Some girls get roses for Valentine’s Day.
If
you’ve been following along for any length of time, you may have surmised by
now that I am, in fact, not one of
those girls.
There
was a time when I gave whatever cursory attention I could to the holiday, but
those were the days of giving a valentine to everyone in the class. Since then, I’ve always made sure that I have
something to do on the V-day—work, volunteer—anything to take the focus off of
the VD and place it somewhere else. It’s
not that I didn’t care about love, or even that I didn’t have anyone to share
it with. It’s just that if you love
someone—platonically or romantically—you should show them every day; there
shouldn’t need to be only one designated day on which to celebrate it.
What
a cruel hand Fate dealt me then, when I met Frank. On Valentine’s Day.
That’s
right, the day that I “quit” the shop, I met the man of my dreams. Should I have taken that as a sign? Quit shop:
receive reward. I think I did, otherwise I probably would’ve come back
to the shop sooner.
I
know that VD is the holiday with the highest demand for filet mignon, and guess
what my specialty is? Filet goddamn
mignon.
So I’m going to be up to my
elbows in beef tenderloin all weekend.
How romantic.
Except I tell them that no, I
will not be working on the 14th, because Frank has some sort of adventure
planned for us. All I know is that we’ll
be down near Sullivan, MO; hiking a minimum of two miles and a maximum of four
with a possible creek crossing, and leaving the trail to search for some sort
of landmark. I’m in charge of snacks
(jerky, trail mix, protein bars, and more jerky) and picking a place to eat
dinner (Cracker Barrel).
Instead I’ll be working late
the two days leading up to VD. (And yes,
I’m going to keep calling it that.)
I show up Friday expecting it
to be all hands on deck and pizza ordered for dinner, since they know I’m
coming straight from my other job and my hour-and-a-half long workout. Instead I find Tommy and Grace and
silence.
They’re leaving.
“You’ll be fine here alone,
right?” Grace says more than asks.
Sure. . . . “Do you mind if I call Frank to come walk me
out around nine?”
“Of course not. We’ll lock you in,” she reassures me.
“If you need anything, you call me; don’t text,” Tommy commands in
his best big brother voice.
Oh boy, the whole shop to
myself on a quiet Friday night, what more could a girl ask for?
Music. Music would be nice, because it’s too quiet.
Burt keeps a couple radios in
the back room to listen to sports games and conservative talk radio, so I go
hunting for one.
. . . and come up empty-handed. He must’ve taken them home.
While I’m fishing around the
back room, the doorbell goes off, alerting me that someone has just come in the
front door.
I freeze.
The fuck?
The “Open” sign is turned
off. Did they really leave the door
unlocked?
Slowly, I poke my head around
the corner and peer out front.
No movement.
No noise.
I take a breath.
As I pass the cutting board, I
grab the first knife I see, and then step out from behind the register.
Nobody here but me.
Well that’s one way to get my
heartrate up.
Now I text Frank to see if he’s
available at 9. Or before.
The bell goes off a few more times,
jolting me awake each time.
I grab some seafood gumbo out
of the Cajun freezer and start thawing it in the microwave for my dinner.
Another bell dings, but this
time it’s my phone.
“I’m at the ballroom tonight
for a bit. I will leave there around 10:30. Get to your place around 11.”
That’s not really an answer.
“Did you see my last 2 texts?”
He did; that was his response. Damn my boyfriend for working so many jobs.
Okay well I’m not walking out
of here alone tonight so I decide to text Sam.
When in doubt, call the guy who used to be a strip club bouncer!
“Look who finally decided to
show up,” Gus greets me the next day.
“Gus, when I work until ten
o’clock at night, this is when I come in.”
Two o’clock in the afternoon, that is.
Eleven is the latest I’ll stay tonight.
Steady Leroy is working in the
back room today, trimming tenderloins for me.
