The reality of farming is that everything has a purpose. Everything has a place. When something ceases to have a purpose, well…decisions need to be made.
Warning: I talk about slaughter and butchery and all the emotions and conflict that goes along with it in this post. I don’t recommend reading further if this is something you’re not comfortable with…unless you’re interested in becoming more comfortable with where humanely raised, loved, fed meat comes from. I promise, I’m not gratuitous with actual photos.
I’ve been fortunate enough in my evolution from city to farm that I have a gentleman standing next to me who up until recently could handle “the tough bits”. I’ll be there to help clean up, de-feather, butcher, collect the fat for rendering into lard.
Lately I’ve been feeling much more reflective about my role in recent months. When we had to slaughter the Muscovy drakes that would take over our porch every night like raging frat boys, leaving behind a scene of destruction and far too much poop for us to wash down every morning…I helped. I didn’t put up my usual wall of “Oooh, I don’t think I could.” and I just did.