The Butcher's Apprentice 2.0

I play soccer with a girl named Summer who was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer two years ago.  She went through treatment, and is now considered No Evidence of Disease.

Pre-cancer Summer never used cuss words.

Post-cancer Summer does not give a fuck.

We call her Summer 2.0. 

Back Where I Belong

Breaking up is hard.

            You know what else is hard?

            Admitting that you were wrong.

            Confessing that you made a mistake.

            And getting back together.

            Time to get my hands bloody again.

            Don’t worry, my darling.  I’ll be gentle.

            I run an ungloved hand slowly along six pounds of uncut tenderloin, reacquainting myself with this old flame.  We’re gonna do this together. 

            Flip it over, flip it over.

            Press it all flat on the board with the palm of my hand.

This is not the frenzied fumbling of first-time lovers.  This is the authoritative touch of that one ex who knew all your buttons, and just the right way to push them.

I can’t promise that this won’t hurt . . . but I can promise . . . you won’t feel a thing.

            I go for the strap first.

            My knife enters the meat like a sigh, gliding through blood and fat. 

            Next I go after the silver skin. 

            It comes off easy, and smooth.  Seems I haven’t lost my touch after ten months away.  So cutting meat is kind of like riding a bike; or if you’re me, like riding a motorcycle:  you do it inconsistently enough that it still gives you a little anxiety every time you hop back on, so you take it slow. 

            But I don’t feel anxious right now.

            As I clean the gunk off the underside of the tender, I go into a sort of meditative state.  My hands flow like breath; my mind is clear. 

              And my finished product is beautiful, as always. 

The One-Thumb Wonder

I’d hoped to have more to write about, but things haven’t exactly gone how I planned them this year.

            When I left Burt’s shop, I left with the intention of starting at another shop soon after.  A shop that processes whole animals, humanely raised, mere minutes from my home.  I gave them my “meat resume” months before they opened.

            And they never called.

            I went in and visited, because it turns out that Logan—the guy who introduced me to my “traveling wife” Ally—grew up a few houses down from the owner of this new butcher shop.  And Manfriend lives four houses down from where he lives now. 

            That was an awkward discovery.

            At 7:30am on a Tuesday, I was saying goodbye to Manfriend in his driveway, when here comes the butcher shop owner jogging down the sidewalk on his morning run.  Manfriend waves hi.  Shop owner nods hello, then looks at me, and his expression runs the gamut from confused, to surprised, to recognition, to acknowledgement, and back to confused shock.

            Obviously, I had to go in and explain that I was in fact not stalking him; I was (and still am) simply dating his neighbor. 

            He still never called me about a job.

            I offered to mop this guy’s floors for free.

            He still didn’t call me.

            He’s always very friendly whenever I visit his shop; they make amazing products and I’m always happy to support local. 

            At Vintage Bike Night I met the man who put together new guy’s charcuterie room; he tipped me off that they’re about to make a jump to higher production, so I went back and dropped off a new resume “just in case” they’re looking for help around the holidays.

            Still no call.

            The shop posted on Facebook that they are looking to hire some new people.  I about threw my phone against the wall.

            Then Manfriend’s sister tagged me in the post:  “This would be the perfect job for you!”

            Sigh.

            I simply responded, “They’ve had my resume for over a year, smiley face.”

            My guess is that they’re wanting daytime people, because every time I see the owner, he asks if I’m still working that insurance job.

            Yes, I’m still working the job that gives me health insurance; you’ll be wanting me to have health insurance if I’m gonna work your bone saw.

            I text Corey to tell him about the charcuterie man.  I don’t hear back from him.

A Recipe for Madness

This is why my life is a mess.

This is the week I decide to start cooking again?  Really?

Sigh . . .

Life got pretty hectic for a while there.  My wife left me, can you believe that?  She quit to run her haunted house full time—the haunt that is supposed to have a character based on me, although they couldn’t find anyone to play her last year.

So I got stuck doing both of our jobs during our busiest time of the year.  I had a headache for two solid weeks after she left.  I sprouted a grey hair over it.  I was more stressed than I’ve ever been in my life.  And we’ve discussed what I do about things that stress me out, yes?  I quit them. 

