Mission Meals

Comfort Food Rocks.

Being the Suzy Homemaker that you all know me to be (frilly apron and all), I do a fair amount of cooking.  I always have.  Even in college I never ate out of a box. There was always a crockpot of "conglomeration stew" going in that scummy little basement (I won't say apartment) that I lived in. This time of year one of the easiest and honestly best meals is what my Grandpa used to call "mission meals" and my kids used to call "homemade hamburger helper."  With the kids gone, I have difficulty figuring out the two person ratio for doing what I have been doing for four for many years, so generally, a good mission meal lasts for about three days.

These mission meals, while easy, are also very much hearty comfort food.  My favorite?  Dice and fry potatoes in butter and layer in the bottom of a casserole dish.  Brown hamburger with some cumin, salt, pepper and finely diced onion and then add a can of cream of chicken soup, some cottage cheese, some sour cream.  Simmer for a while and then pour the mixture on top of the potatoes.  Add a layer of cheddar cheese and then bake for 45 minutes at 350 deg.........measurements?  Baahh!

Enjoy the flavor and feel of your arteries hardening as the north wind blows against the windows.

Saturday with a couple of loads of wood to bring home and that is what I am making for supper.

Pineapple

The Pineapple to Katie's smoke.

 

 

Like David's Rain on fallen leaves and my own waves on the beach, there is nothing quite as comforting as the fresh smell of woodsmoke and the heat that radiates from the stove on a brisk winter day.  A pot of chili or soup simmering on the woodstove only adds to that comfortable feeling of home and it makes all the work involved in loads like this well worth the sweat.  And yes, the truck is older than I am.

The Greatest Generation

70 years ago this morning the Germans launched a surprise offensive that became "The Battle of the Bulge."  I am certain you all remember the story of General Anthony McCauliffe  of the 101st Airborne and his reply to the German demand to surrender.  One word, "NUTS."

Those of you that know me also know that family history is important to me.  Both of my Grandfathers were too old to be drafted and had families when the war came around.  They served the war effort in their own ways.  My Great Uncle, who I have written about before fought in the Battle of the Bulge and eventually crossed the Rhine with Patton.  He rarely talked about the details of his service unless it was to tell a humorous tale.  I remember asking him when I was a foolish youngster if he had killed anyone in the war.  His response?  A very quiet, eyes averted white lie, "I don't know."  He was active in the American Legion and continued to serve the community in many ways right up until his death.

The men and women of his generation and their families sacrificed much for the rest of us and it always amazes me how humble they were, how quiet they were about it.  In today's "hooray for me and fuck the rest of you" world, it would be nice if that attitude and behavior could somehow be rekindled.  While there are many who serve and sacrifice without expectation of reward, it seems from our leaders to our children the overriding goal is furthering yourself and your image.

I guess this isn't meant to be a rant about today's generation.  It is meant to honor those who have passed and those few who still remain from The Greatest Generation.  Their numbers are dwindling.  They are quietly moving on to whatever challenge is next.  Challenges they will meet by putting their head down, moving forward diligently and quietly and getting the job done without complaint or comment.

My Uncle passed away over 5 years ago now.  Several other local veterans have passed since that time.  Most recently a man who lied about his age to join the Navy at 16.  He served in the Pacific on a submarine.  In 2013 he flew to Washington DC on one of the Honor Flights to see the memorial that was erected in honor of his and other's service.  He told me it was one of the highlights of his life.

If there was ever a time or a cause to donate to, I hope you will consider donating to Honor Flights.  My Uncle never saw the memorials.  Honestly, I am sure he never thought about it, which is typical.  I wish he had the opportunity.

http://www.honorflight.org/

The title page of their site has an outstanding quote from Will Rogers: 

"We can't all be heroes.  Some of us have to stand on the curb and clap as they go by."

Doing My Part

The Fire Is So Delightful!

Coffee

I like my coffee strong.  Black.  Sticky.....well, maybe not sticky, but my grandfather called the coffee I like "steamboat coffee."  Because on the boat you could set your coffee mug down in a heavy sea and not worry about it sloshing out of the cup.  The spoon (if you used one for foo foo shit like sugar and cream) should be able to stand up. 

I make my coffee in the same pot that my grandmother used since the 30's or 40's.  I grind my own coffee.  It is one of my guilty pleasures.  Usually a French Roast or Italian Roast.  I make a thermos full and drink it every day.  I have a serious caffeine addiction.  When I am traveling, I bring my own ground coffee with me along with a couple coffee filters so I do not have to be subjected to Starbucks brown piss water.

I am sure some of the coffee house "barista's" or whatever foolishness the servers are calling themselves would scoff at my coffee, but I like it.

All this is leading up to my wife (who does not drink coffee) telling me that we need to buy one of these new K-cup machines.  "For what?" I ask. "I already have a coffee maker that works fine." To which she replied, "No you don't, you have a coffee pot that you put the grounds in and pour boiling water through that is older than you are."  "So what?  It works.  It makes good coffee.  And I like it!"  "But you never wash it...you only rinse it out and wipe it out, and it takes up space on the stove and whatever you make but don't drink gets poured down the drain."

Ok, she is right about the undrunk coffee being poured down the drain.  My grandmother likely would faint dead away if she knew I did this.  She would put the left over in a jar and either re heat it or pour it over ice....not me.  I also knew her to spread out the used grounds on a cookie sheet when she was running short of coffee and set the sheet on the woodstove to dry out so she could use them again the next day mixed with the little fresh she might have left.  Not me.  My used coffee grounds go into the compost heap....and most of you thought I was not "green."

Back to the gadgetry.  Against my wishes she went out a bought one.  Along with an assortment of coffee including some French and Italian roast samples.  She also bought some tea, hot chocolate and hot cider cups (I am realizing this was the real reason she wanted it).  I came home from work last Friday to find it on the table.  A sleek looking plastic concoction with water on the side and buttons and a touch screen like my POS IPad.  My grandmother's coffee pot and the tea kettle I boiled the water in were no longer on the stove but put away in the cupboard under the counter.  In addition to the coffee samplers she bought a refillable container so that I could use my own fresh ground beans.  Sounds great right?  Very thoughtful right?  Ha!  The fucking thing would only work on cups made by the manufacturer...most of what she bought would not brew.  After checking out the internet, there are several cheats that I discovered, so all was not lost for my wife...until.....I tried one of the coffees she bought.....paint thinner with a hint of burnt motor oil (and I happen to be an aficionado when it comes to burnt motor oil).  I tried the refillable cup with my own coffee...I could not pack enough in it to make the coffee as strong as I like it...to top it off, what a mess and pain in the ass.

Sunday morning, I got grandma's coffee pot out of the cupboard and drank my tar while my wife sat sipping on a hot chocolate...which was her purpose in buying the damned machine in the first place.

Traveling Meat

Time to thin the herd a bit.  My old bull has served his purpose and the young one that I was going to replace him with has not turned out to be as I wished.  One of my cows, who has provided us with 8 very respectable calves over the years seems to be slipping.  She lost her calf this year and so, with winter coming on, it appears that it is her time as well.

Yesterday I backed the trailer up to the gate and made my first attempt at loading the three up for a drive.  The younger of the two bulls, Ballsy, followed me (actually he followed the bucket of corn I was carrying) right into the trailer.  The old guy, Turdfox, was not far behind.  The old cow, Dolly, was more wary, and in spite of the corn I dumped on the floor of the trailer, would only put her two front feet in and would follow me back out.  We went through this several times and finally it was dark, so I decided to wait until this morning to load them.

This morning came and, following the same routine, I came up with the same result.  I had a deadline (bad pun.....I know) so I decided, "to hell with it!"  and closed the door on the two bulls and gave Dolly a brief reprieve.  If my wife would have been able to help, we might have gotten all three on the trailer, but she gets weepy knowing what is coming and I gave her a reprieve as well this morning.