He’s been here since 7am, even though he was in a hit-and-run on the
highway this morning; he’s not hurt, but his car needs a couple hundred
dollars’ worth of work.
Before the shop even closes for
the day, we run out of trimmed tenderloin.
“How could we run out? Leroy was trimming all day!” Grace
complains. She was in a car accident a
few weeks ago as well; broke her knife hand, so she’s only able to work in a
supervisory capacity right now. Mostly
she just chats with customers all day—many of whom are only here to check up on
how she’s doing anyways.
Tommy comments, “He trimmed
about three cases.” Then adds, “I saw
him put one in his car. . . .”
“Don’t you do that,” Gus
orders.
“What?” Tommy shrugs with false
innocence.
“Don’t say that about Leroy,
he’s a good man. We need him around.”
Look at Gus, standing up to
Tommy.
Tommy’s not having too much
luck lately. His mom sent me a friend
request on Facebook a few weeks ago, probably because he keeps tagging me in
his posts and pictures of the shop. Last
night I posted pics of all the filets I cut, and she commented on it: “I don’t really know you but do you work with
my oldest son, Tommy, at a store founded by his grandfather in the 1940s’ Sorry to sound so clueless.”
Since she didn’t use a question
mark, I thought she was stating that
I work with Tommy, which I obviously already know, so my response was, “Hi
Tommy’s mom!!”
Then Tommy chimed in:
And Tommy’s mom just tore into
him: “TAB stop writing these cartoon
comments and speak to your mom in ‘real life’ …. But perhaps cartoons are your
real life. ALL I WANT TO DO IS HEAR YOUR
REAL LIVE VOICE …. SO DOES FLOYD AND EVEN JOEY!!!!!!!” (TAB are Tommy’s initials.)
Tommy’s reply:
Tommy’s mom: “YOU KNOW WHAT I SAID!!!!!!!!!!”
Tommy:
And that . . . is exactly why I accepted her friend
request.
However
. . . then she started replying to all my other friends’ comments on the post
and soon I was getting private messages asking, “Who is this crazy lady and
what is her problem?”
There
is no doubt in my mind . . . this woman certainly birthed and raised our dear
Tommy boy.
* * *
“Would
you be interested in an edible 11 week old broiler cross rooster? He’s semi-friendly, about 3 pounds, and
LOUD. I can’t do the deed. Since I love him, I’d rather he go to the
stomach of a friend. He’s Ninja’s
son. Not sure who his mom is.”
Frank
has a friend raising far too many chickens in far too small a yard in a
far-too-urban area of town, and has become far too attached to them to
slaughter them in a timely manner.
“Yes. I can come over Monday.”
“I’d
rather he just leave intact and enjoy freezer college somewhere else. Just remember the 36 hour fridge rest
necessary to clear rigormortis. If that
won’t work for you, that’s ok.”
“Let
me talk to Frank.” My apartment lacks
the proper outdoor space for performing sacrifice rituals.
Frank
says we are in.
“Thank
you for enjoying him. Well, at least he
got to live 11 weeks past when he was supposed to be an omelet.”
“He
had a good life, and he will be respected in death.”
“That’s
all we can really ask for in our own lives, eh?
His mom may throw a few eggs your way, I’ll go check her butt.” Then, as an addendum, she texts: “I just realized I’m basically giving you two
a sacrifice at the anniversary of your meeting.”
I
think it’s quite fitting.
The chicken isn’t my actual anniversary present. Frank got me this! (And another surprise that is still stuck in customs.)
On
the right we have an adult coloring book (shut up I love it). In the middle we have a “meat heart for my
sweetheart,” which is charcuterie from the butcher shop where I wish I worked. We need to come up with a better name for
that place. How about Meat Envy?
Finally, on the left we have
chocolate-dipped, espresso-encrusted cheese, and I know what you’re
thinking: “These are my three favorite
things ever, but there’s no possible way that they could ever work together.” Well, let me assure you my friends, they make
a stellar combination.
