Yesterday I helped butcher goats. Due to time, space, and material constraints, we were not able to do the whole process ourselves. Instead, we took them to a local Amish home, where two generations of experienced (and newly-certified) Amish men killed, gutted, skinned, and cut up the three goats that had been living in my pasture for the past 2 months or so. (If that last statement is too graphic or matter-of-fact, stop reading now. You won't like the rest).
These folks, like so many other Amish families (and like almost all families 100 years ago) still do their own meat processing. Seeing that quality butchering at a reasonable price was a need that was not being met, they started doing custom butchering for others as well. Because of their skill and efficiency, their reputation had grown. This summer they often handled upwards of 100 chickens, 30 goats and/or lambs, and other animals (including hogs and small beefs) each and every Saturday morning. The customers they served were usually immigrants from other nations who had been unable to find the type and cuts of meats they were accustomed to before they discovered the Miller farm. Saturday mornings there were like a combination of the U.N. and the original Jewish temple - with people and animals of all kinds milling about, chaos being kept in check only by a handful of calm and careful Amish men and women. These people had 50 years of experience, hundreds of satisfied customers, and were serving a need for an otherwise under-served population. It was a dream come true - a system that was working well for all involved - so the Government decided to step in.
In order to get certified, they had to spend hundreds of dollars modifying their slaughter house, close down for months (leaving people without a place to get quality, clean, custom meat), and jump through the usual red-tape covered hoops. Yesterday was their first day back in operation. They had to start by having the inspector there to teach them how to butcher animals. My heart went out to them. It's a good thing pride isn't encouraged in the Amish faith, because otherwise having an outsider come and tell you your business might have been too much to swallow.
The upside was that by yesterday afternoon the inspector trusted them enough to let them go it alone, albeit with the warning that she could and would be stopping by unannounced any time she cared to in order to ensure that they were doing things correctly. I'm sure they'll be careful to keep the Clorox use high, and the beard covers firmly in place. (Yep - you read it right. Think of a hair net, only upside down. The string goes over their ears, I believe, with their long beards tucked neatly into a little facial hair snood. Kind of stylish, in a strange sort of way...)
Anyway, because of the new regulations that they have to follow, I couldn't even watch the meat being processed, let alone help. I was a bit disappointed to have not been able to participate in the slaughter itself. It's not that I delight in killing anything, but I have been responsible for these animals for a good part of their lives (I even helped bottle feed them when they were but a few days old). Since I took on the responsibility for these creatures, I like to be able to ensure that their end is as humane and dignified as the rest of their lives was. More than that, however, is the strange beauty to be found inside of each and every beast.
I know, it sounds gross, but you've never experienced the fullness of God's handiwork until you understand just how fearfully and wonderfully made His creation really is. I've reached inside chickens, stood before halved hogs, and watched as the insides of a lamb cooled in the chilly fall air. Each and every time I am in awe. Everything fits so precisely. Each piece has its own function, but also its own color and texture. There is a palette of colors unique to the inside of us that is even more fantastic that the ones we display each and every day on the outside. Have you ever seen the muscle of a gizzard? It is iridescent, like a subtle rainbow striated by white lines that radiate out from the center. As the gizzard cools, the shine reduces, until it fades almost to a dark wine color by the time you're done processing the animal.
The subtle beauty of a gizzard is in stark contrast to the surprisingly bright color of bile, found in the gall bladder of animals. It ranges from a vivid, kelly green in chickens, to a color and consistency reminiscent of pure green tempera paint in lambs, to an almost glowing neon color in hogs. The fact that it's potent and bitter and nasty (and can contaminate entire carcasses with just a few drops spilled) is beside the point. When you see it, glistening inside the gall bladder or spilled out onto the ground, you can't deny how beautiful it is. Ever seen the bubblegum pink of a lung? The pale, ribbed lining of a stomach? The rich and deep burgundy of a liver, with its smooth, rubbery texture? The color-filled cones and rods behind the eye? The soft and irresistible grey of a brain? They compel you to look, to touch, to experience.
It's often said that children, like in the story of the Emperor's New Clothes, are the truth tellers of society. I know that my children have been influenced a bit differently than others. They delight in all aspects of raising animals, including butchering. My middle daughter clamors to see the spleen (her favorite part - both pulpy and dense at the same time, and an attractive, deep ruby color), but I am willing to bet that most children, removed from the stigma imposed by society, would find beauty inside animals. Heck, even grown ups who were taught to fear death and loathe butchering have found themselves strangely engrossed by the insides of a healthy animal when given the chance to experience butchering day at the Farrier Farm. The ones who used to come to have their animals slaughtered under the careful hand of the Miller clan in their breezy front yard all those Saturday mornings this summer found that to be true as well. Not only did they get to have their meat and eat it too - and in ways that upheld both their traditions and culinary desires - but they also got a lesson in in life and in beauty.
Am I crazy? Beauty in butchering, in blood and bone, in death? Turns out, there is a strange irony in all of this (besides just the irony of Amish families having to wear beard covers. Is that a religious violation? Hmm...). When push comes to shove - I've discovered that guts don't turn stomachs nearly as much as people think they will. The beauty, dignity, and flavor of an animal well raised and butchered isn't nearly as distasteful to the folks around here as the invasive monkey wrench of over-regulation that brought a well-oiled machine to a halt.
I know, I know - The powers that be may be trying to save us from the horror of death, the gore and mess of dismemberment, the risk of coming into contact with the reality of what it means to be a carnivore. But, the outcome of their actions really is that now there is yet one more barrier between folks who are interested in experiencing life on its most natural and simple level, and the beauty that is to be found in that lifestyle. In my neck of the woods we just traded beauty of the beasts for the beastly protection of oversight, and it wasn't a pretty process.
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