Farming vs. Big Business
I was over at CrankyChick.net reading her post about Holocaust on your Plate and rather than tie up her space in the comments section with my babbling, I decided to do it here.
Small farming is very different than big business farming. Most of the kids I knew who didn't live in town either raised their own food animals or grew up eating food animals grown by other small farmers. I grew up eating my animals. The most we ever had were 22 head of cattle, and we never had sheep, pigs, chickens, etc. My friend Ben raised sheep, cattle and chickens. At my house, all the animals had names. His, not so much, since his farm was bigger.
Whenever my dad decided it was time, and we needed meat in the freezer, we would load up a cow (male or female) in the back of our truck, and take it to this other farmer, who gave us beef in return. I was 7 when I found out the truth. I never quit eating beef. As payment for the butchering, the butcher took half the meat. Not a bad deal for him. That's the way it was with all of my farmer friends. If you wanted good, fresh, local-raised meat, you went to Mr. Moore's butcher shop.
I laughed when I saw the episode of South Park with the calves being sold as veal. (Dead Baby Cows). If we had a calf who was too rowdy, we either sold him at the cattle auction or he became veal.
Granted, I know the difference between small-town and big-business farming. I am, indeed, deluding myself into thinking all farmers have some respect for the animals they raise and eat.
When I was 7, we had 2 cows of the same age and identical markings, who became known as Crunchy and Munchy. I think there was some sort of tv commercial for Crunch and Munch, and they used to eat vegetables like cucumbers, radishes-- no, I mean, cucumbers, squash, zucchini, etc., and when they did, they made crunching noises... so they became Crunchy and Munchy.
One day, my dad and I loaded up the truck to take Crunchy to the other farmer (the butcher). A few days later, we picked up a lot of meat from the farmer, and my mom made baked steak with mushroom gravy for dinner. I don't remember why or how, but I came to the realization I was eating Crunchy. I put my fork down and told my dad I wasn't eating it. "Why?" he asked.
"Because that was Crunchy!" I said.
"Do you like the taste of it?" he asked.
"Yes"
"Do you like cheeseburgers?"
"Yes"
"Then what's the problem?"
And after that, I never questioned it. Sure, sometimes I was sad, but I always ate up.
Irony: Now my parents are vegetarian. For health's sake.