We have learned the hard way that
slaughterhouses are places not only of killing, but also of a more
mundane kind of shady business. We had been going to a local
abbatoir for our pigs until we realized, on our last visit, that they
had shorted us by about two dozen pounds of meat – meat that would
be sold for $11/lb. It was not a negligeable amount. Though, which
cuts were missing, we had no way of knowing for sure. The fat was
particularly low, though.
I use fat to make lard for pastry –
it is of significantly better quality than Tenderflake, the standard
store-shelf lard, which is heavily processed and hardly digestible.
Good lard is hard to find – few farmers who keep their own lard
have enough to sell, and I don't know where the rest of it goes, but
abbatoirs don't seem to have a lot on hand.
We went to another abbatoir further
away this last time – in fact, a good hour away, hoping that we
would have better luck. Sure enough, upon returning from our second
long trip to pick up the meat we had delivered a week previous, we
realized the fat we had requested had been left out altgother.
We made the third trip this week.
Since we began farming, we have had no
expectation of taking summer vacations, but this was an opportunity
to make use of a business trip to enjoy a few hours of leisure before
heading back to do afternoon feeding, weeding, strawberry picking,
watering, steamed bun making, wood stacking, goat herding, garlic
scape picking, and supper.
What a day it was: we got to the
abbatoir minutes before they were to close for lunch, picked up the
bag of white mass, stuck it in the cooler, and drove back towards the
tourist towns of the county, stopping along the highway at a couple
of farmgates – little tables set up in some places, others
elaborate structures, some stores with proper cash registers.
We took note of the way people
interacted, the displays, and the food itself. Generally, there was
nothing memorable – cherries, raspberries, a feta and spinach
pastry with a waffled surface, a loaf of bread – but it was
certainly more satisfying than what we usually accept as road food.
As we were driving on the 401 earlier
in the day, I had noticed Denny's after Denny's, McDonald's after McDonald's, Tim
Hortonses everywhere...and asked XB, “isn't it strange that these few
companies, owned by a tiny proportion of the population, people who
live far away and have never been to Napanee or Picton, are
everywhere, absolutely everywhere except for dying towns like ours?”
We headed south at the County's main
town, wound along nice two-lane highways, and after a few turns and
twenty minutes, arrived at the winery owned by people who vend at one
of the farmers market we do.
We were served samples of five wines,
and two cheeses, and I, for the first time, noticed interesting
flavours and characters in wine.
The little detours brought out an
enjoyment that is hard to come by when you have more time and money
than you need. There was no time for the squabbles and boredom that
happen on extended vacations, nor was there enough spending
opportunity on the few stops we made, to feel like money was pouring
out.
We bought a bottle of wine and a block
of cheese and drove back through the main town, across the lake, and
stopped on the native reserve just outside of Deseronto, at a tiny
cafe.
We ordered a coffee and a smoothie,
browsed some of the native crafts, the bear cream, the wall of
aboriginal artists' CDs. The owner invited us to stop out back and
see the yard where summer concerts are held, and have a seat in the
teepee, drink our drinks in there if we wanted. We sat down, it was
comfortable, cooler and nicely shaded.
After a few more minutes by the water,
seeing people waterskiing, hearing the buzz of motoboats, and breifly
revisiting the Canadian dream, we got back in the car and drove back
to the farm.
