Meeting your meat: One woman's farm-to-plate experience
Investing in cow connects her family to their food
From the time I toddled, I dabbled in “cooking,” scrawling recipes with a newly acquired tripod grip. Sure, my early attempts — celery-stuffed, microwave-zapped mushrooms, anyone? — were laughable. But one thing has been true from the start: Food and I are linked.
Later, I pored over cookbooks rather than breezy beach reads. I hosted dinner parties with my husband-to-be, our ramshackle, third-floor apartment transformed by pork roast scents, enlivened by garlicky bruschetta.
(Jean Lachat/Sun-Times)
As an adult, I wanted to share this world with my son. I toted Hayden, a preemie, along to restaurants, made baby food from scratch and brought him to farmers markets and gourmet grocers. The heartbreaking thing is he has chronic, pervasive digestive
issues; consequently, he’s not an eater like me.
We talk about food a lot, though, and he willingly tastes things that would, frankly, frighten most kids. (Raw, tentacle-y octopus comes to mind.) He wants to know where food came from. He smells it; he appreciates the rainbow of colors sprouting from our vegetable garden each year.
I’m always looking for ways to increase his comfort level — and mine. Meat always has been a different story for me, though: Shrink-wrapped or butcher-papered, that’s where I peaked. I finally decided to do something about it.
Word of mouth led me to Grazin’ Acres, an idyllic 140-acre central Illinois farm that raises grass-fed, pasture-raised beef. It’s both hormone and antibiotic-free. Terry and Judy Bachtold, its stewards, graciously extended an invitation to the farm, agreeing to raise and reserve an animal for us.
On a hazy August morning, my husband, son and I joined the Bachtolds as they herded cattle, which were lowing with hungry displeasure, to a fresh field. The sound, so urgent and soothing, brought tears to my eyes. That feeling didn’t ebb as I realized the cows were scared — of us.
When I actually laid eyes on our gentle, soulful-looking gal, who cowered when a pint-sized puppy approached, I had to turn away.
“I’m going to eat you, and I’m sorry,” I croaked, appreciative that her branding tag had somehow disappeared. It felt more anonymous that way.
I thought about all the sweat that went into raising just one cow, much less the 35 the Bachtolds own. They have full-time jobs — he works for the agriculture department, and she’s a full-time postal worker. Until recently, they also maintained the property at a large cemetery in an effort to get by.
The Bachtolds’ free time is devoted to caring for the animals — lovingly, I might add. The farmers move cows from pasture to pasture every few days. They harvest and bundle straw and hay; the former serves as bedding, while the latter sustains the cattle when the grass (which remains green throughout winter) is too icy to eat.
This meat they’re producing is far from average. Unlike conventionally raised, grain-fed cattle, which can be butchered at as early as 14 months of age, grass-fed cows take up to two years to mature.
For all that effort, the Bachtolds receive about $2,400 per 1,200-pound cow, which begs the question, “Why?”
“Terry would rather die than not farm,” Judy says. “He’s a third-generation farmer. It’s who he is.”
That doesn’t mean it has been easy. Improving the herd through bull selection has been a long, costly and arduous process. The Bachtolds are committed to sustainability. They do what they do while surrounded by soybean fields and endless rows of cash-crop corn.
I returned alone several weeks later — the rainy, cold morning of the slaughter — to visit the meat locker. Our black, sleek bovine had departed, quite literally, at dawn. The Bachtolds’ home, so warm and welcoming, wafted with the scent of slow-cooked beef.
We drove to Chenoa Locker where, shakily, I put on a brave face and strapped on boots and a cap. After getting the go-ahead from the U.S. Department of Agriculture inspector, I was allowed to see everything.
I watched workers break down the meat; pushed (with no shortage of effort) past my just-butchered cow, which aged in the cooler, and breathed deeply in the curing room, where crackly-skinned ham hung. In a separate area, I saw the hog scalder that removes pigs’ bristly hair, and I stepped into the sub-zero freezer lined with bounty.
And, yes, I witnessed a slaughter.
Goats were on the kill floor. Two were being skinned, under the watchful eye of the inspector, with lightning-quick precision. A stunned goat, plucked by its back hoof, was sliced at the neck. As he bled over a can, twitching, residue on the floor was washed away.
Was it jarring? I suppose. But the truth is, it also was matter of fact. After the kill, I looked into the slaughterer’s eyes. What I saw surprised me. “I’m not evil,” he seemed to say. “This feeds my family and yours.”
Back at the farm, we sat down to a delicious meal of arm roast with mashed potatoes, gravy and chunky applesauce. Despite what I’d seen, I had no qualms about eating what was put before me. I felt grateful.
Before heading home, in battering rain, I watched as the vet assessed cattle pregnancies (a messy affair), administered vitamin shots and castrated bulls. The Bachtolds, soaked to the core, strained to corral cattle; I huddled under my umbrella, feeling useless.
At home, Hayden had a barrage of questions, and I answered them as honestly as I could. I conveyed was how special this meat was, how privileged we were to have a connection and how important it is to know our food. I also said I felt sad.
“I think it’s exciting,” was his reply. We were both right.
After two weeks of aging time, we piled in the car and picked up the meat. I stocked my chest freezer to the brim, vowing to honor this food best way I know how: with pure, unabashed enjoyment.
As for my first bite, a Cheddar-stuffed, bacon-topped burger? It’s arguably the best thing I have ever eaten.
Jennifer Olvera is a local free-lance writer.