You guys have watched as I have prepared for this moment.
You’ve stood by me as I have studied. Supported me as I have prepared. And now, not only has my hard work paid off, but I am one step closer to never having cervid detritus speckle my kitchen ever again.
I butchered.
I butchered. For the first time ever, in my whole life. Not once, but twice last weekend.
I butchered.
We were, of course, at The Cabin. Don rotated through the kids, taking them squirrel hunting. I, in the proud tradition of newbies everywhere, gave my expert hunter some guff.
I pointed out that, according to my Pennsylvania Hunting and Trapping Digest, small game season was still a few weeks away. Sometimes, there are specially designated weeks for mentored hunting or kids’ hunting. Was this such a week?
If you’re going to be condescending, it pays to be looking at the current Pennsylvania Hunting and Trapping Digest, which I was not. I was looking at 2019.
Why I had 2019’s Digest I couldn’t tell you. Maybe we read it for book club?
It is indeed small game season in Pennsylvania. My husband and son, early Saturday morning, arrived back at The Cabin with their quarry. A squirrel, left outside on the butchering table.
Wow. Those are words I never thought I’d say. Recently, I drove past my old apartment, where I lived when Don and I started dating. It’s on the Main Line, walking distance from a Whole Foods. I took the train every day. Enjoyed Center City when I wasn’t in the hospital enjoying neurosurgery.
I am not that girl anymore.
I asked my boys if I could butcher. My son was overjoyed to turn his hard-won squirrel over to me. Don was overjoyed to guide me.
It was go time.
I was still in my pajamas. Obviously, I couldn’t butcher in my pajamas. If I butchered in my pajamas, squirrel goo would contaminate the cozy plaid folds. Even if I couldn’t actually see squirrel goo on my pajamas, my Obsessiveness would consider those pajamas contaminated.
No amount of washing would ever convince my Obsessiveness those pajamas were actually clean. And under no circumstances would my Obsessiveness allow me to wear those pajamas into my bed.
My bed would then be contaminated. I could never use it again.
So obviously, I had to change.
Whenever I pictured myself butchering, my mind’s eye always saw a really cute, butchery-type outfit. Don and I used to watch Boardwalk Empire. There was a character who was a butcher. He was also a mobster who killed people. But he was from Willow Grove, like me. So I really identified with him.
He had a leather apron. My imagined outfit always included a leather apron.
My hair would be up, my make-up flawless. I would be in a white T-shirt. I usually shun white T-shirts. My pale hair and paler skin allow white shirts to erase me of what small color I possess. But my leather apron would be black. I could white T-shirt away.
I’d also have a pair of thick, khaki cargo pants. Carharrt maybe, or my new obsession, Filson. And of course, sturdy boots, which would live outside so as not to track intestines and stuff through my house.
I guess I thought that outfit would appear by magic. I had not showered, as it were, yet, so no make-up beautified my face. I had no clothes, no shoes that fit my imagined outfit.
So I did what I think any butcher worth her salt would do. I grabbed my J.Crew “Après Ski” T-shirt, my ripped Gap jeans, my Essie nail polish in Wicked, and my Timberlands.
Suitably, if not adorably, decked, I headed outside.
I reviewed my squirrel butchering guide from Hank Shaw as I walked through the morning rain to my father-in-law’s butchering table. I thought I was prepared.
I was not prepared.
The squirrel lay on the table, adorable in his squirrel-ness. I was not expecting him – yes, I checked – to be so cute even in death.
But I dissected two cats on my way to a master’s degree, so I drew on that experience to begin this one. I showed Don my Hank Shaw guide. He explained his method, somewhat different from Hank’s.
“Ooh! Ooh!” I exclaimed. “I know! There’s more than one way to skin a squirrel?!”
Don didn’t think I was funny. I thought I was hilarious.
I asked Don to call me Billy Butcher, which he refused to do because he doesn’t watch The Boys. And maybe because Karl Urban is, well, everything.
But having someone who really knows me teach me to butcher made all the difference. Don has stood in line with me for an hour and a half to get the best seats at the premiere of The Dark Knight. He’s come home to find pets adopted in his absence. He’s understood that sometimes he’s not allowed to kiss me because I’m dirty.
