Warning: This post may be too much for the squeamish — those who prefer not to think about where their food comes from.

Last week there was a video making the rounds of the Interweb of a certain “political celebrity” giving an interview while a turkey slaughter was happening in the background. There was a lot of hullabaloo about the scene, and about the celebrity showing no concern about the activity.

All you citified folk who’ve never seen food “prepared” from the farm, let me tell you what I’ve seen.

My granddaddy and grandmomma (on my father’s side) lived on a farm. I visited usually every weekend (at least on Sundays, after church), and I’d sometimes spend a week there in the summers. On the farm, they had chickens, pigs, and goats.

I’ve tried milk still warm from a goat. (I didn’t like it.) I’ve collected eggs from the chickens in the morning, watched my grandma cook them, and ate them for breakfast. I’ve seen a chicken’s neck wrung, watched it kick and flap until it stopped. I’ve seen pigs castrated — not something I want to see again. I’ve petted a pig one day, watched it slaughtered the next day, and dined on its delicious meat the next.

My grandparents (on my mother’s side) were seafood lovers. I’ve caught fish and crabs, watched them be gutted, and loved the cooked meat.

My step-dad was an avid deer hunter, and I sometimes went with him. Though I never managed to kill a deer, myself, I’ve seen them killed. I’ve watched as a deer was skinned, dressed, and the meat cut up. For years, my family ate deer meat (instead of beef) killed by my step-dad, or one of his hunting buddies.

None of the people above would have ever thought it anything odd to be photographed while a slaughter went on in the background. Hell, they wouldn’t have thought it anything odd to be performing the slaughter in a photograph. The process was no more unusual to them than picking apples off a tree or picking ears of corn off a stalk.

Slaughter happens. It has to happen if we’re to eat meat — and I eat meat. So, although I don’t enjoy seeing the process, (and I haven’t seen it in many years, now), I just can’t get all upset when someone else has no problem with the process.

Bullgrit

Cowgrit’s original diamond engagement ring was nice. It wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t really big, either — we were both young and neither of us had a career yet. (I’ve seen some tiny diamond rings before, and I’d rather not give a diamond than give one embarrassingly small.) Five years ago, I decided to upgrade her diamond ring.

Several weeks before Christmas, I started shopping around. It’s not easy to sneak around on your wife, running out to stores during lunch hours, on the way home from work, and such. It’s funny to think about how much we are just all in each other’s daily routine.

It’s not that either of us is keeping a tight reign on the other, but we’re just so used to knowing we can pick up the phone and call. And we know each other’s routines. Basically, each of us knows for pretty near certain, exactly where the other is, and what they are doing, at any given time of the day. So changing that routine on the sly can be difficult.

At least twice, Cowgrit called me on my cell phone while I was in a jewelry store looking at diamonds.

“Hello,” I answer. The salesperson sits back and stays quiet, knowing I’m being secretive.

“Hey honey,” she says. “It’s five-thirty. Have you left your office? I’m working on dinner.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve left the office. I just stopped by the mall for a few minutes.”

“That’s a good idea. You going to get that toy for Calfgrit2?”

“I’ll get it if they have it in stock.”

“Great. You’ll be home soon?”

“Yeah, I’ll be home soon.”

Then I make sure to, after leaving the jewelry store, run by the toy store and see about that toy. It was moments like that, when I’m trying to sneak around, that I realize just how close we always are.

For our original engagement ring, I had Cowgrit directly pick out the ring, herself. I knew absolutely nothing about diamonds or rings. It was (and still is) a nice ring. But this time I was working on my own. And this time, I could get something bigger and better — something for a mature woman from a man with a good salary. Once I had a ring picked out, I had Cowgrit’s mother stop by the jewelry store to look at the ring and tell me her opinion.

Then, after six or eight weeks of secret shopping, I had the ring. I also bought her a cute t-shirt, and I taped the ring to the inside lid of the shirt box, and wrapped it up.

Come Christmas morning, I made sure to have the video camera in my hands and running when she was opening her “simple” gift from me. She’s so sweet — she said she “loved” the t-shirt. “Thank you, honey,” she said. She never let on that a simple t-shirt (no matter how cute) is a sorry Christmas gift from a husband.

“Is there anything else in the box,” I suggested, keeping the camera rolling on her.

When she discovered the ring . . . that look on her face. I’m glad I have it on video. The only thing better than seeing her happy and excited expression is knowing that I’m the one who caused it.

And I’m really glad I gave that gift that Christmas. Because the next Christmas, we had a second child, and now the two boys take up all our time and thoughts for Christmas gifts. Now the best gift I can give Cowgrit is a day of peace and quiet.

Bullgrit

Sometimes the auto-ads on either side of my site confuse me. I have no idea what keywords they’re hitting on to bring up things like dating sites, weight loss plans, or Hello Kitty items for sale at Target. So I’m going to try an experiment today by inserting a particular word several times in this post. See if you can identify the word. (Everything in this post is still true to my life.)

I’m feeling rather gay today. It’s Friday, so we’re almost at the weekend. Friday is a great day for feeling gay.

A few weeks ago, in the first week at my new job, I was setting up instant messenger to communicate with my coworkers around the building. At one point, I got an automatic message telling me that someone was adding me to their friends list. I didn’t recognize the IM name -– was just initials and numbers -– so I asked, “Who are you?”

I figured it must be someone in our office adding me like I was adding others. But the response gave me pause. “This is Gay,” they said.

Okay, what did that mean? After a couple minutes (I hadn’t responded), the person said that they had lost their contacts the day before and was just adding them back.

This person mentioned the first and last name of someone who was helping them get their contacts back. I recognized this new name as someone I used to work with a couple years ago, and then the initials of the IMer made sense – Gay is a woman I used to work with a couple years ago.

What a relief. We chatted for a couple minutes. I like Gay.

And speaking of this name, Gay, I used to know an older man (when I was a teenager) who also had the first name of Gay. He joked that he considered getting a personalized license plate that said, “IM GAY,” but his family wouldn’t let him do it. He was funny like that – he had a great sense of humor. He seemed always very gay.

Bullgrit

Cowgrit snuck an apple into my backpack (read: my professional brief case). She tries very hard to keep me healthy. It’s an uphill push for her.

Around 10:00 in the morning, the cereal I had for breakfast was wearing off and I was needing a snack. I pulled out the apple and sat it on my desk. It’ll be good, I thought. If it wasn’t right here at hand, I’d have probably gone to the vending machine and got something the nurse wouldn’t approve of.

Before I got to my first bite of the apple, though, an email came in. Donuts were in the break room to celebrate the birthdays for November. Ooh, donuts.

I looked at the apple on my desk. I looked at the email. I looked at the apple. I looked at the email.

Then I remembered the science of nutrition: good food makes up for bad food. Right?

I abandoned the apple and went to get a donut. Mmmm. Yum. It was Krispy Kreme.

But the apple was still sitting there on my desk when I got back. It seemed to be looking at me with a slightly disapproving glare. I think I heard it politely clear its throat. “Ahem,” it whispered. “Don’t forget me.”

I ate the apple, too. So that should have canceled out the donut, right? So my nutritional balance still hovers right in the middle, right?

It made Cowgrit happy when I told her I ate the apple. I didn’t tell her about the donut. I mean, who am I to spoil her satisfaction?

Bullgrit