“What do I do for a living? I live for a living.” – Peter Karena, This Way of Life

One of the many tasks underway as we get prepared for an exciting (possibly overly ambitious new year) has been properly archiving the thousands upon thousands of photos currently clogging up my computer. Moments documented lovingly, albeit sporadically over the past four years of our relationship with each other, our many animals and this journey toward farming.

Along the way, I stumbled across the photos of our first eggs, first cow we milked (and Scott would later help to slaughter, his first time), first goat to capture our hearts (RIP Pickles), first homemade “no machines involved” bread.

First wood chopped.

First animals lost to predators.

First. So, so many firsts.

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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.

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