Organimals I can’t go anywhere without hearing the word organic. Organically grown this, free range that. It starts to become a little overwhelming. Having come from a family that has always eaten relatively healthy, and a sister that is too smart to be human, the organic craze took over my family’s diet long ago. However, it wasn’t growing our own vegetables or shopping at health food stores that started my family down the path of healthy eating. It wasn’t Men’s Health, Celebrity Fit Club, or Richard Simmons. It was my dad. It was my dad a fishing pole, a .870, and a .280 Remington. I’ve had several encounters with ignorant people over the years. As we all have. However, there is one instance that is burned into my brain and will haunt me forever. Several years ago now I had a girlfriend that was attending college in Seattle. She lived in a house with several other girls. I would visit from time to time when there was a crescent moon, and I had time to make sacrifices to every ancient mythological goddess of female hormones. Holy Estrogen. Anyway, I walked into the kitchen one day and was knocked to my knees by an overwhelming odor. Her roommate was cooking fish in a pan. I couldn’t help but ask, what the poor creature was she was burning. She informed me it was “Organic Atlantic Salmon.” I laughed. At that point in my life I had not developed the filter I now posses to curb my sarcasm. I informed her that she had sinned a terrible sin. There she was, in Seattle, which is basically in the Pacific Ocean mind you, and she purchased farm-raised salmon named for the Ocean on the other side of the country. I asked why she hadn’t just gone down to Pike Place and purchased a salmon caught fresh that morning, as it was that time of year. Heck, they will even throw it in a bag for you. Literally. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “because they aren’t organic.” This fish was laid as an egg in a small stream, fertilized there in the gravel bed in which it was laid, grew to a small version of itself, was flushed out to the Pacific Ocean where it ate delicious crustaceans and squids and anchovies and herrings for five years, grew into one of the most delicious filets to ever exist and it’s not organic? Instead you choose to eat a fish that was raised like a fish at a pet store? How is a fish raised in a pin that is fed fish food, organic? Because the label says so I guess. After my speech I also informed her that the fish at least deserved to be cooked over a fire rather than scorched and burned in a pan, and that she was basically eating the same fish she won at the fair when she was a kid. It’s just a different color. Then I went and ate raw oysters on the half shell. Food that is so organic it still tastes of the sea. As a young lad I guess I never realized how lucky we were. At least once a week we would eat fish. Fish brought to the table by my dad and his Fenwick. Caught, cut, cooked all by him. You take that kind of stuff for granted when you are a kid I guess. You definitely don’t realize the nutritional benefits of the filet before you. There I was ingesting proteins, omega 3’s, and other vitamins and minerals that would help me grow and develop into a non video game playing man, and I had no idea. Surround that piece of gold with some veggies and rice, and we wondered why my dad had gigantic arms. Organically grown biceps you could say. Fast-forward again to college. I decide to make a mess of pheasant for my roommates and a handful of teammates. One of my teammates was a tad strange and didn’t like the idea of eating pheasant. He shows up with “free-range” chicken breasts. They looked like they came from a turkey. Queue the jokes: “Dang dude, where’d you get the turkey?” “Are those chicken breasts, or Arnold’s pecs?” “Yeah, man I’m pretty sure that chicken was in line in front of me at GNC this morning.” “When did Foghorn Leghorn die?” You get the picture. As the rest of us feasted on pheasants harvested by yours truly, as they were free ranging, he ate the world’s largest chicken because the label told him too. I’ll pass. That’s not the only time I encountered situations like that in college. The first year I was in Oklahoma I shot a pretty nice buck. When I got back to the little triplex we lived at there was a small party going on. This was normal. As the night went on, the party grew, more knives showed up and my deer was being cut and wrapped in record time. Our school had a great soccer team, mostly because there wasn’t a single American on the roster. These kids were from all over the world. Some guys from Europe stumbled outside and I think they were talking crap, but their accents were so thick we mostly just assumed they were talking crap. One guy decides to pop off and say, “that doesn’t seem to be very healthy, mate” as he lit a cigarette. That particular comment didn’t go ever too well with me. As I plucked the cig from his mouth I informed him that the piece of meat I was holding in my hand contained more delicious proteins than he had eaten all month. I also