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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2lRmW6K:
oh man am i tired. (Discussion of meat packaging not behind cut but I’m not getting into anything too gross I don’t think? Tagged if you want to avoid, but figured I’d mention it too, in case you don’t have my weirdo tags blacklisted.)
but we got that pig totally finished with and put away. I managed to get all the scraps through the meat grinder in time to leave for the potluck thing we went to for dinner, too. Twenty pounds of ground pork, neatly packed in quart ziplocs.
The bones are in a giant stock pot on the stove getting boiled down for concentrated stock that’ll get frozen in jars.
The roasts aren’t… exactly professional-looking but they’ll cook fine. There’s a fifteen pound ham that’ll be the lunch for first chicken slaughter in May. My role was just putting things into plastic bags; B-I-L and the Assistant Livestock Manager were doing the cutting. (I’ve mentioned ALM before, I’m sure; she’s a young blond woman of occasionally-unnerving fearlessness, has worked on the farm about a year now.) Neither of them knew what they were doing specifically; she’d witnessed it following a butcher around earlier, but they were mostly consulting a book, which was a nice book but kind of had some crucial gaps in knowledge.
But our main goal was to break the carcass down into things we could cook, so we did. Roasts, chops, shanks, hocks. We did not save the feet, face, or ears. Or skin. Maybe I’ll work up to learning about that sort of thing.
We were prepared for this to be an all-hands-on-deck kind of deal like chicken slaughter is, but it wasn’t. The vegetable guy didn’t participate at all, and FarmSister wandered off after a while to go help him get seeds started, since it’s crunch time in the greenhouse.
Tonight we went to a potluck with the Agricultural Stewardship Association and a friendly gent there told me all about how much easier rabbits are to raise than chickens. I was intrigued, but not really enough to get into it. He sold the rabbits for meat, under the table, at the farmer’s market, and said most of his clients were elderly French ladies who loved the frisson of danger inherent in doing illicit rabbit trading.
He also spoke very fondly of having had pet peacocks as a child, and talked about what loud pains in the asses they were. I’m into it, but man.
oh man am i tired. (Discussion of meat packaging not behind cut but I’m not getting into anything too gross I don’t think? Tagged if you want to avoid, but figured I’d mention it too, in case you don’t have my weirdo tags blacklisted.)
but we got that pig totally finished with and put away. I managed to get all the scraps through the meat grinder in time to leave for the potluck thing we went to for dinner, too. Twenty pounds of ground pork, neatly packed in quart ziplocs.
The bones are in a giant stock pot on the stove getting boiled down for concentrated stock that’ll get frozen in jars.
The roasts aren’t… exactly professional-looking but they’ll cook fine. There’s a fifteen pound ham that’ll be the lunch for first chicken slaughter in May. My role was just putting things into plastic bags; B-I-L and the Assistant Livestock Manager were doing the cutting. (I’ve mentioned ALM before, I’m sure; she’s a young blond woman of occasionally-unnerving fearlessness, has worked on the farm about a year now.) Neither of them knew what they were doing specifically; she’d witnessed it following a butcher around earlier, but they were mostly consulting a book, which was a nice book but kind of had some crucial gaps in knowledge.
But our main goal was to break the carcass down into things we could cook, so we did. Roasts, chops, shanks, hocks. We did not save the feet, face, or ears. Or skin. Maybe I’ll work up to learning about that sort of thing.
We were prepared for this to be an all-hands-on-deck kind of deal like chicken slaughter is, but it wasn’t. The vegetable guy didn’t participate at all, and FarmSister wandered off after a while to go help him get seeds started, since it’s crunch time in the greenhouse.
Tonight we went to a potluck with the Agricultural Stewardship Association and a friendly gent there told me all about how much easier rabbits are to raise than chickens. I was intrigued, but not really enough to get into it. He sold the rabbits for meat, under the table, at the farmer’s market, and said most of his clients were elderly French ladies who loved the frisson of danger inherent in doing illicit rabbit trading.
He also spoke very fondly of having had pet peacocks as a child, and talked about what loud pains in the asses they were. I’m into it, but man.
