It never failed. I’d get the gearshift doohickey thingamabobber stuck between say third and fourth, or fourth and fifth, or whatever gears, and that little Sunbird would make this God-awful metallic noise. And, my husband would invariably say in a loud voice, “Grind a pound for me!” And wince. And roll his eyes back in his head.
Now, that phrase “grind a pound for me” has a whole new meaning because I drive an automatic transmission and also because I am the proud owner of a meat grinder.
The Tale of the Meat Grinder (or, how I came to own one in the first place)
Santa Husband brought me the meat grinder – the stainless steel model, mind you – two Christmases ago. This is the same Santa that used to deliver me jewelry, a Coach luggage bag or a trip somewhere warm. During this year, I was on the last few steroid pills for a skin condition I caught somewhere in Alabama. OK, it was scabies.
And, if you ever contract scabies, just don’t tell your friends and also, the person you sleep with has to cover his or her entire body in a greasy medicated cream.
So, back to Christmas morning 2007. Momma (aka, I) was pretty excited to see the rather large wrapped present under the tree from Husband Santa. Then, I opened it to find a stainless steel meat grinder and hope springing eternal, I thought, “Why I bet Husband Santa put a nice little sparkly pair of earrings in the grinder or something.” But no, the grinder box had been taped shut at the factory.
That was it. A meat grinder for Christmas. I thought about trading him the grinder for the gift that Santa Wife brought him – a bison leather laptop and briefcase combo from Coronado Leather. Let’s just say the kids still talk about that Christmas … “Hey, do you remember when Dad bought Mom the meat grinder for Christmas, and she cried?”
I know it was the steroids, though, because I felt like crushing a beer can on my head, too.
So, Grind a Pound for Me!
Last December I shot two does within 30 seconds on hunting grounds in northern Missouri, and the big doe weighed in at 186 pounds after being field dressed. The smaller one weighed about 120. That’s a lot of meat and what better way to bring the whole experience around than to grind it up and package it at home? The gals at the Women in the Outdoors Event and I butchered 7 deer in the shed while our guides watched a football game with their eyes closed that afternoon. Later, my husband commented, “Do you gals know what a roast is?” There were lots of strips and bits in bags.
So, not only did I buy sausage casings, but seasonings and other contraptions for the grinder, like a sausage shooter tallywhampus. I learned how to fold sausages so that one four-foot section became 8 or 10 sausages. It was like learning balloon art. Sausage art. I made an elephant. Not really.
And now, there’s another sausage, er hunting season, coming. We’ve already sighted in our rifles, have been pulling our bows, set up the stands, and keep checking the game cameras regularly. Soon we’ll be out with either bows or rifles.
One thing I’ve learned though … once you’re hooked on grinding your own venison [or insert your own wild game preference here], you too will figure out that a grinder might just be the best Christmas present for the one you love!
I love it! Especially your transition from scabies to the meatgrinder!
Yes, well now some folks know the truth … even if you take a shower every night, you might still meet a scabies mite or two somewhere. I truly think it happened in Alabama though. And, talk about ITCHY!
Nice! I have a meat processor too. His name is Hank. (I know, I know – so spoiled!)