go hug your butcher

the butcher rises early with the hens and has his hands in the meat before the sun crests the horizon.  he leaves the temperate morning breeze for a frozen box.  the butcher works in the winter, even when the calendar reads summer and autumn.  a frigid air blows overhead on his wool-capped head—nose tip and finger tips red with numb feelings. 

he gracefully dances an elegant protein ballet, gliding effortlessly across the slick floors.  meats, and spices, and wines, and herbs are meticulously scaled and measured like science class, and gently combined like a painter's pallet.  the ancient forces of our ancestor’s lessons and habits are worked with salt on steel to forge stable, clean, and preserved foods to last the course of the seasons. 

to breathe the fumes from curing meats—all hanging dynamically still—is to breathe the fumes of history.  centennials and millennia have come and gone since these techniques were first discovered by men of the past, and these methods today remain relevant still.

the butchers shoulder blades pinch back towards his spine to rev power, driving his elbows down through his wrists, imprinting his spirit to the meat underhand.  like a baker with dough, the butcher kneads small batches of ground meat and ground spices into tightly worked balls.  the meat is driven into salt packed intestines--the same as men of all cultures have done since the first day they realized how—honoring the true cost of an animals life sacrificed to the plate by using its every bits. 

the butcher is an artist, and the meat is his canvas. 

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