We weren’t able to go on our
hike because it snowed on the 14th, and our destination required a two-hour
drive which included 15 miles on gravel country roads. There was no way we would make it in either
of our vehicles, so we walked around the park instead.
To
prepare for the chicken, I watched these two videos almost religiously:
So
President’s Day finds us transporting a live rooster in a cardboard box in the
backseat of Frank’s truck.
I
fill a stock pot two-thirds of the way full with water and put it on the stove
to start heating up. The ideal
temperature for scalding is 140°-160°F;
Frank has a digital laser thermometer he can use in order to check it.
I’ve brought my red apron, my knife
kit, and a box of vinyl gloves.
We decide to start when the pot
begins to boil; by the time we’re ready to scald, the water will have cooled
enough.
Frank
binds the rooster’s legs and hangs him upside down from a step ladder. The young guy partially spreads his wings in
confusion, but doesn’t flap. Hanging
there, he looks kind of like upside-down Jesus.
It’s
sunny and cold outside, but the chicken is warm and soft to the touch.
I
wait for him to calm down.
He
fights it.
After
a few minutes, his eyes begin to droop, but only momentarily. He perks back up and cocks his head in an
attempt to force the blood out and right himself.
I
let this go on for a while, occasionally running the blunt side of my knife
over his throat, so he becomes accustomed to the motion.
Maybe
it’s because he’s so young that he’s able to fight it for so long.
I
am patient, but this can’t go on forever.
Finally
I get ready to make the fatal cut. Frank’s
done this before, and suggests turning the beast away from me so blood doesn’t
spurt on me. Slitting a throat from
behind . . . feels a lot like murder.
I
grab his neck and run the blade over his throat, but his feathers are
protecting it, so I start sawing through them.
The
first time he jerks, I let go. Not
enough blood has come out. I didn’t get
the jugular. My knife wasn’t sharp
enough. This is the last thing I wanted
to happen. Frank steps up and holds the
wings down so he can’t flap. I steel
myself, and grab his neck again. This
time I go at his throat hard and saw until it’s a bloody mushy mess.
“He’s
gone,” Frank says. I guess holding him
like that, he could feel the heartbeat.
So
that’s it.
I
killed something.
And to tell the truth, I feel
kind of bad about it.
(And
I bet you thought this was gonna be a love story.)
I’ve
got about an hour before rigor mortis starts to set in, so I have to get to
work.
Frank
unties the corpse from the ladder, but leaves the rope around his legs so that
I can easily dunk and swirl him around in the hot water.
Scalding
only takes a few seconds. I tug on one
of his feathers and it comes out effortlessly.
Supposedly if you add a few drops of liquid soap it helps
things come apart more smoothly, but I forgot to do that.
Frank
feeds the fire with the box spring that wouldn’t fit up his staircase
yesterday. Upon inspection, we discovered
it to be made of cardboard and thin pallet wood. There is no world in which such material
would ever support my 220-pound powerlifter boyfriend, so we lit that bitch on
fire, and Frank built a sturdier one out of two-by-fours and plywood. I helped by supervising (i.e.: getting drunk).
Plucking
by hand is tedious; this chicken has very dark feathers, so at least they’re
easy to see. Once he’s naked, it becomes
easier to imagine him as dinner.
We
don’t have a worktable or cutting board set up, so I’m doing all this hunched
over a piece of cardboard on the ground.
My back thanks me profusely later on.
The
head is the first thing to go. It’s less
difficult to eviscerate something when its face isn’t staring at you.
Then
the feet, at the “ankles”—the first joint above the feet.
There’s
a gland on the butt that chickens use to lubricate their feathers; that’s gotta
go. Make a cut above the butt and go
about one to two inches deep to get the gland out.
