“You have some boxes of eyeballs on your back porch,” said Casey, stepping into the kitchen for dinner. I’d picked up the “eyeballs” earlier that afternoon and left them outside while I plugged in our upright freezer for the first time since we purchased it six years ago. (We’d been using it as a liquor cabinet.) The temperature outside trumped the average freezer, so the porch seemed like a logical stopping point for the beef as I worked my mind around the reality of purchasing a quarter of a cow.
When friends and I first entertained the possibility of buying grass-fed beef from a local farmer, one quarter seemed reasonable. I’m familiar with cows. I often run past their pastures; I talk to them and admire their liquid eyes and long eyelashes, their shaggy, luscious winter coats. I know how big they are. The abundance of meat I received was, nevertheless, jarring. Discussion, I realized, is nebulous; three large cardboard boxes, overfilled with beef parcels wrapped in white butcher paper, are concrete. It’s humbling to consider the bounty of a single cow.
While I tamped down the stress of my beefy new world, shoving liquor bottles into temporary housing, Casey chuckled at the dining table, shoulders quaking. “Hey,” she said, calling to me. “You want some rump with that?” Two seconds later: “How many burgers would you like with your cow?” She kept laughing. “Jules,” she said. “You know I’m gonna have mad jokes about this, right?”
I don’t think I’ve eaten this much beef in my life. My family has yet to discover an affinity for burgers or meaty sauces. My food truck/catering dream has not suddenly materialized. I sifted through the parcels, making a list of what the cow provided. As I stared down at the boxes, I questioned my sanity.
Casey looked at me – my pale, sweaty face; knit brows; frown broader than a cow’s hind end – and stopped laughing. She stood up and hugged me. “Remember why you did this, Jules,” she said, holding my frantic gaze. “Tell me again why you wanted to do this.” I did this because I could. What could be more sustainable, ethical, and beneficial to a local, independent economy than this awe-inspiring, prolific cow?
Vocalizing my intent undid the panic loop. I asked myself:
Who raised the cow? Joe Ray, a family friend and local farmer.
Where did the cow grow up? About five miles from my house, on grassy pastures in the outskirts of Moroni, Utah.
Was the cow treated humanely? Yes.
Did the cow die humanely? Yes, insofar as any animal reared for consumption can die.
Who processed the meat? Circle V Meats in Spanish Fork, Utah.
Who inspected the meat? Utah 5.
Can the grocery store answer any of these questions? No.
The cost-benefit analysis:
The beef cost $2.67 per pound prior to processing, which raised its cost to $3.38 per pound. Our locally sourced, grass-fed cow yielded approximately 467 pounds of meat in total, which means that one quarter contained about 115 pounds of:
1 package top round steak
2 packages sirloin tip roast
3 packages T-bone steak
5 packages cubed steak*
2 packages sirloin steak
3 packages rib steak
2 packages stew meat
3 packages chuck roast
2 packages rump roast
1 package tenderloin
49 pouches ground beef**
* My daughter, Rory, loves country-fried steak, so I requested a larger proportion of cubed steak than my friends did. Rory and I will learn how to cook the dish together.
** Casey and I estimated each pouch to contain ½ pound of ground beef, though others say each pouch weighs a pound. It’s difficult to tell for sure, because the pouches are frozen solid and could be use as weapons in case of a zombie apocalypse. So, the quantity I received could be anywhere between 25 and 50 pounds of beef, which is, by any estimate, a holy crap ton.
Let the year of the thousand splendid grass-fed steaks begin.
© Julia Moris-Hartley 2014