Monday, May 18, 2009
Huckleberry Dairy
This weekend, I went to my bishop's ranch. It was awesome! We separated the calves from the cows, and then everyone tried to help the Bishop and his other cowboy friends round up and lasso the calves. The bishop's 10 year old grandson called us "city slickers" and mocked us a lot. I never did rope a cow, but I learned the theory behind a lasso, at least.
But we had to brand all the cows, so what we would do is someone would rope their feet and then drag them along until they fell, or mostly fell, and then two or three of us would jump on the cow and roll it over so its its right side was up. The smaller cows needed two people to hold them. One person (me, sometimes) would kneel on the neck and hold the right front leg up close to the body, like a praying mantis leg. The other person (me, sometimes) would sit at the tail end and hold the left hind leg on the ground with their right foot, and grab the right hind leg and hold on for dear life. Then, someone (me, sometimes) would come with the vaccinations and shoot those in the neck. If the calf was a bull, the bishop's daughter came up and neutered it. She would grab the scrotum and cut off the bottom two or three inches of it, and then these whitish, maggoty, slimy testicles would fall out with a lot of blood and fat. They were about three inches long, in thin membrane-like sacks. Then, she would pull each testicle out of the scrotum until it separated from the muscle, and she'd cut the nut (they totally called it that, it was hilarious) away from the fat that was holding it on. Sometimes the whole testicle would just come out when she pulled. And then someone (me, sometimes) would run up and spray iodine onto the bloody remainder of private parts that the poor disgraced bull-turned-steer could call his own. After that, someone (this was never me, I couldn't bear to do it) would come with the branding iron, which was electric, and hold it on the cow's side. All this yellowish smoke would come out, and the poor cow would bellow, and they had to hold it on there until the mark left was pink and raw--otherwise, the brand wouldn't stay longer than a year.
I was surprised, because the bulls seemed to hate the branding a lot more than the castrating. I mean, I know that searing metal held to your skin, turning you from raw to well-done steak wouldn't be pleasant, but it seems like having your balls forcibly removed would be just as bad. And more humiliating.
During the branding, a calf got loose, and a few people from my ward and I chased it all around two pastures before getting it through a gate, and then it escaped again. It was really hard to guide it because it would run away from you, but its direction was unpredictable. If you ever need to drive a calf somewhere, run even with its shoulder, and not right behind it. I was exhausted.
After we branded all the calves--there were about 45--we ate lunch. It was so good, with pasta salads and fresh pork and beef and watermelon. The farm is a dairy farm, and so we had raw milk, which is maybe heaven. And there was homemade strawberry and peach ice cream made with their milk. Also, they grilled the cow testicles. When the actual testicle pops out of the membrane, it's finished cooking, and it's called a rocky mountain oyster. You're just supposed to eat the testicle, not the membrane. I totally ate one. It wasn't bad, either.
But we had to brand all the cows, so what we would do is someone would rope their feet and then drag them along until they fell, or mostly fell, and then two or three of us would jump on the cow and roll it over so its its right side was up. The smaller cows needed two people to hold them. One person (me, sometimes) would kneel on the neck and hold the right front leg up close to the body, like a praying mantis leg. The other person (me, sometimes) would sit at the tail end and hold the left hind leg on the ground with their right foot, and grab the right hind leg and hold on for dear life. Then, someone (me, sometimes) would come with the vaccinations and shoot those in the neck. If the calf was a bull, the bishop's daughter came up and neutered it. She would grab the scrotum and cut off the bottom two or three inches of it, and then these whitish, maggoty, slimy testicles would fall out with a lot of blood and fat. They were about three inches long, in thin membrane-like sacks. Then, she would pull each testicle out of the scrotum until it separated from the muscle, and she'd cut the nut (they totally called it that, it was hilarious) away from the fat that was holding it on. Sometimes the whole testicle would just come out when she pulled. And then someone (me, sometimes) would run up and spray iodine onto the bloody remainder of private parts that the poor disgraced bull-turned-steer could call his own. After that, someone (this was never me, I couldn't bear to do it) would come with the branding iron, which was electric, and hold it on the cow's side. All this yellowish smoke would come out, and the poor cow would bellow, and they had to hold it on there until the mark left was pink and raw--otherwise, the brand wouldn't stay longer than a year.
I was surprised, because the bulls seemed to hate the branding a lot more than the castrating. I mean, I know that searing metal held to your skin, turning you from raw to well-done steak wouldn't be pleasant, but it seems like having your balls forcibly removed would be just as bad. And more humiliating.
During the branding, a calf got loose, and a few people from my ward and I chased it all around two pastures before getting it through a gate, and then it escaped again. It was really hard to guide it because it would run away from you, but its direction was unpredictable. If you ever need to drive a calf somewhere, run even with its shoulder, and not right behind it. I was exhausted.
After we branded all the calves--there were about 45--we ate lunch. It was so good, with pasta salads and fresh pork and beef and watermelon. The farm is a dairy farm, and so we had raw milk, which is maybe heaven. And there was homemade strawberry and peach ice cream made with their milk. Also, they grilled the cow testicles. When the actual testicle pops out of the membrane, it's finished cooking, and it's called a rocky mountain oyster. You're just supposed to eat the testicle, not the membrane. I totally ate one. It wasn't bad, either.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Musical Number Bandit
Today I was supposed to play the piano for this leadership meeting for our stake. I rode with Bekah and Kyrie and Hillary and Jalena, and we went to sit down before everything started. I wasn't sure how it was all going to play out, so I went up to the people on the stage and said, "Hi, I'm Rachel, and I'm supposed to play the musical number for tonight." And he said, "Oh! Really? Ok. What's your name again?" And it sounded like they didn't really need me to play, so I said, "Well, I don't have to play, if you weren't planning on it." But I was pretty annoyed, because that's the only reason I even went there, you know? But he said, "No, no, we love music! I'll have you play after we introduce the speaker."
So that all went down, and then I went and played, but it was a really awkward time for a "special musical number," right between when they introduce the speaker and when he's supposed to talk. I felt pretty foolish the whole time, like I'd forced myself on them, even though I'd been asked to play several weeks ago.
The song went fine, and when I went to sit down again I said to Kyrie and Bekah, "They were so weird about me playing! Like they didn't even expect me at all!" And then Kyrie said, "Guys, they just announced the stake president, but they didn't say President Ford!" And we asked the boy next to us, and he said that that wasn't the leadership meeting! And our meeting was next door in the other church!
So we sprinted accross the parking lot, about ten after seven, and right when I ran in to the building I heard the speaker say, "Well, I guess my talk will have to be about 3 minutes longer than I thought," and I knew he meant because I wasn't there, and then I saw Brian Hedengrin in the audience motioning for me to go up to the stage, and I turned and ran-walked up the aisle and everyone was waving at the speaker, telling him I was there, and I gasped, "We went to the wrong chapel, but I'm the musical number if you still need me!" And I felt totally, motally stupid and they said, well, come up, we've already complimented and thanked you! so I ran up on the stand and they helped me put the cover of the piano up (the piano was IDENTICAL to the piano I had played on only moments before) and he said, do you need a minute to compose yourself? And I said no, I don't need to breathe while I play, and the old ladies on the stand laughed and then I sat down and played--pretty well, too, all things considered--and marched back off the stage.
Whew.
It was maybe the most embarrassing thing ever.
Also, the people in the first meeting--which was actually a fireside--will probably never know! Bekah has christened us the "musical number bandits," and we just rush in to random meetings and insist on playing Allegrettos for whoever will listen.
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