After about a 2 hour drive, a brief inspection with security (really!), a USDA overseer and a packing house employee watched as I backed the trailer into the dock - my little stock trailer with two bulls between two huge semi's with probably 40 head in each.  I opened the gate and called the two bulls out, who were understandably and justifiably nervous.  The employee offered me a "rattle prod" which is a non electric noise maker that will help the animals moving along.  I declined.  I got behind them and said, "lets go boys!" and clapped my hands and off we went down the aisle, around several corners and finally into a holding pen lined with fresh sawdust.  I only occasionally patted them both on the hind quarter to keep them moving.  After latching the gate, I turned around and headed back down the aisle.  The USDA inspector was standing watching and as I approached, he shook his head and said, "amazing!"  "What do you mean?" I asked.  "No struggle at all.  They did exactly what you wanted them to do with no drama!"  "So?"  I replied, "why is that amazing?"  "Most small operators have to chase their animals around to get them in the pens."  "I wish they would have loaded as easily" I replied.  He just shook his head.

I signed my ticket and will get a check in the mail by the middle of next week.  I got in my truck and came home.  I will find a new bull in the spring.  I have Black Angus cattle, but I have been thinking about trying to find a bull with some Wagyu in it.  We will see.  I have all winter to think about it.  I will probably make the trip again next week with Dolly.

As a side note, to clarify, sound older animals that are taken to the locker because they are no longer productive are graded and depending on meat quality, will become hamburger or better cuts that are marketed to contract buyers.  Most likely my young bull will end up as hamburger for the restaurant market.  My older bull will likely supply some nice choice cuts in addition to hamburger.  Dolly, will be hamburger.

When it is my turn, I expect to be dog food.

A bit of a footnote here.  Reading this back it seems a bit cold and to a certain extent it is because that is how it must be.  All our animals have names and all are treated quite well.  If I was honest with myself (and unfortunately, I usually am) I guess I almost prefer the productive animals to the "pets" (don't tell Beulah!).  I have watched horses as they got into their upper 20's and in the "failure to thrive" stage where no matter how much they eat, they get skinnier and skinnier and finally you are left with no resort except to put them down.  I have had to put down neighbor's animals because they could not bring themselves to do it.  I have had to put down dogs...and the latest one, Rascal, who I wrote about on that other site, was the hardest thing I have to do and I have another that is coming up sooner than I want to think about.  These animals live their lives for us.  They are happy to see me when I come to the gate.  Or at least I would like to think they are happy to see me and not just the bucket of grain I am carrying...Reality sometimes is hard and I have to tell you, as I drove away from the locker, I could not help but think about Turdfox shoving his head at me when I stopped scratching (which is a very dangerous thing) much like the dog puts his nose underneath it and shoves when you stop scratching.  They lead a good life right to the end and even in the end they serve us and deserve respect.

For a time, we raised English Bulldogs....I have spoke and written about that as well.  We sold puppies all over the Midwest and one went to Canada.  We always screened the prospective owners because we wanted to at least have a feeling that they went to a nice home.  We turned more than one down.  Without fail, every puppy left our home with my wife crying.

I was only half joking about being made into dog food when I go.  I have gotten so much enjoyment, so much comfort and so much unconditional companionship from the dogs I have had that the least I could do is provide for them in the end....nah....scratch that...burn me up...I would be too tough to chew and they might break a tooth.

Religion and Church

It has been a while since I wrote anything.  Fall coming into winter is a busy time.  Like the proverbial squirrel storing up for winter, I run around proving that I am "nuts."  Ok, bad pun.  Kit posted a blog (she is an influential gal even if she doesn't realize it!) and it brought to mind an old posting from that other site that used to be so nice.  Ok...so maybe cutting and pasting is cheating...but I still wrote it, and I think it still holds true, even if I wrote it several years ago....

Here it is...a blast from the past.

I was brought up Lutheran.  I went to Sunday School.  I went to church almost every Sunday.  I was confirmed.  I believe in God.  I also believe in Christ.  I am not offended by those that don't, or believe otherwise...unless it is thrown in my face or unless their so-called faith is used as an excuse or justification for douchery....then fuck off.  I am not the one to judge you (although likely I will - tough shit).  You are not the one to judge me (although likely you will - get over it, I don't care).

Why do I write this?

Because for the last 20 years I have only attended church sporadically.  Most of the time for funerals or weddings, although I have skipped my fair share of those as well.  I did not even attend Easter services.

Because last night I was asked why I no longer went to church and (imagine this) I was honest.  I told the person that I couldn't sit in the back of the church and look at the back of all the hypocrites heads.  She said, well, you could sit in the front row with us.  I replied, well, I would still have to look at at least one hypocrite.  And sitting in the front row just proves that you are more interested in people seeing you sit in the front row, not the word that is being preached by the chief hypocrite.

She seemed to be highly offended.  Tough shit.  The truth hurts.  Fuck off.

I would rather sit with a new calf in my lap on a Sunday morning.  I would rather be in the glory of God's creation splitting a couple face cords of wood.  I would rather throw the boat in the water and troll for bass.  I would rather hitch my team and rake hay.  All of this I am able to do because God created it.  Sitting in a building with a bunch of self righteous douchebags will not get me to heaven.  Heaven is here if we appreciate it.  I don't believe faith requires weekly attendance in some building.

Ok...I could go on about this for a long long while, but what is the point?  If you think going to church on Sunday in your gotomeetin clothes for an hour or two will get you to heaven, well.....good for you.  The rest of the week matters much more in my eyes.

Rant over.

Update:

Since I received a PM from a friend who was slightly offended because they are a regular church goer, I feel that I must clarify that while I may have been generalizing, I am sure that there are some people who really feel that going to church is enough...wait...that came out snarky.....Tough shit......lmao  No, what I mean to say is,  Sorry "friend"  If I offended your churchiness, pray for me when you are there.  I will think of you during the rest of the week.

Early To Bed

Early to rise.
Makes me positive that Ben Franklin spent the better part of his adult life drunk.

Healthy?  OK, he has me there.  Thank God for that.

Wealthy?  All I can say there is, Ha!  Unless he was speaking metaphorically about the richness if life or some other foolishness.  It's entirely possible, considering he was drunk.

Wise?  Give me a fucking break!

I am up before the sun most days.  Morning chores to do before I go to work, force me to rise, if not shine, early.  In the heart of summer, it is not so bad because the days are longer and the dusky dawn comes earlier.  Now, unless there is a moon, it is full on dark when I get up.

My internal clock means that weekends are no different.  Up most days between 4:00 and 4:30AM, some mornings even the dog looks at me like I am nuts.

Once I am up and I am about my business, the day tends to go quickly.  Then I am generally in bed between 9:30 and 10:00PM or I am asleep in my chair.  I guess I am becoming sort of an old fuddy duddy.  Wait, who am I kidding?  I became one of those years ago!

Yesterday was no exception to the routine.  Up early to do chores and then service my windrower so I can try and get one last cutting of hay after the dew is off the grass.  My shop is about 5 miles from the farm and the windrower is very slow, so it takes over an hour to make the trip after greasing, oiling and adjusting.  It is a late 1960s John Deere 800 that has seen many hours.  I always cross my fingers that one of the 4 million intertwined and timed parts doesn't come flying off or apart.  Oil, grease and regular maintenance are key but it is old and there is one hell of a lot going on.  The sickle is moving back and forth.  The rake reel is spinning.  The draper belts are feeding the cut hay into the steel crimp rolls, the clutches are controlling the drive wheels, the belts are spinning shafts that drive what seems to be about 2 miles of chains.  The old Chrysler slant six that powers the whole contraption purrs like a cat.  The rest is noisy, greasy and, as in the case of yesterday afternoon, frustrating as hell.

I made it through about 10 acres of my planned 20, before a chain broke.  #60 chain no less.  In one of the many virtually unaccessible nooks and crannies that the men who engineered this torture device to frustrate those of us who are foolish enough to continue operating them.

So, today I will drive the pecker back to my shop (I will fix it another day) and then rake the hay that I have down and if the dew is not too heavy, I will round bale it tomorrow after work.

Hey!  Guess what?  Daylight savings time means I will be going home in the dark soon too!

Thanks Ben!  Fuck you!

On the bright side, I think I got sympathy sex last night!  Although that meant staying "up" past my bed time!

Joseph

Not good enough my friend.  Not good enough by a long shot.  You know who we are.  We aren't the kind of people you just dump and run.  Period.

We are all adult enough in this little circle of friends (that is what we are you know) to handle real explanations and certainly deserve a bit of warning.

I know that you will read this eventually and you should know that I am pissed.  Just as a friend would be.

