Death was not an uncommon experience for us. We had been killing a hog a week for a few months now and had butchered several small steers as well. We still had not tackled a larger animal because of the warm weather and the fact that at this point Joe had not perfected methods of preserving that amount of meat.
One morning Larry discovered a cow lying dead in the pasture. She was part of the nursing herd, those that we let the calves suckle instead of us milking them. Why she died, we didn’t know. That herd wasn’t attended as regularly as the milking string, making it less likely to notice any sick cows. She was old as far as cows go – eight or nine years as best Larry could recall. With no other evidence of disease or injury, we could only assume old age was the culprit. We weren’t about to do an autopsy to determine cause of death….. or were we?
“Shame to see her go to waste,” Harvey began.
“Absolutely,” Joe agreed, “we shouldn’t throw any meat away.”
“But how long has she been dead?” Dad wondered.
“Hard to say,” Larry answered, “she’s not stiff. She’s not bloated from the fermentation going on in her rumen of the last feed she ate. Couldn’t be more than two, three hours. Four at the most.”
“Then I say we tackle it,” Joe concluded. “The meat can’t be bad yet, depending on what she died from. Let’s have a look and if anything looks suspicious, then we’ll abandon the meat. At least Patsy and the cats can have some.”
After hanging the cow in the tree next to the ground cellar with the head up, skinning it wasn’t really that hard. At least not with the skill that Joe had. Next he removed the entrails, carefully inspecting them for signs of infection or any other indications of disease. Nothing seemed abnormal. But when he pierced the diaphragm to remove the heart and lungs from the cow’s upper cavity, gallons of blood spewed into the tubs we had positioned under the animal for the waste to fall into.
“Whoa, that’s not normal!” Joe exclaimed. “This cow must have bled to death. It wonders me what caused it.”
After removing the organs and examining them, he continued, “Look at the heart. Now I know why she died. It’s not easy to see, but there’s a hole, I guess you call it an aneurysm, in a large vessel right where it goes into the heart. Not a gaping hole that your thumb would fit through, but a slit no more than half an inch long. Big enough, however, for all this blood to be pumped out.”
“If it’s an artery,” Josh chimed in. “If it’s a vein, it just leaked out.”
“Either way – she bled to death,” Harvey concluded, “fast enough to make the meat safe to eat, I’d say. Everyone agree?”
No one disagreed, so the cleaned carcass was sawed into quarters and carried into the ground cellar to cool. Much of the fat and tallow was removed from the meat and stored separately in buckets to be rendered later. Under normal circumstances, like the beef we were to slaughter as winter progressed, we would have cleaned up the liver, kidneys and heart and prepared them for supper on the days we killed any livestock. This time, however, because we weren’t one hundred percent sure how long the cow had been dead, all the organs as well as the head and hide were hauled for disposal to a far corner of the farm where no livestock were pastured.
“The skunks, possums, and vultures need something to eat too,” Dad had said. “It’s a shame we couldn’t use the hide, though. Don’t know if we could have turned it into leather or not.”
“We can’t waste the salt we have,” Larry said.
“I know,” Dad agreed. “Maybe someone will show up one day with the knowledge and ability to tan hides. Commercially they use tannic acid; we might be able to use oak leaves.”
“I read once,” Jake added, “that the Indians used the organs for tanning. Some chemical in the organs, when rubbed into the cleaned hide helped the process. The Indians didn’t have salt or tannic acid, but somehow they made soft buckskin. Maybe one day we’ll have to experiment.”
So for the next few days we ate old tough beef at every meal. Joe did learn some things from the incident.
First, he wished he’d have been better prepared. Second, meat won’t keep real long in the ground cellar. At 55 degrees it’s a great place for the meat in the summertime, but the meat’s actually preserved better outside in the winter and the months around it. Third, and fortunately so, the drying racks actually worked. We successfully dried some of the meat that Joe had skillfully sliced by hanging the slices next to the butcher stove on the racks we had used to make the dried apples. Joe knew how to make beef jerky, but lacked the ingredients and the electric dryer he usually used. The dried beef would have to be a weak substitute.
One of the hind quarters was roasted the first day over an open fire outside. Some of the other large pieces were cooked in the kettle of the butcher stove; it certainly made enough heat for the drying racks. Once the meat was cooked and deboned, we packed it in jars and added boiling broth to enable the jar lids to seal by creating a vacuum when the broth and jar cooled. We cooked and canned two full kettles of meat, using most of the jars we had lids for. Joe kept the leftover broth cooking after screening out any small pieces of meat and bone. We carefully separated the meat from the bones, and then using a small hand food grinder, ground it like hamburger and tossed it back into the kettle with the broth. He added a little salt, pepper, our home ground cornmeal, and a little wheat flour until it had cooked to a pasty consistency like the mush we made. We poured it into pans to cool and set-up, and then fried it in the morning for breakfast. Like I said, beef every meal. It really wasn’t that great; later batches we made that winter were a bit tastier because pork was added as well. It became a staple for two mornings after butchering. It was called scrapple, because it was made from the scraps leftover from butchering.
Also, Joe wished he could have made bologna with some of the meat, so steps were taken to have what he needed ready for the next time. Aaron rigged up Joe’s power driven meat grinder with the motor we had used to fill the soybean bin. Then Joe was able to grind the beef, add pepper and salt and a few other ingredients he had saved. The mixture was stuffed into bags that Sandy and Mom had sewn into tubes from old clothing or towels. When these tubes of meat were smoked, they kept for weeks, especially in winter. I don’t know why, but it was called summer bologna or summer sausage and unlike some of the other food we had, it was delicious. We ate it as a luncheon meat or fried it and made a milk gravy with it.
Eventually Joe started making regular pork sausage when we butchered hogs. We usually just fried it as patties, but it also made pretty good milk gravy as well. In freezing weather it kept indefinitely or could be kept a day or two in the springhouse by putting it in a sealed bucket in the cool water, but Joe knew it would keep longer if smoked, like the summer bologna. But we needed casings into which to stuff the pork sausage. The casings we used came from a job no one was thrilled to do. We had to clean the pig’s intestines. Grandmom remembered how to do it and thank goodness, out of the 60 some people in our community, there were a few people willing to tackle the task. At least I didn’t have to. The benefit was great, however, for once the sausage was inside a casing, it could be hung on racks to smoke and then it would keep for days if not weeks if necessary.
In order to smoke any of the meats another project had been tackled. There was no smokehouse on Harvey’s farm, but Joe had one at his old house. One day during the second week of November the men using, Brutus, took a hay wagon, tools, and blocking to Joe’s house and retrieved his smokehouse, cement blocks and all. Somehow they were able to tilt and lay the structure right onto the wagon without it falling to pieces. The smokehouse itself was six feet by eight feet and nine feet high, so it fit in a standard hay wagon. Once again, with some thinking, planning, muscle and extra effort we had taken another step toward meeting the food needs of our community. It was neat watching Joe tend the smokehouse. After starting a fire, it had to be tempered or smoldered to make the fire smoke all the time and not get too hot; you didn’t want to cook the meat, just smoke it. Joe used green wood (not dry), or wet sawdust and sometimes he even had to throw water on the fire itself.
To be continued…………Mort
No comments:
Post a Comment