Meat in the middle

The closest I ever came to a divorce was the afternoon I first made venison brats.

Admittedly, it was a rush job. I harvested my deer in the early morning, dragged him to a nearby trail, waited for the hour that made it legal to run my wheeler, and hauled him out of the woods. I drove him home, hung him, skun him, quartered him in quick fashion. From there the real work began.

Everything about processing a deer is a ritual: a personal one, one that comes back to you the moment you sharpen your knives and dive in. As I prepare for the first cuts, I’m taken back to my childhood. Always with my brothers Bob and Bruce, we’d each anchor a corner of the kitchen table. The butchering of the deer is a family affair, and this job is not optional; it is a vital part of the hunt.

Dad is the foreman. He decides on which cuts to entrust to each of his boys. Bob and Bruce work on backstraps, roasts, and steaks. I’m on burger duty, a job that’s all but impossible to mess up. Mom is in charge of wrapping and labeling; she’s retired from cutting duty, her boys can hack it.

My ritual follows a similar pattern, minus all the help from the kids. After I quarter my deer, I lug it inside to my kitchen table. My kids will volunteer. They sit excitedly, with their own knives and chunks of venison to process. Inevitably, their enthusiasm wanes and it’s back to a solo job.

I prefer it this way. I like sharp knives and purposeful cuts. If I’ve been fortunate enough to harvest a deer, I don’t want to waste any of it. It’s a good feeling, processing the venison myself and feeding my family the natural protein, and I’m thankful to know where our meat comes from.

I’m pretty simple in my division of the meat: one pile for roasts, another for backstraps and steaks. Anything else ends up in two barely distinguishable piles: stew meat and the soon-to-be burger pile. After making my midafternoon trip to Super One for some pork sausage, the burger grinding commences. By the time all the burger is processed, it is pushing late afternoon.

My wife Jamie usually enters the process slowly. Somewhere in the last couple of decades we’ve developed an understanding of her role in all of this. She is the wrapper, and she is darn good at it. I know there is a light at the end of the tunnel when she appears at the kitchen table with 150 feet of wrapping paper and a roll of masking tape. She precisely cuts one-inch pieces of tape and lines them along the edge of the table. Everything will be double-wrapped; there will be no mess; she will touch zero meat — these rules are all understood and go unspoken. The finish line is in sight, about 20 packages of burger. All I have to do is collect the burger in a neat pile and plop it in the center of the paper. Jamie will wrap, tape, and label the packages in almost effortless fashion. We will be done in no time.

However, I have an idea. “You know we should try making some brats,” I hear myself mentioning, almost admitting mid-sentence it is not the best idea.

Back to the store I go. First to B&B and then to L&M. Having no experience, I do what I often do. I pull out my phone. Brat seasoning proves easy, but this casing deal was still a mystery to me. Hogskin, lambskin, natural casings all lined the shelves. I wonder momentarily if I had accidently stumbled into some natural foods contraception aisle? Confident in my newly found YouTube knowledge, I buy some hog casings and head home. How hard could it be? Mix the burger and the brat seasoning, push the burger through the grinder, fill some casings … tasty brats.

The package said to soak the casings in cold water for a half-hour. By now it is getting late. Somewhere along the line we agreed to dinner with some friends, crunching our timeline. The math could work: half-hour to soak, half-hour to whip up some brats. Plenty of time to clean up and enjoy a night out.

Leaving 25 pounds of burger on the table or crammed in the fridge is out of the question, so our collective brat-making begins. I fill the hopper while Jamie waits patiently with the casing placed over the business end of the grinder. As the machine whirls, I shove down and out comes the burger — visions of delicious brats dance in my head. The casing rips, the brat concoction squirts onto the table and, more ominously, into my wife’s hair.

“What are you doing?” I ask in an irritated tone. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I try to take them back. To her credit, she does not shank me with any sharp objects within arm’s reach.

I try again. I push softer. Same results, only in slow motion.

I push harder, an even worse idea, as would-be brats fly across the room.

With each attempt we become more irritated, mostly with the process but inevitably with each other. Unfortunately, it gets heated, as I quickly exhaust my explanations. “Perhaps the casings are the wrong size?” “Maybe you’re holding it wrong?” “Maybe the grinder has too much horsepower?” None of the explanations get to the truth of the matter: I have no idea what I am doing.

Of course, Jamie knows this already. She’s seen that same helpless look before: me trying to fix the garage door or empty the trap on the sink. Admittedly, I’m not the most mechanically inclined, but I’m also not afraid to tackle something new. However, I know my brat-making days are over the same day they had begun.

Jamie, as she often does, salvages the situation. She takes over the production line and, with some slight adjustment, is able to crank out a mess of brats in short order. We even make dinner on time, although the truck ride is pretty quiet.

We laugh about it now. Mostly. Jamie has kept her wrapping job; after all, she is a professional. Recently, I’ve plunged back into experimentation. I’ve figured out meat sticks, jerky, salami, and even a few batches of brats. I’ve also figured out these are solo endeavors. The last round of brats actually turned out pretty good.

Jamie let me know, “We could have enjoyed these for years if you had just listened to me the first time.” “Yes, dear,” I respond.

After all, it’s the only logical response. You don’t want to look in your kids’ eyes and explain their mother is long gone over meat production issues.

Area Meat Processing

Carlton Meat and Grocery, 500 Third St., Carlton. Big game processing, sausage making and more. (218) 384-9910, [email protected], carltonmeatandgroc.wixsite.com/website

Gamache and Sons Deer Processing, 10 Farmstead Road, Esko. (218) 878-1077

TJ’s Country Corner, 2751 Market St. in Mahtowa. (218) 389-6257, ourwurstisbest.com

Bear’s Den Wild Game Processing, 5231 Hwy 33 in Saginaw. Complete processing service. (218) 591-1677

Proctor Milkhouse, 304 Third Ave., Proctor. (218) 624-0743