informed him that he probably shouldn’t pop off to a guy who has arms that wouldn’t fit in his skinny jeans, and football was played with a pigskin, mate. His eyes grew three sizes that night. I could go on for days about healthy food choices that exist in Oklahoma, but quite frankly it would do nothing but exhaust my fingers, mind, body and soul. Again, as a kid I didn’t realize how spoiled we were. My dad seemed to always put meat on the table, even when the deer population around our hometown wasn’t as it is today. Hard winters and poor management made even seeing a buck tough. I didn’t realize then just how good of a hunter he was, and how hard he worked at it. I thought having deer sausage and eggs for breakfast is what everyone had on Saturday mornings while watching Saved By the Bell. I didn’t even know what cereal tasted like, and obviously neither did A.C Slater. I’m sorry but you can’t be the seven-time California State High School wrestling Champion eating Frosted Flakes. They’re not that great. I think I recently attempted to take a Saturday morning cereal girl on a date. She had never been hunting or fishing and thought it was mean and sad. I tried convincing her otherwise, and she said that she would rather eat steaks that she “like, knew where they came from,” as she took a giant bite of beef fat from her Rib Eye. “Can I get a whiskey, and the check please? No, she’s fine. Just the check. Make it a double, thank you sir.” You don’t want to see where that steak came from sweetheart. Although I know several cattle farmers personally, who have always raised their beef the same way, grass fed and free ranging, the majority of the beef we buy doesn’t come from them. As more and more evidence surfaces of the harm we are doing to ourselves by consuming these animals that were raised by the masses to feed the masses, I think I’ll just go hunting. I will wake up early, drive to the mountains, climb those mountains and make the best of the opportunities I am given. If I am so fortunate as to harvest an animal on that day, the animal’s life will be celebrated as it should be, and then we will feast. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m quite lucky when it comes to hunting. I seem to fill my deer tag every year, and an elk tag occasionally. However, I do hunt very hard. This year I hunted twelve long, hot days before I shot my buck. A buck I am quite proud of. A buck that will feed me, my parents, and has already fed my new niece that didn’t seem to want to leave the comforts of my sister’s womb. Probably because she was eating so well inside her warm cocoon. I wouldn’t have wanted to come out either. In order to continue this streak of good fortune however, I know my lifestyle must continue in a relatively healthy manor. Yes, I work out. My whole family does. Why? Because we enjoy being active and in good shape. In order to this we must feed our bodies the nutrients they require to build muscle, shed fat, and perform as we need them too. It just so happens the lifestyle we live provides us with organic meats. Free ranging animals that are harvested by our hands out of thanks, and respect. This is something that is hard to communicate with non-hunters, a fight that I have no desire to get involved in. I will simply continue to do as I do. Hunt, fish, and struggle to buy jeans that fit my organically grown thighs and butt cheeks. The meats I eat don’t come with nutritional facts. They don’t come packaged. They don’t have a “best before” date. They were living as they always have, and were destined to encounter me one day. For that I am grateful. I am quite thankful to live where I live. Here in the northwest we have the finest foods on the planet running around in our mountains, flying in our skies, swimming in our oceans and rivers, and growing naturally in our forests. This is something I will never take for granted. Even with all the money I now have to spend on permits, and forest passes, and tags, and everything else, it’s cheaper and better for me than the super market. Not to mention it tastes better, it’s better for my body, and every meal is thanksgiving. These animals gave their lives for my family. They deserve respect and receive nothing less. I could have filled this article with nutritional facts. Rambled on and on about all the nutrients and what not that make my meats healthier than the next guys meats. But that is what Google is for. Seriously, just Google nutritional facts on all the animals we hunt and compare them to the meats we buy. This is quite compelling evidence that we as hunters and fisherman pioneered the organic eating life style. I think we deserve a little more credit than we are receiving, but again I’m not going to argue with anyone. Now, if you will excuse me, I have back strap and eggs to eat. Oh, and they are farm raised eggs my mommy buys me from a lady at her place of employment. Just in case you were wondering, they are delicious. Brandon
Posted on: Mon, 17 Nov 2014 17:49:52 +0000
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