The Irony of it All

When I was in sixth grade, I spent many lunch hours sitting in the math classroom with the teacher, re-doing my fraction based math assignments.  Fractions were one of those things that I just could not comprehend.  Halves and quarters were fine.  But one-sixth multiplied by 4 = what?!?  Multiplying and dividing fractions stymied me.  Same with adding or subtracting any fractions that did not have the same denominator.  Mixed numbers? Changing a decimal to a fraction?  Forget it.

Then, years later, I had kids.  I didn't stop at two, either.  No, I had to have four of them.  Which made recipes that 'serve 4' (as the vast majority of recipes do for some reason) 1/3 too small for feeding our family of six.  Oh blast!  There's a fraction!  Suddenly, I was multiplying recipes by 1 1/2 (Argh!  A mixed number!) in order to get the right number of servings at mealtimes.   Then the kids' appetites grew and sometimes six servings didn't seem to be quite enough, so I had to adjust the recipe up again.

Here was the practical application of those dang fractions that gave me so much grief in middle school.  But, for some reason, when I held a measuring cup in my hand, I could, in my head without even a piece of scratch paper, multiply fractions.  Not only could I multiply them, I could convert them too:
1/2 tsp x 3 = 1/2 tablespoon
4 tablespoons = 1/4 cup
3/4 cup x 3 = 2 1/4 cups
2 pounds of burger made into 8 hamburgers = 1/4 pound of meat per hamburger!!

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In high school, I loved science classes.  However, I purposely avoided taking any class that required dissection.  I did not want to cut up dead things.  No way, no how.  Not gonna do it.

Fast forward three years after graduation to the first Thanksgiving I spent with DH (then 'just' my boyfriend) and his family.  Who all hunted.  Who had deer hanging in the garage Thanksgiving Day.  Who processed their own deer.  Who I willingly (if a bit surprised) helped to debone and cut up the venison. 

The next hunting season found me assisting in field dressing deer. ("Honey, come hold these hind legs apart and shine the flashlight here so I can see what I'm doing."  The one holding the legs with a front row view to all the gore--that was me.) 

Then I tried hunting, knowing full well the rule "You Kill It, You Gut It."  I have through the years, without DH doing any of the work, field dressed three deer of my own.

Not only have I dressed deer, I have chopped heads off of dozens of chickens and a dozen turkeys, and dressed those as well.  In fact, when we have chicken butchering day at this little place here, my spot on the dis-assembly line is 'gutter' because I have hands that are small enough to fit into the abdominal cavity of a 3 pound chicken.  I am also the person who parts the birds out when we don't want just a freezer full of roasters: six leg quarters in this bag, three breasts in that one, a few dozen wings in this one here to save for the Super Bowl. . .

And you know what?  It doesn't disgust me.  In fact, it's quite the opposite.  I find it to be scientifically fascinating, and a great study in anatomy.

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From the time I was little, I loved reading stories about life in pioneer times, or about the Amish.  Secretly, I wanted to grow up to be Amish.  Well, almost.  I didn't plan to join the Amish church, being quite satisfied with my Lutheran beliefs and being rather fond of wearing blue jeans and tank tops.  But I did want to live simply like the Amish, have many children, live on a farm and raise my own food.

Then I fell in love with an engineer who, with his engineering mind, loves technology: bigger-faster-more powerful engines, the latest computer software, and machines that do the labor for you so you don't need to get dirty and sweaty.  He's not so into raising food, unless it means driving a tractor and using lots of implements.  Forget hand cultivating.


Oh, the irony of it all!