubt they were very well Cared (cared capital C) for and had an awesome life.

Now, it makes me a little bit (quite a lot) angry actually when people don't 'get' this. People think I'm a monster for preferring a named animal over an unnamed animal.  Sandra, Cat I love you both and hope you try to understand that it's not gory, macabre tendencies it's the very opposite. It's honest to goodness adoration of those animals and how they were treated, and how they died.


It's more gory and macabre to me when people would 'rather not know'.  Not know where the food they're eating came from. Not know if it had a name. Not know how it was treated. Not think of it as having a face.

Rather just think of it as

meat.

Just think about it next time you're in the grocery deli section buying pre packaged sirloin, that most mass produced beef, pork and poultry in grocery stores today - probably did not have a name.

I don't mean you should never eat anything if you don't know it's name in today's world that's just not possible. But instead of feeling queasy about it, you should feel better about it knowing it was cared for enough to have a name.

O.K.

Let's Talk Turkey

To be perfectly honest, sometimes there is a sweet vengeance to raising your meals as well. 

We had turkeys, they were not nice birds. 

Vicious. 

Mean. 

Loud. 

Dirty. 

.... I had a cousin who was similar. 

His name was Scott. He was mean, loud, dirty and usually got me into trouble when he'd visit, which wasn't often. 

They did come one summer when Scott and I were eight years old.

Scott was particularly cruel to me that day... can't remember why but I know it was worse because my friends were there too... so when we decided to play hide and seek.. My friend Brian was 'IT'.

... and I took Scott straight to the turkey pen to hide. 

I let him in... and quietly told him to go hide at the back near the feed bin.... and I'll be in the barn... I closed the pen behind him... and crept my way up to the loft where I'd get a good view of the whole thing. 

I could hear Brian counting loud as I scrambled up the ladder to the hay mow. 

Before I got halfway up... the screaming started. 

Guilt washed over me... but I stayed frozen for a good half a minute wondering if I should go up...see what's going on and possible escape the wrath of my mother... or down and get him out of that pen. 

That thirty seconds I was possibly the meanest little girl that side of the creek that day. 

But then I relented and hopped down and made it to the pen the same time my older brother got there. Scott was standing with his back against the door.. kicking at the attacking turkeys (if you hear him tell this story there were ten of them ... but we only ever had four at a time pffft)... they were fighting mad though.. so I suppose I can see why he'd have seen more than was there. By the way.. turkeys can fly... a little bit... enough to get about chest high on an eight year old. My brother pulled the door open grabbed Scott by the arm and pulled him out slamming the door shut... just as my Aunt Gayle came running in response to the screaming of her baby boy... 

Can I just say that my Aunt Gayle is even meaner than four hot turkeys defending their food territory? 

Scott named me as the person who told him to go in there and locked the door behind him... not at all how it was.. 

Aunt Gayle hauled off and smacked me. I saw my friends hop on their bikes and quietly head home at that point.

Then my mother got there... and smacked me too. 

Then my uncle Bill got there and smacked Scottie. Told him not to lie. 

Then my mother smacked my brother.

I was rubbing my face, and saw my dad at the picnic table where he and Bill had been sitting - watching the whole thing. I swear his shoulders were shaking as he sipped his beer and looked out across the road exactly not where all the action was happening. 

It became one of those family stories my dad loved telling people.. about the time I locked my cousin Scottie in the pen with the turkeys for picking on me all day. He stretches the truth on it though... I didn't lock him in... I just knew better than to leave the turkey pen unlatched. But he never worried about facts much.

I did feel bad though kind of. Later, as an apology I took some pictures of the turkeys when they were all dressed and in our freezer... and mailed them to my cousin. I knew he 'got it' because twelve years later at his wedding he had the picture up at his wedding.. and my uncle Billy told the story of how his son was attacked by a flock of turkeys... 

... a flock... pah... please there were four!