Robert

A Young Man's Fantasy

My sister sent me some pictures from a concert she and a bunch of her friends attended last weekend.  Obviously, neither she or I are of college age anymore...long past actually, but coincidentally, I had shared a college memory with a couple of friends here just a few weeks ago.  The coincidence of her attending this particular concert, and getting pictures taken arm and arm with the headliner.....uncanny.

When I asked my sister if she had remembered my story AND if she had asked the headliner if she remembered, unfortunately she had not.....damned old age!  (and she is younger than I am)

Confused yet?  Here is the story.

I worked my way through college.  I had no loans, no financial aid, no scholarships and no help from home.  A full credit load and several jobs.   I was a janitor on weekends in a residence hall.  I tended bar.  I worked for a couple local farmers.  But, my favorite job was for the University as a manager of Technical Services - Tech Crew for short.  We were behind the scenes for the vast majority of University events.  We set up tables and chairs for banquets.  We worked in the Center for the Arts hanging lights, doing stage set up and the like. If there was an event or show we were there setting it up and tearing it down.  We worked for a wide variety of venues. Small one and two man shows, The Milwaukee Symphony, The Warsaw Ballet, Juice Newton, Meatloaf, Dan Seals, Richard Marx and the most memorable, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts.

For all these performers we were essentially stationary road crew.  We would unload the trucks and help their crew set up.  Depending on the size of the group, we might set up sound and lights owned by the university and run the sound and lights for the group.  The bigger groups obviously brought their own crew, but they always were happy to have our help and it was an opportunity to learn technique that we could apply to the smaller groups.  I was the only clean cut guy on the crew.  They were all hippies and a good group of guys...I was the boss.

We were short handed for Joan Jett.  After helping them unload and set up, we divvied up the jobs that were not quite as fun as sound and lights.  I drew the short straw for front stage security.  We didn't see Joan until the end of the sound check and she came out on the stage....a very hard body all in black leather.  Standing next to me, she came up to about my chest.  She was a short gal.  Today, she shows her age (35 years later so do I) but then, she was definitely boner material.

On to the show.  I am standing with my back to the stage watching the crowd.  From where I stand, the sound is not great, but Joan works the crowd with all the favorites.  The few times I am able to look back, she is working hard, as is the band...sweating and rocking.  The night is uneventful until the last number before intermission.  Two gals are almost directly in front of me and they get into an argument.  Pushing, shoving, pulling hair and scratching.  A genuine cat fight.  I wade in and get between them and break up the fight, getting a nice fingernail scratch on my neck in the process.  I hold them apart long enough for two of my fellow techies to get there and to separately take them to exits and remove them from the concert.  I backed up to the stage and stood there until intermission.  Just before Joan left the stage, she tapped me on the head with her foot, which startled me and I turned around.  She kneeled down in all her tight black leather glory and told me "nice job there!"  I was floored.  All I could say was "thanks!" and look stupid.

Most nights, after work the bars were usually closed, so we would all walk down the street to a house where several on the crew lived that we called "the house of breakfast."  We had Grain Belt beer on tap and usually ended up leaving around breakfast time...hence the name.

Back to the concert.  Intermission ends and Joan and the band return to the stage and rock just as hard through the second set as they did for the first.  The second set was uneventful for me and at at the end, we followed the usual routine of helping to take down trusses and load trucks with lights, sound equipment, instruments and the like.  Usually the band gets on the bus and they are off to the next gig and the trucks have to race to catch up with them.  As we are loading out, there is Joan Jett smoking a cigarette and watching us with a couple crew members and some of the band.  I don't really remember who else was there because I was looking at Joan (as was the rest of our crew I am sure).  She had changed out of the tight leather and was wearing jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt and was very obviously braless.   It is lucky that we didn't damage anything we were loading.  Being ballsy and thinking about her telling me I had done a good job breaking up the cat fight, on a return trip from the trucks, I swerved over to her and asked her to come have a few beers with us at the house of breakfast.  She said, "Sounds like fun.  Where is the house of breakfast?"  I explained it to her and we finished loading out.  The whole time I am thinking, "Wow, I talked to Joan Jett and her rock hard titties!"  Now, I was pretty realistic and realized that she was just being nice, but it was still a fun fantasy to think that she would come drink beer with me!  And who knows!  Maybe my prowess breaking up two girls scratching at each other had her interested in more than just my beer!  A fun fantasy, but I knew better.

Anyhow, at some point during the load out, Joan disappeared and we finished up the job.  We all walked to the house of breakfast for a few beers.  A couple of the guys were giving me some shit and could not believe that I had the balls to ask her for a beer.  They were laughing, but I know the admired me asking.

So, we are sitting at the bar in the house, drinking ice cold Grain Belt beer and laughing and joking as we always do when in walks Joan Jett and I think her road manager.  You could have heard a pin drop!  I jumped off my stool and got behind the bar and gave them each a cold beer (in the cleanest glasses I could find).  We made some small talk.  They drank some beer.  I had a boner.

After a couple beers, a couple of joints got passed around (believe it or not, I always passed on the pot....no interest...it did nothing for me).  Everyone was laughing and then Joan brought out some coke...that was the end for me.  The fantasy ended at that point.  She hung around for another half hour or so (by that time it was approaching 5AM) and she said her good byes and left.  Before she left however, she did come over  to me, gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek and said, "thanks for inviting me kid, it has been fun!"  Off she went.  There I stood, again with a boner.  She called me kid....I was (and am) only about 4 years younger than her.  It didn't matter, I was still drooling.

An Era Ends Happily

One of my earlier blogs on here dealt with change and the pending sale of my Great Uncle's house.  The closing on the sale was Friday (yesterday).

On Wednesday, we were hit with a pretty major wind storm.  We had waves on the beach higher than in the last 30 years.  My fire ring was washed away and the font stoop on my house was about 3 ft from where the waves ended their  violent travels up the beach.  The windows got a good washing from spray and my wife's comfy swinging chair blew away (to be recovered this morning from up in the woods behind the house.).

I saw none of this because I was out in a bucket truck attempting to put up lines and clear downed trees.  I have not heard what the winds gusted to or even what the sustained speed was, but there was lots of damage.  I came in at around 3AM, to my own house without power and slept for approximately 2 hours before going out again on Thursday for another 17 hours of repair.

At one point, I drove by my Uncle's house and quickly turned around in the driveway to make sure there was no tree on it or other damage that was immediately visible.  I honestly don't remember if it was Wednesday night or Thursday Night.  After about 6 or 7 hours of sleep, myself and my crew were back at repairs on Friday morning early.  Every occupied home and business had been restored on Thursday evening and no one had been without power for more than 20 hours - most significantly less and Friday we had 5 unoccupied homes to make repairs in order to get power to.  I honestly did not even think about the closing that day.  I had already signed the necessary paperwork and did not need to attend the closing.  Around 3 PM yesterday afternoon, I came in the office for a quick bite to eat and as I was sitting there the gal in the office said to me, "so!  you are officially down one home today!"  I was a little puzzled and then realized, "Wow!  That was today!  I completely forgot!"  We had a couple more hours of work ahead of us but, I called the young fellow who was buying the home and told him that I would meet him there when I was done and give him my keys, the garage door opener and just give him a couple tips on the house and property.  He sounded excited.

I remember my first house. I bought it before my wife and I got married.  It was in a small town in Southwest Wisconsin and my mortgage after down payment was $14,000.  We were living about 4 hours away from the home and I was scheduled to start a new job about 30 days after the closing.  As a side story, I left a job on a Friday, got married on a Saturday, left the state alone on a Sunday and started a new job on Monday.....I won't kid you and say it was not stressfull!  In any case, I traveled for the closing and I remember vividly how excited I was to actually own my own home!  I slept in a sleeping bag on the floor of an empty house.....an empty house that I owned!!!!! the night of the closing. It was an old house that needed some work, but it was a great house!  Big! Built in 1890 something.  Huge kitchen, dining room, living room, parlor and 4 bedrooms!  I don't remember exactly, but I think my monthly mortgage payment on a 15 year note was something like $170.  With extra payments, I actually had the house paid off in 3 years....just in time to get another job and another house!