I didn’t quit my job.  But I thought about it.  I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. 

In July I went out of town every weekend:  the annual Stockton Lake camping trip with Hunter and his family, the float trip I wrote about in my last post, Whiskermania in Louisville where I competed in the Fake Natural Beard category and lost (Ally and Sophie took first and third, respectively), and girls weekend at my aunt and uncle’s property out in Williamsburg. 

Then I had the brilliant idea to start taking secret dance lessons.  In July.  In an un-air conditioned venue.  In St. Louis. 

All the while still playing soccer every Tuesday and Thursday night.

I learned how to dance, all right.  

Alone in the Wilderness with the Butcher's Apprentice

The mist is heavy on the water when we set out, even though it’s well after 9am by the time we hit the water.  The spring-fed river is cold, and the day promises to be hot.  The water is flowing high and fast as our canoes knife downstream between rock formations and vegetation. 

A Knife in the Hand & a House on the Rock

I miss having a knife in my hand. 

            Since I quit the shop, I haven’t been doing much with myself now that I’m a butcher-at-large.

            Nothing really productive, at least.

            Turns out, there aren’t many opportunities out there for meat cutters who can only work nights and weekends. 

            I got a promotion at my day job, which makes up for the lost income.

            And man, having weekends off is really nice. 

            I get to sleep in . . . went to Best of the Wurst . . .

saw the US Women’s National Team play against New Zealand (from the front row!) . . .

I’ve gone on motorcycle rides and hikes . . . and road tripped to unlikely places around the Midwest, taking pictures of weird stuff and drinking great beer (LOTS of beer).

 (Okay that one’s actually alcoholic root beer, but it’s 10% ABV.  Ten percent!)

*                     *                      *

After I leave on Valentine’s Day, Nicole walks into the back room to find Burt crumpled over in tears. 

            “What’s wrong?  What happened?”

            “She’s done.  She quit,” he sobs.

            “What?!”

            “She’s gone.”

            It takes Nicole a moment to gather herself, her thoughts and her words.  And then she explodes.  “YOU!  This is all! . . . You!  And Tommy’s fuckery! . . . And bullshit!  You drove her away . . . this is all your fault!”

            “She said she didn’t wanna trim tenderloin anymore,” Burt cries helplessly.

            “I don’t care what she told you, this is because of you two fuck ups!  You think she wants to clean up after you two every day?!  This is just great.  What’re we gonna do without her??”

           

*                      *                      *

Blood is in the Air

“You’re a butcher?  That’s so hot.”

Butchering has come back into fashion.  It’s now “trendy.”  Butchers are “in vogue” and “sexy.”

            Oh yeah.  Let me tell you.  The meat market is a very titillating place to be.  I mean, there’s really nothing about raw meat that isn’t sexual.  And it’s time to make it known to the whole wide world.  Time to air out the truth of what it’s really like being a meat cutter, like airing out the dirty laundry—and I don’t mean the lacy Victoria’s Secret kind of laundry; I’m talking about the oversized white cotton granny panties with the busted elastic band kind of laundry.  So here’s a brief rundown of a few “hot” meat-girl facts that have surfaced over the last few years since I started this gig: 

The Reason for the Season(ing)

“Thanksgiving’s on a Thursday this year, that’s like the sixth year in a row.”

            Tommy says this every day leading up to Thanksgiving.  Said it last year, too.  And the year before that.  Tommy never tires of his jokes.

            Tommy and I have gotten very comfortable working adjacent one another.  If he doesn’t see me as his equal just yet, at least he doesn’t consider me a subordinate.  More like a slightly demoted peer. 

            “Why don’t you stand on that mat, save your ankles, that’s why it’s there.”

            I always forget about the rubber-coated memory-foam mat on my side of the board; probably because there’s no hope left for my feet or ankles—they hurt constantly, even in orthopedic shoes with custom-fit supports.  I wonder if, on top of the bursitis, I also have plantar fasciitis in my heel. 

Miles hears Tommy’s concern about my extremities and asks, “Why you bein’ so nice to her?”

            Tommy balks, “What’re you talking about?  I’m always nice.”

            “No you not,” Miles responds.  “Normally you a asshole.”