Monday, July 30, 2012

Slaughter House X, Pirogi and Killer Showers


I confess. I'm a cold-hearted butcher. I have slit the throats of 25 innocent chickens, bled them till their feet stopped quivering, scalded them with hot water, wrung them through a plucker and then threw them into an ice chest.
I eat meat. Some swear they have seen me consume a 20 oz. steak with herbal tea after a XC race (you know who you are). Therefore, I see killing the food I eat the same as buying it packaged at Safeway... just less bloody.  Yes, I have had long tracks of vegetarianism (2-ish years) and even veganism (6 months), but I don't have a good enough reason not to eat meat at the moment.
All that remains of the killing fields. 
They didn't know what fate awaited them... 
Granted, these are the same cannibalistic chickens I wrote about earlier that devoured one of their injured brethren, so I really didn't feel much remorse about ending their lives. 
The blood-spattered feet of a killer. 
Here are the step by step instructions on how to kill a chicken:

 Run around the pen and try to capture a squawking chicken (this may require some time), stick it head-first into a cone (pictured below), grab the head from the bottom, extend the neck and (using a sharpened knife) slit its throat. Press the chicken's feet into the cone until it stops kicking and quivering.

Congratulations. You have successfully murdered a chicken.
The killing cones. 

My boss told me to pour the drained blood over the raspberries as fertilizer. I don't think I'll be able to eat the berries for a while...


On a happier note, here are some pictures of Rey in the middle of the forest on a bench we found:

Jolly Rey
Impersonating a tiger
So funny it's like slapping a mosquito? 
Excited Rey. 
Contemplative Rey. 
 Ok. Enough Rey pictures.

The workers of Coldfoot own a vast array of musical instruments including a trumpet, banjo, ukulele, harmonica, keyboard and several guitars in various states of degradation.
Blogger won't let me rotate this picture. 
 Some great songs have been created in the alcohol-perpetuated jamming sessions. Some of the highlights:

  • "Gwen, Gwen, Mother Hen"
  • "I'm in love with a lesbian"
  • "Mosquito Fuckers".

Jamming
 Believe it or not I get in touch with my domestic side at times. It usually has to be a pretty cold, miserable, rainy day after a long night out and very little sleep, but still. It happens.


I made Russian 'Pirogi' (pictured here), borscht (beet soup+meat) and blini (Russian-style crepes). Up here in Coldfoot where everyone's taste buds have been dulled with endless caribou meat and peanut butter, it all went over well. 
I'm quite proud of these. 
These didn't last long in the Coyote Air household. 
So the shower situation here is a bit hilarious really.

The shower is in the pantry (can be seen at the bottom of this picture)
It's exciting, especially recently since our water pump has been malfunctioning. I strip in the pantry, surrounded by boxes of Annie's macaroni, canned mushrooms and yogurt containers that could probably get us through the apocalypse, and then slide into the tiny box-like shower and turn the water on, which immediately begins to sputter and retch as if it's a twenty-packs-a-day smoker. Once it's "cleared its lungs" and come alive, you can only take boat showers: wet your hair, turn the water off, lather, turn the water on to rinse, turn the water off to apply soap and conditioner, turn the water on, turn it off, repeat...

Shaving legs is a contortionist acrobatic act that must be survived about once a week. I usually hike my leg up on the side of the shower, and then precariously balance as I try to work the razor down. Sometimes, if I get the angle wrong, I accidentally press my back into the door, which flings open with no warning and then I'm sprawled naked and wet on the dusty pantry floor. All of this is usually accompanied by loud yelling and thuds as well as carefully chosen expletives. At this point Hobbes, our huge wolf-like dopey dog, decides it's time to part the curtain and come in to visit, except the pantry isn't big enough for a gargantuan canine and a sprawled human, so his ass sticks outside and exposes the whole scene to anyone unfortunate enough to be sitting at the dining room table across from the pantry curtain. 
Hobbes. He's about 1.5 times larger than I am. 
Welcome to my life. 

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