So a few days ago, I got the idea to grind some deer burger. I ran out awhile back, but haven’t had the motivation to do anything about it. I asked my friend Cody if he wanted to come over for dinner and help me grind a small amount. Like, a really small amount. I don’t have a deep-freeze, so I can only grind 10 or 15 packages at a time since it has to fit in the freezer in the kitchen with all the other stuff (read: other game, junk food and ice cream) (Ice cream is not junk food. It’s in a category all of its own) in there.
I don’t know how this happened to him, but Cody is basically my man-slave. Whenever I, or any of my friends, have any heavy lifting that needs to be done, we call Cody. Just last week I had him come out and stack 2 ton of hay with me… (or for me, depending on who you ask) 😉 Actually, I’m broken right now, so I can’t do any large amounts of hay stacking without completely wrecking my shoulder again. I don’t usuallyyy let him do it all himself. I promise! Also, let the record show, I generally try to pay him in beer or food. See. I know a good thing when I have it. (And I should probably point out that Marshall is 2 back surgeries in, and his back has been very upset lately. So don’t judge him either.)
What the hell was I talking about? Ah, yes. The deer burger. So Cody bailed on me on Saturday, so last night I really needed to get this done. I don’t like to grind it when it’s all the way thawed because it’s bloody and slimy. So last night had to be the night.
Now I don’t know if this is payback for his man-slave work or not, but Cody loaned me his meat grinder. And by meat grinder, I mean SEVERE POS. So, I know what the meat is supposed to look like in the bowl, but it was having serious issues, and I was doing everything that I normally would do. So, obviously, it was the grinder’s fault.
If you’re a delicate flower or a member of PETA, please just go to the next post. Otherwise, have a look at the crap this grinder was spitting out.
Any normal person would have let this go on for maybe 5 minutes, and then halted production to get to the bottom of the matter. However, I was determined to get a whole bowl full before I gave up. Why, I’m still not sure. So I’m grinding away, and Marshall goes and hides in the bedroom because apparently it was loud and interrupting his YouTube video watching extravaganza.
Remember how much meat I need? 10 packages. This shit should have taken ohhhh I don’t know. 20 minutes? I am now 45 minutes in, and I decide I need a better vantage point. I thought that if I could get up higher, I could push the meat in harder. (Good grief. I swear there are no sexual innuendos intended here. It’s just innocent deer meat goin’ through a meat grinder. That’s it.)
So I want to move the grinder to the kitchen table, which is lower than the counter, and then I’ll stand on a kitchen chair to get my whole weight into it. Another thing you will learn about me if you don’t already know, is that I’m not a neat freak. So before I can move to the table, I have to find the table. I’m clearing mail, Legos, the Safeway Monopoly game (which we are totally gonna win the million dollars, and don’t think I won’t notice those of you that suddenly want to be our friends) and some drinking glasses. So I stack the glasses and set them down by the sink. And one of them shatters and slices my finger. (Shows you what kind of high quality glasses we have in our house. )
Now I not only have a bloody meat hand, but also a bloody cut hand, AND I now have a severe trust issue with all of the dishes in our house. I’ll assess them later. I stuffed a band-aid on my finger and got back to work.
So I’m standing on the kitchen chair, forcing the meat in with all my might. It’s still coming out like mash. I freakin finally got a whole bowl full, which means I can take a break and cuss at it a bit. I go in to vent to Marshall, and he says “How’s it going?” and he just looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. All cuddled up with his YouTube videos, laying in front of the heater. And I just feel this sense of jealousy overcome me, and so, because I apparently have the emotional stability of a 13 year old, I say “TERRIBLE! THANKS FOR NOT CARING!” and I close the bedroom door and stomp back to the kitchen to let out a few tears. I know. Don’t judge me. I was hot and my hands were bloody and my daggum boyfriend didn’t even offer to help me. (This, of course, is after he worked all day while I took a nap in the house and played with my horses and puppies all day. Rough life.)
OH YEAH! I forgot to mention, this is my deer from last November. He’s AWESOME. My first rifle harvest EVER! I’ll write all about him later.
Anyways, because Marshall’s a good man, he took a hint and came to my rescue. He disassembled the POS grinder and sharpened the blade until it was like a needle. We dumped the bowl of mash back through for another round, and I seriously had the meat ground again, plus some more that I ran through twice, wrapped and in the freezer in 15 minutes.
Just let that sink in.
I’m a piece of crap.
Why would I battle with the stupid thing for OVER AN HOUR before I asked for help? WHY. Hell if I know. Maybe I’ll blame my hormones. Maybe I’ll blame the sleep deprivation, as it was now well past 11 p.m. I don’t know. But I obviously have learned nothing because my stubborn streak is still going strong. I have decided to grind some more tomorrow night and force it to fit in my freezer even though there is no more room. Just to prove I can.