Next,
flip the chicken breast up and make a slice above the neck, which opens a hole
for you to get at the crop, which is on the right side, attached to the
underside of the skin. The crop is where
the first stages of digestion begin, so usually it’s full of food. I asked the chicken’s mama to starve him for
twelve hours so that it would be empty—makes my work less messy. Don’t cut the crop out, just sort of pull it
away from the skin. Then pull the air
duct and esophagus out of the neck and loosen them within the chest.
Now
we have to deal with this butt.
You
have to slice way above the intestines so that you don’t puncture them (then
things get really sloppy). This creates
a hole where you can access the body cavity.
There’s some fat right inside there that you pull out. Then cut around the inside of the butthole,
careful to never come in contact with the intestines, less their contents leak
out. I don’t quite get all of it, so I
have to go back in and cut out the last section. A little dab of poop gets on my gloves, but I
rinse them and the meat several times to be sure they’re clean. Finally, stick your hand in the hole, slide
it around to loosen everything up, then reach until you feel the air duct and
esophagus; grab onto them, and yank everything out.
I try to scrape the lungs out
with my nails, but they are really stuck to the inside of the ribcage and I
don’t have a scraping implement with which to get them out.
Frank
went inside for a few minutes, and he returns to find me playing around with
the innards. I slice open the gizzard to
see the bright yellow lining with my own eyes, and find out if there are any
stones inside.
“My
girlfriend . . . so pretty. . . .” he comments, as he often does whenever I do
something gross or dumb.
Now
it’s time to quarter this baby.
We
start with the legs, which are simple enough.
There’s a nice big indent between the body and leg where you need to
cut. Pick the chicken up by the leg, so
the body actually weighs it down, and opens up that indent, showing where to
cut. Cut everything away—skin and
meat—until the joint reveals itself. You
actually have to break the bone away from the chicken, and then cut it off.
The
wings work the same way.
Next
the neck needs to come off. You cut a
deep V down into the body from both sides, pull the neck back, break it, twist
it, then cut it off.
Now
you skin the breasts. I actually wound
up skinning the whole thing; since it was so hard to hand-pluck, some pieces of
feather remained stuck way down in the skin where I couldn’t get to them. And since the feathers were so dark, that
made it look really gross, so I just figured why not skin it all—the one skill
that I actually trust my abilities in performing.
So,
we’re coming to the end; all that’s left are the breasts and tenders. Chicken tenders, I learned, are not the same
as tenderloins on other animals. The
tenders are actually nestled under the breasts, on the outside of the
ribcage. Up till now I thought it was
all just part of the breast, and I always cut them off together when serving
whole roast chicken.
Taking
off the wing has already got us started down the path we need to take. Flip the chicken onto its back with the neck
hole facing you. Cut along the wishbone
on one side for maybe a few inches, and you will open up another hole which
exposes the breast and the tenderloin. You
can actually just stick your fingers in there and separate them all the way along
the spine, then hold it up by the breast and cut it off.
There’s
a trick to getting the tenders off. The
carcass needs to be spine upwards, and again you will be cutting along the
wishbone, but then you cross over the spine and continue the cut all the way
down the opposite side. Do that on both
sides, and then you should be able to tear the tender away from the spine and
cut it like you did the breast.
And
that’s it!
What
started as a living, breathing being an hour ago is now broken down into every
edible portion it produces.
The
innards are being left outside for the local critters. Everything else goes inside for a good
rinsing, and then goes into a pot of cold water and into the fridge for at
least 24 hours. Frank’s boss wants the
neck and feet. We’re going to use the
carcass for stock. I’m leaving town, so
I ask Frank to freeze all the meat until I can come back and cook it.
It
took me so long to complete this whole process that by the time I’m dropping
the legs into the pot of water, they’re already beginning to stiffen up and I
kind of have to shove them in so they fit.
Can
you believe that some girls only get roses
for Valentine’s Day?
The Butcher’s Apprentice: for All Your Amateur Backyard Livestock
Slaughter Needs
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