People often are curious about chefs, it seems. Intruiged by them. Moreso than with other professions. I often get questions about how I became a chef, what drew me to food in the first place. I thought, as my first blog installment, I would go into a little bit of detail of how I grew up, what turned me onto the world of chopping, searing and grilling. The majority of my childhood was spent living in Clovis, Ca. Just north and east of Fresno, in the heart of the Central Valley. My parents bought a few acres right at the base of the Sierra Nevada foothills, far out of town. I can remember having to ride in the car for what seemed like forever, just to stock up on supplies at the grocery store. s in my family, and I am the 2nd born, the middle of 3 sons. Needless to say, voracious appetites abound as we grew older and bigger! Both of my parents had enjoyed degrees of 'country living' in their own childhoods, and I believe their intention was to recreate that same experience for us, in their own way. And what an experience it was! I'd like to recall some of my favorite memories for you.
We raised many types of animals over the years. We had a chicken coop where we had both egg-laying hens, and meat chickens. The eggs were collected everyday by me or my older brother, usually in the morning. We raised a great deal of the chickens from eggs themselves. We had an incubator in the garage which was tended to gently. I very much enjoyed the experience of watching the hatchlings emerge from their shells. We would care for them inside, weather dependent, until they were ready to join the rest of the chicken population. Keep in mind, as an 8 year old child, these babies were nothing short of our pets. We named them, nurtured them, played with them. I can vividly recall my younger brother and I sneaking into my parents' room and grabbing 2 pairs of my dad's long socks. We unrolled them all the way up our arms, retreived our favorite chickens, and proudly roosted them on our forearms, ala a falconeer. The meat-providing chickens didn't fare such an enjoyable fate, however. Slaughter day came swiftly for them, and as a family, processed the chickens together. Dad would do the 'dirty work' (I'll spare you the details), while brothers and I were tasked with dunking them in scalding water to losten the feathers, then pluck away! De-plucked birds were sent inside, where mom would gut and clean them. Not too sure what happened to them after that. Next thing I knew, they were tomorrow's chicken fricasee or nuggets, for all I knew. We also raised turkeys. While we didn't cultivate the eggs like we did with the chickens, you can bet that we had the best Thanksgiving bird on the block!
My folks didn't restrict themselves to poultry though. Oh no. We raised quite a few cows and sheep, as well. All of them had names: C.C., Pearl, Cujo, Olivia, Marge, Renee, Brownie, Ewey. Most, if not all, were raised from calves or lambs. And ALL of them... delicious!!! I can vividly remember bottle feeding the calves. The bottle being the size of my torso, fake udder and all. A 200-300 lb calf has significantly more strength than a 70 lb 10 year old. Bottle-feeding was more about seeing if I could stay on my feet from the shaking, rather than feeding the calf. Mom always took us kids to town when the butcher would arrive with his flatbed truck with winched crane, a 30-30, and a bowie knife. We would return several hours later to the sight of a missing pet, and a pile of cow stomach contents in the pasture. Which we would promptly "Oo" and "Ah" over, as we poked sticks at it. A week or two later, mom and dad would return with with the 2 sides of beef. Hours and hours and hours were spent cutting, trimming, packaging, labeling, grinding, freezing, etc.
Maybe it's just me as I get older, but it seems like children in our younger generations don't have quite the exposure to farm life as they do now. And the experience of raising an animal all the way thru to eating seems almost incorrigable to some people. This saddens me some, but at the same time, gives me a deep appreciation of food, and to the labor of love that my parents exhibited to us.
I think this is a good place to stop for now. In my next installment, I'd like to talk a little bit more about these memories, but also the memories of our gardens and fruit trees. Thank you for stopping by and helping me relive my trip down memory lane... :)
It's one thing to hunt and eat an animal for survival, or even for pleasure. To raise an animal from bottle feeding to slaughter is clearly a lack of empathy. A sign of Narcism.
ReplyDeleteOver the years, I have deciphered the code. I have learned to imitate and emulate expertly the more common affect and expressions of one's inner landscape. But this veneer is easily breached when I am frustrated or humiliated ("narcissistic injury"): the mask slips and the real Me is out: a predator on the prowl.