The Butcher Shop (One)

As many of you may be aware, I am not-so-fresh off a ten year stint at one of Calgary’s most respected butcher shops.  There is not enough digital ink in even the largest of hard-drives to relate to you, my fair reader, the wealth of wisdom and experience I gathered during my time there.  So begins my mission.  For the rest of my life, I will write a paragraph a day, reflecting upon my decade there.  I sincerely hope you enjoy.


Early morning hours– the machinery around us still stands silent, still motionless, like mourners around an unmarked grave.  We walk across floor, carefully circumventing invisible slick spots; we know well its texture.  After some preliminary, almost indecipherable banter, everything begins to purr as if reluctantly coming to life after a brief slumber.  Even the band saw stutters at first, choking on the kill we force feed it: loin, hock, soup bone, all whine in noisy defeat, their plastic skin especially.  And so it begins, at 6:00 am, well before the sun rises.

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