In any case, I could relate to this young man's excitement.  He and his soon to be wife have a 3 year old son.  As I said in that earlier blog, this town needs young couples and kids.   I showed him where the septic cover was, where the clean out was (all buried under the dirt and hard to find when a pump out is necessary).  I showed him which breakers turned on the water and the water heater and I shook his hand and congratulated him on owning his first house.  I think I already mentioned that he was excited.

As I drove out, I thought about my Great Uncle and Aunt and thought what a change the old house was about to go through.  Good changes.  The most important changes?  A change in who mows the lawn, who checks on the house after a storm, who makes the minor repairs that every home, occupied or not needs from time to time.  A change for the best.

Now all that is left is to pay off the final debts of my Uncle and Aunt and close the estate.  The bills will be paid next week and the estate will be closed as soon as I receive satisfaction paperwork.  By my calculation, I will end up with $78.78 in my pocket when it is all done.  I am almost as happy as the new owners.

The Smell Of Blood

Some of you know that I worked in two very well known packing houses where meat was processed.  The first job, in the engineering department of a processor that has a first name (wink), was a job where I did a bit of traveling and did electrical surveys of several of their plants and also worked on two that they were building.  I worked on the electrical layout of grow-out facilities and on fiber optic communications backbones for plant automation.  This was a good job, and interesting, but it was the second packing house job that was the most fun.  This job was actually a subsidiary job that followed the first one.  I had been in the plant I ended up at full time several times as an engineer and got what I considered to be a very good job as a maintenance supervisor because of the first job.  Some of the stories that I told on that other site occurred while working this job.  I actually met my wife there.  I joke many times that the smell of blood could not overcome the smell of romance…or perhaps it enhanced the romance.

Overall, the guys and gals I worked with at this plant were a good group.  Fun loving, hard working people.  It was always in my nature to start early and work late and I covered all three shifts during my tenure, working double shifts most weekends.  We ran 7 days a week.  The first year, I worked 362 days and as I said, most weekends I worked doubles on Saturday and Sunday.  It honestly never seemed like work, because we had a lot of fun on the job.

Contrary to popular myth, the packing houses I worked in were spotless facilities.  The quality of the products, both raw and processed, was excellent.  The whole “lips and assholes” premise is bullshit.  I still eat the products made in those facilities and have absolutely no qualms about it.

My wife worked on the line “molding” meat.  Essentially what this means, is that she worked on a high speed packaging machine loading stacks of bologna, ham, turkey and whatnot into the formed packages prior to them being vacuum packed.  Yes, those packages of lunch meat that you buy in the grocery store are loaded into the package by hand.  Many times slices must be counted and inspected as part of the process.  The packaging machine would evacuate and seal either two or four packages at a time and would run 80-100 cycles per minute.  On our particular lines, 4 “molders” would be working in order to keep up with production requirements.  The lines were moving!  When I first started, one of the mechanics who worked for me asked, “want to see something funny?”  “Sure,” I replied.  He reached up and pushed the emergency stop button.  The line quit moving and all the gals that were loading meat started leaning in the opposite direction of the movement of the line and two of them actually fell over.  The brain and perception is an amazing thing.  They were pissed and swearing.  We were laughing.  My wife was one of those gals.

As I said, the people working were always up for fun.  By today’s standards, the sexual harassment lawyers would have a field day…for both the men and the women. If a line was down and you needed to work on it, it was standard practice to determine who was working on the line and on what side.  That way you could avoid being groped and likely slamming your head into the bottom of the equipment when you crawled under it.  Anyone who worked there, soon became “stump broke” in short order and you learned not to flinch when someone grabbed or fondled because that just ended up in a lump on the head or the whole room laughing.  I remember standing at the toolroom window, waiting for the attendant to bring me a part I needed to repair a line and having one of the the mechanics who worked for me come up behind me, stick his hands in my pockets and begin to dry hump my ass.  The attendant coming to the window witnessed this and witnessed my non reaction and laughed and said to me, “well, you are officially an old timer now.”  This sort of “insubordination” would never be tolerated in some of the places I worked later and quite frankly, it is a shame because it really did build camaraderie and mutual respect in spite of its appearance.  I was still the boss, but I was not a stuffed shirt who could not be trusted.  We really were a team.

When I started, I went through the usual orientation and paperwork routine that is common on most first days.  Sign up for insurance, fill out W4, figure out where the bathrooms are….the usual.  The second day, I started in what was called the “Turkey University” (and now you may be able to guess who I worked for).  Every salaried employee was required to go through this session, which lasted one to two weeks.  You started out on the live dock unloading live birds from the semi trailers and worked your way through the plant on most (not all) jobs and at the end of the session you were loading finished product onto the trucks and had a forklift license.  It was an excellent program that gave every salaried individual a taste of what it was like to work the line jobs.  Taste is actually an excellent pun, because when working in further processing, where the meat was actually cooked, the knock ends that oozed out of the casings when the bologna and other products were cooked were quite delicious warm!

Basically, in a nutshell, the process was as follows:  Live birds are stunned, killed and bled out.  Feathers are plucked, the birds are inspected by the USDA (at many stages during the process), eviscerated (gutted), cleaned, cooled, trimmed and cut.  The meat is then processed depending on what final product is being made by being ground, spiced, cured, mixed and then finally stuffed into what looks like a 6ft long hot dog the diameter of your average slice of lunch meat.  These hotdogs are put on racks and cooked.  Once cooked, they go to a cooler, and then a blast freezer (-40 deg F, which puts about a ½ inch crust on the outer ring to make them slice easier).  From the blast freezer the racks of meat are brought to the slice/pack room and are sliced by a Formax hydraulically operated slicing machine (wicked blades!).  Stacks of meat are then weighed, inspected, sometimes counted and installed in the vacuum formed pockets and then sealed and boxed and shipped to your supermarket.  There are many sub processes and variations depending on the product being packaged and made.  For instance, the deli sliced meats are folded before packaging and then only a partial vacuum is placed on the package (so as not to crush the meat) and CO2 is injected into each package to displace O2 which will cause the meat to turn green.  It is all a complex process that very efficiently blends automation with good old fashioned hand labor.  Quality and Cleanliness is always at the top of the list.

It could be a dangerous place to work as well.  Sharp knives, moving equipment and high production can lend themselves to accidents and injury.  More than once I was the guy searching through turkey necks or a tub of meat for someone’s finger.  Finding it and putting it on ice and rushing to the hospital hoping it could be reattached.  One accident that I will never forget (and will not go into great detail here for obvious reasons) was when a fellow in the offal (gut) department decided to unplug a Hobart grinder with his foot and got sucked in.  We had to cut his leg out of the machine with a plasma cutter.  He did not lose it and recovered.  It was an awful situation.

One time, the Hobart grinder that was used to pump offal (guts) into the rendering truck came apart and turkey guts were covering the floor of the truck garage.  This was second shift and because production could not be stopped and no one from a further processing area or cooked product area could be in a raw area, 3 of us supervisors spent the whole shift and into third shift shoveling turkey guts up and into the rendering trailer.  Not a fun job.

I had been working there for over 2 years and was on third shift at the time.  I was walking through the live and evisceration area, making sure that all the maintenance projects that I had assigned my guys for the evening were complete.  The cleanup crew was busy spraying caustic on the floors and then following that with highly chlorinated water and then finally a steam rinse.  The floors were steaming as I watched the cleanup guys dragging their hoses away and the lines were starting.  Already birds had been loaded onto the freshly cleaned and sanitized shackle conveyors and were making their way through the evisceration process.  Once the birds were eviscerated, the carcass was dumped into what was called a chiller.  It was full of cold water and paddles moved the carcasses from one end to the other where they went up a short conveyor and slid down a chute to be rehung in shackles for a trip through the boning process.  The purpose of the chiller was to bring the carcass temperature down to approximately 46 deg F because the meat could be removed from the bone much more completely and efficiently with the carcass at that temperature.  At any given time there was approximately 3000lbs of birds in each of two chillers.

