The Theory of Butchering by Alec Danforth

It's late, I'm tired, and the words of Walden are still fresh in my mind from reading it this summer. (I came upon it, by chance, in my grandfather's bookcase after he had called me in to talk about my plans for the future; he said, in his scotch parched voice "If you can sift through some of his elitist bullshit, there are a lot of truths in that there book. Something every man should read, that and White Fang") It's been a long day of jumping through the hoops of the modern high school tests, papers, reviews, and working to satisfy the many people at work, in a society where everyone is simply seen as a consumer. I work in one of the few occupations where coming home with blood on your pants isn't cause for alarm and having a steady hand is a must. A butchers shop, it's an odd place to work and it seems that after working in one for over two years, I've learned more with a blade then I have with the pen.

There's something sacred about cutting meat to the men I work with, they've done it for their entire lives and if you ask them about the first time they ever took a cow from hoof to table, they'll tell it with such passion and fervency that it would put any writer to shame. Me, being, the youngest in the shop at eighteen, still know nothing when compared to these juggernauts of flesh, but whenever I have a question on a certain cut or proper knife sharpening etiquette, I'm met with a straightforward answer, one with little to no "BS". The response is always colloquial in nature and told in order to answer the question, not to hold the answerer up on some platform of superiority, which is, I feel, often the case in scholastic settings. To these men, knowledge is only useful if it is to be used, there is no reason in learning the Latin names of all the fauna in the area if this information is to be employed. There is no over thinking in the occupation of butchery, it's simple, a man, a knife, and a bleeding manifestation of pure nature, that's it.

For hundreds of years butchers have been highly revered in almost every culture, there was the mayor, police officer, barkeep, baker, and butcher. These occupations were and still are the basis of all systemized civilizations. As far back as 1271 meat cutters in small English town were creating guilds for this most necessary art. Nowadays one can apprentice under a butcher for three years and then once his debt is paid, he's allowed to take a final test in order to become a "Master Butcher". The task is simple, take a cow, skin, bone, and cut in to quarters. Round, chuck, flank, rump, rib, and flank all into separate lugs. Next, the offal, tongue, liver, and heart, clean and set aside. The final task is to break the primary cuts of beef into more distinguishable sections; turning sirloin into short and tenderloin, flank into London broil, and separating the rib sections for rib lion and prime rib. It's a dirty job but one of complete necessity, more and more the butcher is becoming a dinosaur. With most consumers buying their meat prepackaged, there is little need for the once respected guards of the counter to stand watch over their butchered flock when a person is just as content throwing an air sealed hunk of god knows what into their cart.

After thinking about why cutting meat is such a spiritual experience to the few people who still practice it, I began to realize that all the men surrounding me were the type of men I would want to be stranded in the woods or lost on a desert island with. They all seemed to have this sense of "I know what I'm doing. I know what I must do to survive and if met with the need to implement these skills I'll be able to utilize them." Quite frankly, these men are men; they cut meat to transcend civilization, with each slice of the blade they delve deeper into the past, looking and searching for simplicity. For a time and place where each and every man had his own personal Walden to call home, even though I think they know, somewhere inside of them, that no such time has ever or will ever exist. It's simply a romanticized view on country living, brought to life by novelists and painters. The emotions one feels from the scenes and places depicted on their pages and canvases, are impossible to feel in the physical world because the strong sense of serenity and beauty which we perceive from them, are not, in fact, derived from the actual place itself but are involuntarily and intensified dreams of romanticism brought on by the idea of these depictions. Sadly no matter how hard they try, they'll never reach Walden and maybe that's why they keep cutting, I don't know.

I believe that there's something to be said for trying to live a simpler life, whether it be in the woods or behind a meat counter. I can truly admire these men's fight and maybe, in a way, we're all fighting to move backwards, to simplify and revert back to some sort of primal being in a Jack London fashion. It's strange for me to think I've gained more personal truths from working part time in a butchers shop than I have from god, philosophy and school. It seems to be on the same level as what I learn when my Grandfather calls me into his study. Oh well, its even later now and tomorrow is another day of hoops and a full evening of being wrist deep in flesh.

 

Editors Note: I stumbled across this young high school writer and was eager to share this with my readers, or perhaps reader. I do hope you enjoyed Alec's craft. mb