Pardon My Turkey
This morning, the frostbit slope is muted, for once without the clucks, chirps, and gobbles of turkeys, save for a few hens kept back as potential broodmothers. Thin disks of ice linger in the troughs and pans, and the tall grass stands still in wait for that low-angled winter sun. A blood-stained kill cone, covered in overnight frost stands empty, mounted on an old hedge post. Since my last entry in the Almanac, life on the farmstead has been that unique blend of drudgery and exhilaration that only butchering season can bring. Decidedly overly balmy days that bring out November flies and frigid mornings spent sawing carcasses and peeling frozen sheets of creamy leaf lard stacked against each other have made for an awkward, clunking rhythm to the work, but looking ahead to past Thanksgiving, we have days in the 30’s-40’s and evenings in the 20’s: the finest conditions for this work, a temperature range both low enough to keep bacteria from multiplying and warm enough to maintain finger movement. There have been long nights spent eviscerating turkeys by the light of the headlamp, overwhelming piles of cold pork to cut through, and an incredible amount of math and hygeine, neither being particularly strong suits of mine, but nevertheless important considerations in this work.