Can you handle a bit of reality? Really? Then how about a whole juicy plate of it? Cause today I’m going to tell you where meat comes from.
Back in the old days, when I was a young naive student of Literature, I started working at the Karen Blixen Museum. And before I get myself started on Memory Lane, I’d better move on to the point: Two years ago I was offered a part in a free-range calf that had the regular pleasure of munching the fresh grass and wild herbs growing in the park that belongs to the museum. A couple of times we had the chore of checking up on the three guys on the meadow and it was quite a strange and yet natural experience to be confronted with the future steak on my table. There it was, on the body of a brown-eyed Limousine calf still enjoying life and the bits of apple, I had brought. Anyway, the meat turned out to be really really delicious and instead of having a bad conscience about basically being the calf’s butcher, it felt nice to know that unlike many of its brethren it had led such a privileged life.
This year we agreed to join the calf-community again and that’s why we went to see how the now four calves were doing. They seemed just fine and T even ventured out onto the pasture to pat one of them on the head. We probably should have thought that one of the males, whose horn had been dented noticeably, might not be in the mood for playing petting zoo. In fact, you can almost tell on the shot above that he is contemplating the slight bruise he is about to make on T’s thigh. A friendly warning from a fellow who isn’t going down without a fight. Fair enough. But I am still looking forward to having that steak one day.