Not dirty in a good way. Dirty in a bad way. Like just cleaned the litter box bad way. Just cleaned the toilet bad way. Just scooped Petey poop bad way.
So Don knew my lifetime of comic books, William Shatner one-man shows, and superhero movies gave me little frame of reference to butcher. He knew my uncontrollable urge to give shelter to homeless animals would make butchering emotional for me. And he knew my Obsessiveness would be in overdrive, screaming at me about germs, germs, germs!
He offered me surgical gloves, in an attempt to silence my Obsessiveness. My Obsessiveness danced with delight. Don so rarely indulges him. Worse, he often antagonizes – intentionally and unintentionally – my Obsessiveness. My Obsessiveness screamed for me to Take the gloves! Take the gloves!
But I didn’t. When in Rome and all.
As I worked, Don spoke to the nurse in me, the surgical nurse practitioner in me. In so doing, the process became logical, a linear sequence to follow.
I removed the skin first, turning my blade broadside and flat, moving in small, gentle strokes to separate fascia from meat. Don said he was impressed with my skill, that my knowledge of anatomy was clearly aiding me.
My knifework had nothing to do with my knowledge of anatomy.
There’s something I think we all know about Netflix. Netflix is like pizza. Even if what’s before you isn’t what you normally consume, you can still find something about it to enjoy. I don’t like peppers on my pizza, but I can still enjoy the crust.
I never would have sat down on my own to watch a hunting show on Netflix. So when Don first started watching MeatEater, I would tuck my nose into my book.
But I eventually found the crust in that slice of pepper pizza. Now I set my book aside and watch along with Don.
I’ve watched hunters on that show butcher dozens of times. They always separate fascia from meat with their blades turned broadside, using small, gentle strokes.
As I worked, Don repeated his praise. I did this well. I did that well. I doubt any of it was true, but along with everything else he also knows I’m a perfectionist. So he lavished the praise and offered the occasional course correction. And when I was done, I had a nicely butchered squirrel even my inner critic was proud of.
Although my inner critic doesn’t like that I ended that last sentence with a preposition.
When Don and my daughter returned later in the day with more squirrels, I butchered again, this time with less guidance from Don, who knows I also hate being told what to do. I drank my beer. Butchered my squirrel. Chatted with my husband.
As the day wound down, I felt emotionally drained. I felt sad for the squirrel. I felt pride in my husband and kids, who had procured a meal for our family. I felt gross because pulling squirrel goo from your hands doesn’t leave you easily. I was nauseated. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw fascia pulling away from meat.
Later, Don and I sat on the sofa and watched Jeremiah Johnson. One of my proudest contributions to The Cabin is that we now watch TV while we’re there.
I don’t know where Jeremiah Johnson falls in the outdoorsman’s canon. Is it what Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan is to the Trek universe? Central, integral, often referenced and widely loved? Or is it more like a Trek novel? Only accessed and appreciated by Trekkers?
I didn’t enjoy Jeremiah Johnson. Honestly, if I wanted to watch a grumpy outdoorsman seek solitude in the wild I’d just follow Don around all day. And what’s a Robert Redford movie if the Winter Soldier and Cap don’t show up every once in a while?
My neck began to ache as we watched Jeremiah stumble from one adventure to another. Meningitis, obviously, from whatever weird amoeba I picked up from the dead squirrel. I told Don, who agreed, and refused to take care of anyone after my inevitable death.
He’d be Jeremiah Johnson. Living off the land and away from people. No Winter Soldier. No Cap.
As we drove home the next day, I told Don about the emotional distress, the nausea, the persistent visions when I closed my eyes. He asked if my butchering days were over.
I gazed out over the highway. A dead squirrel lay in our path. And I reflected that our squirrels are better off. Their meat would be used, instead of left to rot on a central Pennsylvania highway.
That poor highway squirrel gave me some of the gumption I needed to tell Don I was only just beginning.
But honestly, I feel way worse after Don butchers in the kitchen than after butchering for myself at The Cabin.
I will never again find animal bits stuck to my floor. Mystery fluid coating my cabinets. Bone slivers in my sink.
That’s all the motivation I need.