Fred and I took on a project one afternoon this week.
We bought some prime tenderloin roasts a month ago, and were instructed to age them in the refrigerator for about a month, turning them once a week in their packages, until the time when they would become steaks.
The day arrived. Fred called for a “dress” rehearsal.
Where’s the electric knife? Do we have enough vacuum bags? Where is the (vacuum) Seal A Meal?
So I dug. I found everything. But, there weren’t enough bags, so I sped to the store and bought some. They were on sale. Good deal.
We set the machine up on the counter; Fred at one end and me at the other. He carried the first big roast to the sink, removed the cellophane plastic wrap, and lay it on the cutting board. He plugged the steak knife into the counter outlet. It wouldn’t run.
We switched plugs. It still wouldn’t run. Oh no; all this mess and the dang electric knife decided to die? Finally, I discovered we didn’t have the cord plugged into the knife. The cord was just hanging there from the socket. Small detail.
OK. Try again. The knife began to whir. Fred began to saw. We should have used a sharpener, but hey, too late for that. The show was on the road.
He sawed, and plopped the steaks on a cookie sheet between us.
I stood close to the meat. My job is always to seal the bags on one end; then stuff the steak into the bag and do the vacuum process. Fred cuts, I seal. Him Tarzan, me Jane.
While working, we turned on Dr. Phil. It kept us entertained although we couldn’t hear the dialogue over the noise of sawing and vacuum packing.
The sawing continued. The slapping of the meat in the bags; then vacuuming each for freezing continued. We had a good rhythm going.
My back hurt from standing in this bent position. I left for a few minutes and got the stool. The tall stool. It helped.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZ. ZZZZZZZZZ. (knife) Hurummmmmmmmmm (machine) ERRRRRRRRRRRRRR (the sucking). Over and over.
I thought how people used to be self sufficient. They didn’t rely on grocery stores. They knew how to do things to survive. Even now, I know some families that slaughter their own pork or beef or chicken. It’s a family thing. We were only cutting the slabs of meat into edible portions and that was a BIG effort, I want to tell you!
But, we didn’t have to bleed the cow, hang it by its legs, ... none of that.
Several years ago Fred and I got the bright idea that we wanted to raise chickens. We knew almost nothing, but like a young mother learning how to care for her baby, we did the same with the chickens. And when it came time to slaughter them, we decided we would do it.
We think of crazy stunts like this, and wonder later what we were thinking.
We had read the directions. First, cut their heads off. Oh boy. I experienced a tough go with that effort! We dropped the beheaded chicken in a gigantic refrigerator box so that it wouldn’t run all over the place after it lost its head. Then we dipped the birds in boiling water, removed the feathers.
I don’t remember the entire process any more, but I know I will never forget the stench; the smell that the birds emitted. They were range chickens, and outdoor chickens have a different, stronger taste than the poor things that are raised in a chicken house with barely any light or outdoor exposure.
We cleaned them, washed them, and bagged them, using the vacuum process. How easy that part of the preparation seemed.
But, unlike the beef process that we worked in the kitchen, we knew that we would never eat those chickens. You see, the smell was in our nostrils, and we would never forget that odor again. Nor would we forget the beheaded birds in the box, the singeing of their skin, and the eventual cutting off the feet and gutting of their insides.
I guess we could all do this if we had to. But, I am thankful that so far, we don’t have to. In the meantime, the steaks are in the freezer, and Fred and I can sit down and be glad that’s over!

Judi Tabler lives in Pawnee County and is a guest columnist for the Great Bend Tribune. She can be reached at bluegrasses@gmail.com. Visit her website juditabler.com.