Here's how pasture-raised meat makes us slow down - and be thankful.

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posted on

September 16, 2021

Living on a farm, I’m often struck by the distinction between the hyper-efficiency and convenience of our man-made lives, and the slow and deliberate pace of plant and animal life. Often, this contrast is painted in rosy terms: Slow down! Smell the roses! Stop and take a moment to breathe!

You know what, though? Sometimes stopping and smelling the roses makes things harder. Or at least that’s how it feels. After all, if they’re my roses…doesn’t that mean I have to take care of them? Feed them? Prune them? Is smelling the roses just creating more work when I’m already overwhelmed?

Whether you grow roses or not, you’ve probably experienced this. Maybe you’ve decided that you’d like to cook your own meals to be healthier – only to be overwhelmed by trying to cook after getting home from work, with kids running around and a soccer practice to get to.

Or maybe you’ve decided to grow and preserve your own food to become more self-sufficient. Ten tomato plants sounds like a great idea – until you’ve harvesting, canning, and processing on a sweltering day in August. (Don’t ask me how I know this!)

You probably have your own version of this. It’s not that any of these things are bad or misguided. But, given that we’re trying to balance them in lives that are often fast-paced and chaotic, it requires some nuance.

When I think about it, what these exhortations to slow down, or cook more, or grow your own are nudging me toward is a stance of gratitude for the gifts and abundance of the earth. They are, in fact, asking us to see what the earth produces as gifts: not as burdens, or something interfering with our more important endeavors, or something to take for granted.

It’s quite easy in our world of overabundance to do this. We take for granted that the earth’s bounty will be where we want it, when we want it, despite the season or changes in the climate. One advantage of living on a farm, of course, is that the seasons of bounty and scarcity are easier to notice.

Yet I think this is also one of the gifts of eating or raising pasture-raised food. Spending time with our animals every day helps us get to know their personalities, their quirks, and their preferences. It forces us to recognize the significance of their lives, and the gravity of what it means to take a life. By recognizing that their lives do have value, and that they should be raised in a way that demonstrates this value, we are pushed to feel gratitude for what their bounty provides for us.

This isn’t easy work. I’m writing this, in fact, to remind myself that I should be grateful. I’d love to know: how do you find ways to feel gratitude for the life and land around you?

Why should we care if grass-fed beef is grown in America, anyway?

The government is importing over 600 million pounds of ground beef. A big company is claiming that grass-fed and grass-finished beef "doesn't exist" in this country. So if we can just buy our beef overseas, why does it matter at all if we grow it here or not?

Can we care about animals - and still raise them for food?

I probably spend the most time with the pigs on our farm. Part of this is practical: since pigs can’t sweat, we spray them down twice a day to help them wallow in the mud and stay cool. But part of it is emotional, too. I enjoy being around the pigs. When there’s a lot on my mind, or I’ve spent too much time on the computer and need to get outside, wandering over to that week’s pig paddock is one of the ways I can clear my mind. Pigs are highly emotive and responsive. When I spray them down with the hose, they like to sit back on their haunches, prick back their ears, and snap playfully at the water as it showers down on them. And then joyfully roll around in the mud afterward, of course. But they’re responsive to humans in general, too. They are naturally curious and, in the case of our heritage breed Red Wattles, gentle. They’ll come up and sniff you, rub their mud-streaked bellies over you, and let you scratch their ears. And maybe this is the part where you start to wonder: But aren’t you raising them for food? Why would you want an emotional connection to an animal that you are raising for food? I understand where this question is coming from. I was a vegetarian for nearly a decade because I didn’t like the thought of killing animals, especially within the framework of our industrial food system. But actually, it isn’t a problem or moral quandary for me. Yes, we grow fond of and attached to our animals, including our pigs. Yes, we still send them to the butcher or process them on our farm for food. And yes, this still makes sense to me. I would gently suggest that the idea that we shouldn’t have any emotional connection to our food - that we can only eat meat that comes from animals we withhold our emotions or affection from - is a sign of our disconnection to the way food is grown. That is, after all, one of the premises of industrial agriculture. Designate animals with one sole purpose - “becoming food” - and then shut them away in buildings, cramped quarters, or far away from humans who might interact with them beyond the farmer. And the farmer, too, should be as disconnected as possible. After all, this is an efficient machine. The problem, from a regenerative perspective, is that growing food is never just about growing food. Food is the gift you receive at the end of your work, but it’s the work itself - and the consequences of the work beyond the food - that is the point. The work, on our farm, is caring for the land. That means working alongside animals to nurture native plants, clear forest areas to make existing trees healthier, and create habitats for birds, pollinators, and wildlife. And that means becoming attentive and thoughtful - to animals and to the land. Watching, learning, and yes, developing bonds with the habitats you’re nurturing and the animals that are helping you do so. Is it sad to load up animals and take them to the butcher at the end of the season? Yes, it often can be. But I don’t feel guilty about it. I know that we’ve given them the best life possible, and that we’ve partnered with them to leave our farm better than we found it each year. And if that doesn’t make sense, that’s okay. I’m not saying that everyone has to agree with me. I’d simply like to advocate for a way of farming and consuming meat that includes this experience - one of affection and bonding between animals and humans. After all, this is one of the many ways we try to do things differently on our farm. We don’t want to just provide you with food that meets your standards - non-GMO, no vaccines, no antibiotics, grass-fed and pasture-raised. We also want to help you reconnect with that food. And part of that is knowing the animals, hearing stories about them, and yes, maybe even having an emotional connection with them, despite the end goal of providing meat to you.

Know your beef farmer - and stock up on grass-fed and grass-finished beef you can trust.

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Here's how pasture-raised meat makes us slow down - and be thankful.

More from the blog

Why should we care if grass-fed beef is grown in America, anyway?

Can we care about animals - and still raise them for food?

Know your beef farmer - and stock up on grass-fed and grass-finished beef you can trust.

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