As I was walking around the exit end of one of the chillers, floors still steaming beneath my feet, a slight misalignment of the exit conveyor caused two turkey carcasses to drop to the floor right in front of me.  Thinking nothing of it (the floor was steaming and had just been sanitized with chlorine), I bent over and picked up the birds and threw them back in the chiller.  No sooner had I done this than I felt a small hand on my shoulder and spun around to be face to face with the USDA chief veterinarian who was in charge of all inspection in the facility.  She reached in her pocket and pulled out a tag and handed it to me and told me to shut down the chiller and tag it out.  The tag said, “do not operate by order of the United States Government.”  Her day was just beginning and mine was coming to a close with a kick to the head.  I did as I was told and as I was doing so, she was paging the plant manager, the plant engineering manager and the production manager and summoning them to the scene.  Once they arrived, we headed to her office.  As all of this is going on, I am certain that I will be fired.  I am hoping that when they fire me, they will not dock my pay for the 3000 lbs of birds that I am certain the USDA will order to offal and disposal.

Once we all reach her office, she proceeds to read all involved the riot act.  I think the words “idiots” and “lack of training” was used quite a number of times.  I am still certain that I am fired.  She turns to me and demands, “Explain yourself! Why would you do something so ignorant and blatantly against proper procedure?”  I could only be truthful and say, “The floor had just been sanitized and was still steaming.  I was the first person to walk through and I could see the cleanup crew dragging their hoses out.  I would eat mashed potatoes off that floor (this got some raised eyebrows from my bosses who were sitting there silently staring – glaring at me).  I never thought a thing of it.  Those birds were just as clean as they were when they fell off the conveyor.  I was wrong, I am sorry.”

She was silent for a moment and finally replied, “and that is exactly the reason and the only reason why I am going to let you off the hook.  Don’t ever do something so stupid again or you will be responsible for a whole lot of meat being tanked and a complete drain and reclean of a chiller!”  She looked at the production manager and said, “you can start the line.”  He practically jumped out of his chair and ran down to remove her tag and get the line started again.

We all got up to leave and I am relieved at not being responsible for a loss of product, but I am figuring that I will still be fired for doing something so boneheaded.  As we are walking down the steps, the Engineering Manager, my boss, pushes past me without a word and heads for his office.  I plan to follow.  The Plant Manager, who is directly behind me on the stairs, puts his hand on my shoulder, stops me and leans in to whisper in my ear, “next time, look around before you do that.”  He pushes past me also and heads back to his office.  I am floored.  It is never mentioned again.

I had lots of interesting experiences in the packing house and quite frankly a whole lot of fun.  When I moved on from that job, it was bitter sweet.  Some of the friends that I made there have died.  Some of the friends have drifted away due to distance.  Some of the friends I am still in contact with.  Every once in a while, someone will stop in to see me here, some that I barely remember.  They have come here as part of a vacation and decided to look me up.  I guess I made an impression.  Whether I remember them or not, they all made an impression on me.  I left there with a new wife.  There are stories about how that relationship developed that I could tell, but perhaps I will save them for another time.  I left there with a whole raft of experiences and new skills.  I left there with the smell of blood still fresh in my mind.  It remains there to this day.

Out of the Frying Pan

And into the water.

I took my first swim of "summer" last night.  The air temperature was 64 F.  This made the water seem much warmer than it actually was.  I guess it might have been warmer if I had been wearing a suit.

This has been the summer of no summer for us.  Cool to say the least.  Usually in May, I am launching the pontoon boat that I turned into a raft for the kids (complete with diving board).  With the kids gone and the water so cold from nearly 100% ice cover this winter and a late break up, I just did not have the ambition to do it.  so there it sits on my ramp, forlorn and forgotten and unused.  I sank a 55 gallon drum full of cement with a long chain through the ice as an anchor years ago.  It is in about 30 feet of water.  Another hindrance to the launch of the raft was the fact that my float (an old heavy bleach bottle) that I tie off to the chain about 4 feet below the surface to avoid being captured in the ice....was captured in the ice and I will either have to dive for the chain or grapple.  My wife and I have only been fishing once this summer.  We told ourselves early on that we were going to try for at least once a week.  Needless to say we did not make it.  I bought an old boat about a month ago.  It is in remarkable condition and will be very nice...if I ever get it in the water.  It is almost too late for this year. 

Now the streets are being rolled up in this little town.  I always loved fall.  But we have had fall all summer this year and a bit of heat would be nice.  It is likely that I will need to put a fire in the stove this weekend because predicted highs are in the low 50's with lows in the 40's.

It would be nice to have a few more hours in the day....but then days are getting shorter too.

I need to figure out a way to become less busy and still be able to pay the bills.

Try And Beat My Meat....I Dare You!

KT was curious about how I handled my meat.  She wanted to hear all the juicy details.  I have decided, at her urging to provide you all with the lurid reality of my meat.  I will warn you up front, this is not necessarily for the squeamish….so…I will now stroke to abandon (pen strokes….or keyboard strokes) for your reading pleasure.

I have told several stories about my youth.  My family history contains commercial fishermen, farmers and hunting.  The stories surrounding that history have generally followed the vein of “we did a, b and c and then we ate.”  In each of those stories there is an element that has been left out.  Not because I thought the reader would be offended (you can always not read), but because I thought it was mundane.  What follows will be a couple tales of processing….hopefully I won’t butcher them too bad!

The most common red meat I had growing up was venison.  We hunted white tail deer every fall during season and sometimes out of season when the freezer was empty.  The excitement of the hunt, the stories of the old timers and the simple joy of being in the woods on a brisk fall day are the best memories.  Processing the deer we harvested was also a time of fun, because while my brother and I did most of the work, we learned it from my Grandfather and Father.  We were not well off growing up, and the self sufficiency I learned from them is something I consider most important.

The butchering process is something, at least for venison, that I do not believe should be transferred to some meat locker.  I would hazard a guess, that most people who hunt do not process their own meat further than field dressing the animal.  I find this to be a bit disingenuous and disrespectful to hunting myself, but I guess, to each his own.

When my son was 12 and had successfully completed the local hunters safety course, it was time for his first hunt.  It was not really his first hunt, because he had been out with me on previous occasions, but it was his first hunt where he would be responsible to shoot an animal.  He was excited.  I remember my first hunt vividly and knew exactly how he felt.  A couple days before opening day, I took him back to the edge of our woods where our property line borders a large swampy area.  I showed him a cedar tree growing on the ridge overlooking the swamp and a small clearing that had a moss covered flat stone underneath it.  I explained to him that, on opening morning, that he and I would come out here and he would sit on the stone with his back to the tree and have a fine view of several well used deer trails.  I would be sitting about 100 yards to his north (until a kid is 16, an adult hunter must remain within earshot of him) in another spot.  I explained to him that the stone he was sitting on was a stone that I had slid up under the tree nearly 30 years before and that I had shot my first deer from that very spot.

Opening morning came and we were up before the sun and quietly sneaking out into the woods to find our spots.  We settled in and waited.  And waited….as the sky began to get light, we heard several distant gunshots indicating that others had had an opportunity that we were still waiting for.  To make a long story short, we saw nothing that morning.  We did hear some crashing in the underbrush of the swamp, but the deer were not in our sight (or our sites!).  We went in for lunch and my son did not want to go back out to the same spot.  “There are no deer there Dad!”  “Yes there are, you just need some patience,” I replied.  Patience is a hard thing for a 12 year old, but he knew that I would not relent and we returned to our spots.

Within about 30 minutes, I heard the roaring gunshot of my old Mossberg 12 guage which my son was hunting with.  I waited for a few minutes and then quietly got up and worked my way over to where he had been sitting.  He was not there.  I whistled quietly and he whistled back from down the ridge in the edge of the swamp.  I walked down the ridge and he was standing there absolutely beaming.  He had shot a very acceptable 6 point buck.  Not only had he shot it, he had shot it perfectly in the front shoulder and the deer only went probably 200ft from where it was hit to the point where it fell and died.

