Rachel has inspired me to share this story after reading her first experiences involving animal castration. Are you laughing yet? You should be.

Another lifetime ago, when I lived in Chicago and dated my first husband. Friends of my parents invited us all to attend their annual holiday party.

Mind you, my first husband did not have any rural living experiences at all. This could be one of the many hundred reasons why we are no longer married.

However, after several glasses of wine and mingling the conversation started flowing toward slightly surreal topics for those living in surburbia Illinois. Standing in a small crowd my parents regaled everyone with the details about how to castrate goats. Complete with hand gestures and snipping explanations people’s eyes quickly popped out.

Remember, I grew up in rural southwest Virginia. My parents raised goats, chickens, and a pig named Easter Ham. He certainly turned Easter into a scrumptious one that year.

I remember watching my first husband blanch. A moment of respect mingled with revulsion fluttered across his face before he laughed a little loudly with the rest of the audience.

Over a decade later, I’ve watched my husband, his brother, and their father castrate enough cattle at branding time to tell my own stories when visiting friends living in city suburbia.

There’s nothing like a little rural living to educate and scandalize people when talking about where their beef, pork, and chicken really comes from.

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