Why I wish I had Man Hands

We are fortunate enough to have friends who hunt quite a bit. Also, we have a few friends who contract with a few places to take deer on a nusiance permit. In any given year, we can have 8 or more deer given to us.

Initally, I wouldn't touch deer. Nope. No way. No, thank you. I had it once and that was enough for me. Well, the one time I had it, it was horribly prepared and by someone who didn't know how. He thought he did. But Papa B slowly won me over and now we eat venison almost exclusively. Chicken is our luxury food (when I can catch some in the "clearance rack" of the grocery store).

We have various methods of handling the meat. We keep the loins and the roasts intact, and the other suitable meat becomes ground venison and the rest becomes dog food.

What I absolutely hate about this whole griding of the meat process is cleaning. I hate cleaning the grinder. There's something so vile about the meat and the fat we add to the venison being washed in hot soapy water. It's like the meat bits cook in the hot water while I wash the grinder. Of course, since I have the lovely dainty hands in the relationship, this glorious task falls to me.

Which is why I wish for Man Hands sometimes. Then Papa B will clean up his own dang grinder.