“No deer back here, eh?” I asked.  He just looked at me with a big smile.  “OK, time to dress the animal.” I told him.  But first we needed to drag it out to an opening that was not as muddy and wet.  This meant dragging it over some logs and through a bit of muddy ground, but once that was accomplished I told him, “get out your knife.”  We positioned the animal so that the head  was downward from the body and I had him slit the throat so that gravity could allow as much blood to flow out as possible.  Some people only slit the throat enough so as to open the jugular veins, but I like to slit the throat all the way back to the spinal column, though the windpipe and all.  Even though the animal is dead, blood will flow pretty heavily and this is important.  Next comes the field dressing.  My son had seen me do this several times, but had never actually participated, but this was his deer and his job to do.  Starting just below the solar plexus in the soft tissue of the upper belly, the point of the knife is inserted through the skin carefully so as not to pierce any organs and drawn down towards the groin so as to open the body cavity.  Once the pelvis is reached, the tip of the knife is used with a side to side prying action, being careful not to pierce the bladder or the bowel (although contrary to some belief, it is not the end of the world if you do because it can all be cleaned out).  The pelvis is split and a circular cut around the anus and other parts will allow you to grasp and pull the intestines out of the dear and then the rest of the organs can essentially be spilled out of the cavity and removed.  Some people reach up in the rib cage to remove the lungs, heart and attempt to pull the esophagus out of the animal.  I always split the rib cage and continue the cut up the neck to where it was slit after dispatching the deer.  Since the center of the rib cage is more cartilage than bone, the knife makes quick work.  Then all the lung material and lining can be easily removed, the esophagus pulls out easily and the heart can be placed in the plastic bag that you have been keeping in your pocket.  Once my son had the inside of the carcass emptied and scraped out, it was time to drag the deer back through the woods, across the field and to the farm house.  A short piece of rope made the job easier, but since the deer weighed probably 120 pounds dressed, I had to help my 12 year old son most of the way and finished pulling it by myself the last 1000 yards or so to the house.

Once we had the deer to the house, an old single tree (wagon hitch part) is used to help spread the deer open and hang it from a tree branch.  Small slits are made in the hind legs between the bone and tendon and a small piece of cord is looped through the slit and around the leg and hooked to the single tree (my grandfather called it a whipple tree) and the deer is hoisted up into the tree so that it is hanging head down.  Then a stick is wedged in the rib cage to further open the carcass.  Some people do not agree with washing out the inside of a deer with the hose, but I have always done it.  Now that the deer is hanging, depending on temperature, it will hang for probably 4 or 5 days before the next step.  This allows the natural enzymes and bacteria to begin to break down the meat a bit, making it much more tender and flavorful than had we cut it up right away.  Sometimes though, the temperature is too warm to allow the deer to hang for more than a day and you simply have to cut it up sooner.  If we had a walk in cooler, which we do not, we would hang our deer in there and age them all, but that is not how it works.  We sometimes, if it is rainy, hang the deer from the rafters of the barn.  While we are waiting for the deer to dry age, it is time for more hunting…and hopefully more deer.

Processing the deer is pretty straightforward and my son took this on without a problem with my direction and help.  Much as I had the same direction and help from my Father and Grandfather.  Once it has hung for as long as it needs to, we bring the deer into the garage where I have a nice table to work on.  The deer is rehung from the rafter the same as we hung it from the tree.  The hide is slit up all four legs and around the bottom of the hooves.  You have to be careful  not to slit the tendons that are being used to help the cord tied to the single tree.  Once the slits are made, using your fingers and then knife where necessary, you begin to carefully pull and peel the hide off the muscle.  Pulling down from the top, if done properly, the animal will peel like a banana with very little cutting except around the places you already opened up the carcass.  Once the hide is pulled down the neck to the base of the head, a meat saw (looks like a large hack saw) is used to cut off the head and you are left with a clean carcass.  If you have been careful in the skinning process, there will be very little hair to clean off the now cleaned carcass.  The meat saw is then used cut down the animal into two halves starting at the pelvis and perfectly splitting the backbone all the way down.  Once the deer is halved, the first half is taken down from hanging and put on the table.  At this point , I try and trim any blackened meat from the edges of the animal where we first dressed it and then using the knife and cleaver, I begin to cut the meat into its individualy cuts.  Chops, roasts and trim meat.  Usually one hind quarter will be frozen whole and once solid we will cut it into round steaks on the band saw.  I am always careful to remove any “silver skin” which is essentially the membrane that separates the muscles and allows them to move.  This is tough and chewy.  Many people completely bone the animal.  I think this takes away from cuts such as chops and steaks and leave the bone in.  I do generally bone the roasts though and of course the trim meat is exactly that…small pieces that have been trimmed off the bone or other cuts of meat during processing.  The individual cuts are then wrapped in butcher paper and put in the freezer.  Some goes into a Ziploc bag and is frozen and the last number of years I have used a vacuum bagger to package the meat for the freezer.  The trim meat is carefully cleaned and put into baggies and put in the freezer.  It will be used for stew in some cases, but personally, I like to use it all for summer sausage.

When I was a kid, and even early on that first year with my son, we ground our meat with an old hand crank grinder that clamped to the table.  The trim meat, which was frozen and ground better when it was fozen, was fed into the grinder and you cranked away.  We made our beef hamburger the same way and ground pork for sausage with it as well.  I have since bought an electric grinder.  A luxury that I kick myself for not buying sooner.

A few days after butchering the deer and freezing the trim meat, I got out the old grinder and the trim meat and several pounds of beef hamburger from the freezer.  It was time for my son and I to make summer sausage.  I buy the casings and the spice from a fellow who runs a meat locker south of me and I have found that even though my grandfather used to mix his own spice and cure, that this is not only easier, but much more consistent year to year.  The nice part about buying the spice and cure premixed is that he tells me how many pounds of meat it is good for and that means no calculation of how much salt peter, or sugar cure I need and how it affects the flavor of the spices.  I could do it, and have, but it is more tedius.  The right amount of cure is important because it prevents spoilage and keeps the meat an appetizing color!  It is even more important if you are dry curing a ham or other such.

The trim meat is fed into the grinder, mixing a bit of the hamburger in with it and it is ground once.  This is time consuming, even with the electric grinder that I use now.  Especially so with the hand crank grinder.  We spread the meat out on butcher paper on the table and sprinkle the spice mix on it evenly and then roll up the meat and begin putting balls of meat through the grinder again.  This not only insures a smooth texture, but mixes the spice and cure thoroughly through the meat.  Once the meat has been ground a second time, it is time to put the stuffing cone on the grinder.  I always leave the grinding plates in the grinder so the meat is being ground a third time at the same time as we are stuffing it into the casings.  Some do not do this because the stuffing process is easier without the plates causing restriction in the grinder.  The same process we use for summer sausage can be used for hotdogs and brats and other sausage and we have made each of those, but my favorite is summer sausage.  The difference is the spice, the size of the casing and the size of the stuffing cone on the grinder. 

The casing is slid over the cone and bunched up with  a closed end right at the end of the cone.  The grinder is then cranked, forcing the meat into the casing and the casing is held back on the cone with the hand in order to get the casing full and tight.  Once the end of the casing is reached, a piece of butcher’s twine secures the end and the sausage is set aside.  I think the year that my son got his first deer, between his and the other three deer we got that year, we made nineteen 24 inch summer sausages.  He and I were grinding and stuffing until around 2:30AM that night.  The next morning I started a fire in my smokehouse.  My smokehouse is an old refrigerator that I have taken all of the insides out of so that it is simply a metal shell.  I have a fireplace grate in the bottom of it and I start a fire with dry apple or maple and then cover it in green chips that have been soaking in water for a couple days.  We carefully hang the summer sausages from nails in boards that span the top of the smoker using the butcher’s twine that we tied the top of the sausage with.  The smoking process takes about 10 hours and requires constant monitoring so that the temperature does not get too hot and the fire does not go out.  I like to try and keep the temperature in the smoker around 170 to 180 degrees F.  Once the sausage reaches an internal temperature of around 160, which takes a long time, I will put more wet chips on the fire and let the temperature drop and dry smoke for probably another hour or so.  The summer sausage is removed from the smoker and allowed to cool before wrapping it and freezing it.  We could keep it in the fridge, but it keeps much better frozen.  At least two sticks are left in the fridge and one, we cut into while it is still warm…there is nothing quite like it….

After we made our batch of summer sausage, my son and I took a stick and went to one of the local taverns.  It was late Sunday afternoon.  We brought the sausage in and sliced it up and shared with a bunch of friends who raved over it.  I said to my son, “making it was a lot of work, but now that you see everyone here enjoying it and wanting more it makes it worthwhile, right?”  He replied, “I don’t know Dad, all that grinding and stuffing was really a pain!”  Everyone in the tavern laughed.

We have cattle and hogs and have in the past had goats and sheep. We have butchered all of these animals and the process is much the same.  The animals we raise live a pampered life right up to the end and we appreciate what they provide.  The hogs and beef that we sell to others are hauled and processed at an inspected facility, because that is how it has to be done.  Usually, we process our own hogs and have done cattle as well, but I have found that cattle are just too big to deal with in my garage and usually I will pay the locker to process them for me.

My mother’s favorite meal is leg of lamb.  Cooked with garlic and rosemary, there is nothing that smells quite as good as walking into the house when she is cooking one.  When we started this goofy farming thing, I would raise a couple lambs every year and butcher, pack and freeze an entire lamb and give it to her for her birthday.  One year our ram did not do his job and we did not have any lambs!  I did however have a kid goat that was about 8 months old and, swearing my son to secrecy, the two of us dispatched him and butchered him.  Goats and sheep are only a couple chromosomes apart and actually can cross breed.  It is not a common thing, but it does occur.  In any case, we brought the packaged and frozen kid goat to my mother and passed him off as the yearly lamb birthday present.  Her birthday is always close to Easter, so she invited everyone over for leg of lamb for Easter Dinner.  My sister’s family was there, my family was there and the meal was delicious.  Everyone said it was the best lamb they had ever had.  My son and I were the only ones who knew the truth.  After the meal, when everyone was relaxing, I asked, “can anyone tell me what we really ate today?”  Everyone looked at me puzzled and my son started laughing.  My father looked down his nose at me and said, “You son of a bitch, you served us goat didn’t you!”  I laughed and said, “Yes!”  My mother thought about it a bit and said, “you can bring me kid goat any time.”  Goat is the largest consumed meat in the world and the fastest growing meat source in the United States…and it is delicious!

I hope these little tales have satisfied KT’s curiosity about my meat.  It is a bit different for us having raised or harvested most of what we consume and quite frankly it is a nice convenience to simply go out to the freezer for a pound of hamburger.  If I do say so myself, you can’t beat my meat!

Heartbreak and Dandelion Wine

 

Wine making has been a hobby of mine for many years. It doesn't always go as planned.   The results of my efforts have been both rewarding and heartbreaking.   I remember my father making wine using a large Redwing crock as a primary fermenter and covering it with a plastic bag.  He had concord grape plants growing all along the old stone wall (picked from the field after plowing) and they were quite prolific.  They are long gone now, but back then, he made wine every single fall that I can remember.  He never added yeast and just allowed the grapes to ferment with the natural yeast that occurred on the skins.  I don't remember him ever having a batch turn to vinegar although I am sure that it happened.

One year he had a particularly large batch going in the crock and my Aunt and her family came to visit us during that time.  He had the large crock covered with a black plastic garbage bag and the batch was ready to rack into the secondary.  He was only waiting to do it until after company was gone.  My mother had fixed a large meal.  If I remember correctly it was turkey.  My Aunt and Uncle volunteered to do dishes after the meal and began to do so.  My dad went into the kitchen while they were doing this and nearly had a coronary because they had been scraping all the bones and food scraps off the plate and into his nearly ready to rack wine thinking it was a garbage can.  His face was almost as purple as the grapes.  Even though the grape husks and pulp had mostly floated to the top forming a thick mat on top of the still bubbling wine, most of the food scraps and bones had fallen through and were comfortabley marinating in the now never to be racked wine.  He was heartbroken!  All that effort ended up being poured out into the woods.

I have made wine almost every year for the last 20+ years.  I have made mullberry, grape, strawberry, cherry, rhubarb, blackberry, raspberry, thimbleberry, apple, pear, peach, blueberry, beet, onion (yes onion - the best marinading wine you ever had) and many combinations.  I have good wine, poor wine, excellent wine and vinegar!  I lost a batch of wild blueberry wine just prior to bottling because the carboy cracked...the garage sure smelled good though...and I am betting that the floor is still purple and blue where the wine soaked in.  We have been gone from that house for many years now.  The best wine I have ever made (the second best is wild blueberry) and quite frankly, ever tasted, is dandelion wine.

Essentially, dandelion wine is made using either a white grape juice base, a golden raisin base or some other fruit that is light and will allow the flavor of the flower to shine through.  The wine itself is made in the traditional way with the exception that you need about 2-3 quarts of loosely packed dandelion flower petals for each gallon of wine.  Yes, petals.  Yes, 2-3 quarts per gallon.  There can be no "green" from the plant mixed in with the petals because it can impart a bitter flavor.  The dandelions should be picked and cleaned mid day when they are just about fully open.  This is the very tedious part...picking and cleaning enough dandelions to provide 15 quarts of petals for a 5 gallon batch of wine (one gallon batches don't last long enough!).  The petals are then steeped in boiling water, allowed to stand for a couple days and mixed with the must.

I always make dandelion wine in a 5 gallon clear glass carboy, including during the primary fermentation stage.  You strain the must through cheese cloth as you put it in the carboy.  After about 60 days, you rack the wine.  It should be relatively clear at this point.  I usually rack the wine at least two more times before bottling.  After a year total, it is an excellent wine chilled from the fridge.

I remember about 10 years ago thinking I would make a huge batch of dandelion wine.  Maybe 20 gallons.   This was going to require A LOT of dandelions.  I took both kids out to a couple of spots and lawns that were absolutely blanketed in dandelions and we began to pick.  We picked for a couple hours and had a pretty good batch, but not nearly enough to do 20 gallons.  I thought to myself, I will put them in baggies and put them on ice and we will pick more tomorrow and I will start the steeping process tomorrow night.  The kids were glad to be done and were not looking forward to picking again the next day.

The next morning I went to get the dandelions out of the cooler and...Heartbreak!  Horror!  They were black and greasy looking.  Oh man!  Talk about disappointment.  The kids were mad and so was I.  My plans for a big batch were pretty well shot.  I went out, by myself, that afternoon and picked enough dandelions to make a 5 gallon batch.  Every time I drank the wine over the next couple years I saw those black, unuseable dandelions that had gone to waste.

I have not made dandelion wine in I think three years.  We still have probably 6 bottles in the cupboard.  I didn't make any wine this year at all.  I have probably 20 pounds of Montmorency Cherries in the freezer and I may yet make a batch of Cherry this year.  Next year, I will have to get busy.  Late Spring is dandelion season....dandelion wine is always worth the potential heartbreak of a failed batch.

Hope

We have had a few religion discussions on our respective blogs lately and I had an experience this weekend that has been wearing at me...tearing at me actually.  It kind of pisses me off to be honest.

A good friend passed away about a week and a half ago.  His funeral was on Saturday.  He was a good man.  Like the rest of us, far from perfect, but on the whole a good man.  He contributed to the community both in service and financially.  He was quiet about it.  He worked hard all his life and never asked anyone for anything.  He, like all of us, had his ups and downs, his goods and bads, but he always tried to do right by people.   About two years ago he was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer.  It had spread to his bones.  Knowing a bit about this and the pain that it had caused my Great Uncle, I was very apprehensive for him.  My apprehension, unfortunately, was correct.  About 3 months ago he decided (his wife had already passed away) that he was unable to be alone and he made arrangements to move in (several hours away) with his daughter.  He was in rough shape and was losing his battle.  I saw him a couple days before he left and while we were talking, I asked if he had plans to come back.  In typical fashion, he smiled and said, "probably for the memorial service."  I told him, "I will see you then."  We had a chuckle, shook hands and parted ways.

He was not much of a church goer or particularly religious, but when he went, he went to the local Evangelical Free church.  Honestly, religion, faith and belief are a subject that the two of us never breached in all the years that I knew him, so other that him being a good man and occasionally attending church, I cannot tell you a thing about him from a religious standpoint.

As most of you are aware, I am not much of a church goer myself and generally only go anymore to weddings and funerals and in several instances have only attended the grave side portion of the funerals.  I have a low opinion of organized religion.  I believe, I have faith, but to me church is God's creation seven days a week, not just for an hour or two on Sundays.  I try to be a good person and do good works.  I try to contribute to my local community much like my friend.

As I noted, his funeral was on Saturday and I went.  I went to the whole thing.  It was a disheartening experience.  The preacher, during the service and at the grave side, made a point numerous times to emphasize "we 'HOPE' we will see him in heaven."  "we 'HOPE" Christ has redeemed him."  All the time alluding to the fact that it was not a sure thing because he did not attend church or actively participate in the church and, to the preacher's knowledge, had not been "saved."  I stayed right until the end and did not throw anything at the preacher although I have to say I 'HOPED' for a lightning bolt.

My friend was a good man.  I don't need to 'HOPE' things will work out for him.  I "KNOW" they will.  I have faith, which apparently is different than being saved.

Fuck that preacher.

Whole Truths, Half Truths and Outright Lies

Where I live, the economy is largely based on tourism.  The title of this blog was stolen from the sign that one fellow had on his tour bus.  I knew him from the time I was old enough to see.  He was flamboyant, goofy and very gay.  But he was one hell of a tour guide.  Being that I lived here and never really had the time, I never took one of his tours.  I was told by quite a few that they were great.  When asked what part of the tour was truth, half truth or lies, he always responded, "that is for you to figure out!"  He is long dead now.  Probably for at least 20 years, but recent world events bring home the "truth" of his response.

I have always been a person who tries to judge based on fact.  If possible, on empirical observed fact.  Conjecture, while an important tool that should be used to arrive at fact, is frustrating.  How many people have you heard espousing "truth" that you knew was a lie.  Did they know it was a lie?  Did they believe it to be truth?  Were they simply misinformed?  Am I (or you) capable of telling the difference?  Does it matter?

Sometimes mob mentality can turn a lie into the truth. Much like the person repeating a lie over and over again soon begins to believe it themselves, when you hear the same lie from many sources it is easy to begin to believe it is the truth.

It is my opinion (and pay attention now...) that most opinions on current world events cannot be considered anything more than opinions.  Is there first hand experience involved in forming this opinion?  In most cases the answer is No.  Is there second hand experience involved in forming this opinion?  In most cases once again, the answer is no.  Is this opinion based on select propaganda that has been disseminated to the masses (possibly with an agenda, possibly through simple ignorance)?  Is the opinion based on wishful thinking or upon a misguided attempt to be "a good person?"

The FACT is, that no matter how the opinion is formed, unless it is based on first hand experience or to a lesser extent, second hand experience, it is simply that; an opinion.

The sad part about the whole situation, no matter whether we are talking about Whole Truth, Half Truth or Outright Lies, is that the rut we often get ourselves into is generally too deep to jump out of to figure out which is which.

I know something is truth when it affects me directly.  I have a good feeling that something is truth when it affects a friend or family member directly.  If I saw it on TV or the internet, skepticism rules the day.  And it should.  If I saw it on TV or the internet and it contradicts a first or second hand experience, I call bullshit.  If that is offensive to you, perhaps you should jump out of your rut.  It might keep you from spinning your wheels and having a shitty tour experience.

Motorcycles.....and pistons in general.

Someone once gave me a tongue in cheek trophy for having the most pistons of anyone short of a junkyard owner.  I actually enjoyed the hell out of it and still do.

I grew up working in a gas/service station garage (among other things).  My father was an old school mechanic and we were brought up to know that anything could be fixed and that sometimes creativity in the repair ruled the day.

Growing up on the water, my first engine was an outboard motor.  I drug it out of the local dump when I was about 7 years old.  The dump was a place to go on my bike on a Sunday afternoon when it was closed to shoot rats with my .22 and to find discarded treasures.  In fact, many people here called it (and still do to this day) "The Exchange" rather than "The Dump."  In any case,  this was the first thing that was mine and mine alone with pistons.  It was a 1936 5 horsepower Champion outboard.  One cylinder, rope start.  It was in surprisingly good condition and its only problem was that it had been sitting and neglected with old gas in the carburetor.  I carried it home on my bicycle (no small feat) and my dad hauled it down to the garage for me and we put it on a 2x4 clamped into the vise and he told me to start by seeing if it had spark.  It did not.  With his direction, I removed the flywheel and checked the points, which were corroded.  He had me file them down and told me that if we could get spark, the battle was mostly over and the outboard would run, but if we could not, it was unlikely that we could get coils to fit and I would probably have to wait for another "find."  I later found out that I could get the coils had I needed them, but it was moot because filing the points got me good blue hot spark!  I was excited!  No more rowing for this guy!   Where is the gas?  My dad told me to cool my jets because while spark was the most important step, it was not the last.  A sniff of the gas tank, which smelled like old turpentine, gave me the next direction.  Remove the tank and fill with carburetor cleaner and allow to soak with all the holes plugged.  You can't get carburetor cleaner with Methylene Chloride in it anymore, or at least not easily, because, it is (big shiver) dangerous! 

While the gas tank was soaking, it was time to remove the carburetor.  It was a simple Tillotson with a float, inlet needle, simple jet and a high and low speed adjusting screw.  Dad had me put a clean rag on the work bench and disassemble it one piece at a time, placing each piece on the rag in the order in which it was removed.   He admonished me to be careful with the gaskets because we did not have a kit available and would have to cut our own if I wrecked one.  I was careful.  The bowl and body of the carburetor went into a bucket of cleaner and the smaller parts were carefully cleaned with a small brush and compressed air.  After putting everything back together, cleaning the spark plug (yes, cleaning - not replacing), checking the oil in the lower unit and a general once over by my Dad to make sure nothing had been missed, into the outboard tank it went with a bit of fresh mixed gas and oil to try it out.

I carefully wrapped the rope around the flywheel and pulled.  Nothing.

Once again, I carefully wrapped the rope and pulled and......POP!  along with a big bubble of blue smoke in the tank.

One more time, with the choke off and the throttle moved to "fast" and  pop...pop....pop....pop it was running!  Wooooooo!  Hoooooo!  My dad helped me with carburetor adjustment and wow!   This thing ran smooth!  Both fast and slow!  I was excited.

My Dad came with a 2.5 gallon gas can full of mixed gas and told me, "This is the only gas I am giving you for this.  The rest you have to pay for."  Gas at that time was, I think $0.379 per gallon.  It wasn't long after that that it doubled.  I could hardly wait for the work day to end so I could put it on my Grandfather's 14 ft aluminum boat that he let me row around the harbor.

I was off to the races at that point.  Outboards, mini bikes, motorcycles, lawn mowers, chainsaws, and eventually cars and trucks.....with a few hit and miss engines mixed in for good measure.  All of which were acquired by trade, treasure hunting at the dump or with a very small amount of money and a whole lot of elbow grease.  In retrospect, it is funny I chose electrical engineering rather than mechanical engineering as a career.....

In any case,  all this wind leads to motorcycles.  My first motorized wheeled vehicle was a "Lil Indian" mini bike that I also pulled out of the dump...sans motor.   The motor I took off an old 5 hp Moto-motor riding lawn mower that also came from the dump.  The only thing I had to buy was the clutch, which I paid $3 for at a yard sale.  I was probably 8 or 9.  I rode that sucker like the wind....everywhere.  My first actual motorcycle was a 1966 Honda S90 which I paid a whopping (and very dear) $50 for at age 14.  I actually still have it.  I had a 1973 Kawasaki H2 750 in college (they called it the widowmaker) that I wish I still had, but it had many, many miles on it and was loose as a goose and threw a rod at one point and I scrapped it in favor of a 1979 KZ650. 

I always told myself that I would not own a Harley Davidson until I could afford to buy a new one.  This proved not to be true as my first Harley, which I still have was a 1957 xlh Sportster.  This was a right hand shift, left hand brake bike that took a bit of getting used to.  I remember that there were only two of us that rode Harleys at one job and we used to get some ribbing about it.  In fact, some of the guys I worked with switched the spark plug wires around on the Sportster once hoping to see me kick and kick and kick to get it started.  Little did they realize that both cylinders fired at the same time and it made no difference.

Later I stumbled on a 1954 Duoglide Panhead that was in pieces that I put back together and rode for a while.

I later bought that new Harley that I always wanted.   A 1992 xlch Sportster Deluxe.  Bought it brand new in Cedar Rapids, Iowa in October of 1991.  My wife is riding a 1976 Honda CB360T that I fixed up for her, but is now complaining that it is too small and that she doesn't like to have to keep up to me on our short trips that we take on the occasional weekend.  She has more or less taken over my Sportster and it looks like either I will need to revert back to the 1957 or find something new for her (or maybe me - wink).

Too bad I can't find something at the dump.......