My liver dinner

The story of one girl's dream to nurture an animal and eat its liver

At some point in my early teens, I watched a program set to inspire my entire life's trajectory. It was a cooking show/lifestyle show for maybe the BBC or Channel 4, perhaps even ITV, about a beginner farmer living in Australia or New Zealand pursuing an agricultural lifestyle. The small parts I can remember about the show (not much, it would seem) followed this guy nurturing a pig that he would ultimately slaughter and eat. Unfortunately, I do not know this guy’s name. So he must remain ‘this guy’ for the remainder of this tale.

I was inspired by the whole show, but one moment grabbed me on a whole other dimension. The way this guy described his intention to respect and use every scrap on the animal left me stunned. This was a long time before Nose-to-tail-eating was a trend; this was amazing, and I was in love with the concept. He told the viewers that the first part of the pig that he would eat was the liver because it was best eaten at its freshest. I'd never eaten liver, or thought that eating liver was even 'a thing', but something about it made sense to me. Before you tell me that I sound blood-thirsty and strange. Maybe it is; perhaps I am. However, what I lead myself to believe, is that I am inspired by how humans, animals, and the entire ecological system can and should function as one, in sync with each other, for the survival of each other. The fresh liver dinner was my worldview coming to life on a plate.

The way he cooked the liver could be a figure of my imagination. I imagine it was pan-fried in butter with nothing but salt and pepper. He served it on a clean white plate without sauces, vegetables, or niceties that could draw attention away from the protagonist, his own pig's liver. The pride painted over his face for his achievements left me thinking. 'I want a slice of that' (I never knew quite how literally this would pan out all of these years later).

Fast forward many years, I find myself on a farm 45km outside Berlin. I cook here and assist in caring for sheep, chickens, and a vegetable patch. The parts between my arrival here could take some time to explain but can be summarised. All you need to know is that I am here now and have never felt so much on track to becoming who I am supposed to become. 

So last summer, when I was told that we would soon slaughter some sheep for meat, I was excited. Excited but also a little bit overwhelmed. This was my chance, something I had always wanted to be a part of, and I had to make it happen. Was I ready? Had I done enough to care for the sheep so that I would feel something about it? I had no idea how I would think about it whilst living it. All I knew was that I had eaten and enjoyed meat my entire life. I had always felt that I had no right to eat it if I could not comfortably participate in the rearing-slaughtering and general blood and guts of meat. If I could not enjoy eating the liver as much as I wanted a steak, then I should stop eating meat altogether.

My view could sound extreme to you. I don't think it is. To be honest, what I find extreme (if not disgraceful) are the views that fillet steak is the best part of a cow to eat. The part without sinew and fat. The safest, most delicate part. The part that is the least like eating meat at all. On a quick side note, here on the farm, we do not slaughter the animals purely for meat. We slaughter the animals for meat because if we didn't, we could not keep up with their reproduction rate. We kill the animals that cause us too much work, the ones that get their head stuck in the fence day after day because they are, well, a bit stupid. We try to love and care for these animals, showing them how not to get their head stuck, but sometimes, it just gets us nowhere, so we eat them instead. Murderers?

Meat is blood on your hands; meat is smelly and hairy and fatty and emotional to produce. Meat makes you wince as you skin it. Meat is unexpected death and disease. Meat is pulling baby sheep out of their mother's womb. Meat is muddy boots and blood on the chopping board. Morrisey had a point when he said, 'meat was murder,' but to reduce the meat to murder is to mitigate its beauty so dreadfully.

Meat is about love and respect for nature. The man I had watched all of those years ago was correct. You would not learn how to love and respect an animal in any other way than to become its farmer. To love it, feed it, kill it, and eat it. For its nutrients to make you strong as you eat it. For its nutrients to so efficiently replace the ones you have lost. Meat is that feeling of gratitude deep down in your soul as you eat it. Meat is something that you learn is seasonal, not for everyday enjoyment. Meat is something that the body sometimes craves but is only necessary for some meals. 

It is a fact that sheep meat has become my least favourite. The smell of it takes me back to the abattoir. The carcass of our sheep, fresh, hanging there, ready for me to slice apart. The veins and parts of shit that I had to take out of my sheep bones and vessels, as I badly carved it into pieces. The hairs I've pulled off the skin before roasting it. My work with the carcass does not inspire me to eat it daily. But do I resume eating it? Abso bloody loutely. This is meat, after all. 

You may wonder if I ate the sheep's liver the day it was slaughtered. I must admit that I only ate a little. That day was the hottest of the year (yes, it does get hot in Berlin). And all I could stomach that day was tomato salad, cucumber, and feta. I had to eat some fresh, so I sliced a bit off before I froze most of it for the farm cat. I kept a piece in the freezer for myself for a day when I could appreciate it when my body asked for it. Last week that day came when I was hungry and mensturating. It was a February evening on the farm, and the sky was painted red. As the saying goes, the red sky at night had indeed become a shepherd's delight. Did I prepare my liver pan-fried with salt, pepper, and butter? No. I served it with a mound of potato cream. Potato cream because I am sure it consisted of more cream than potatoes. The day before, I had made a chimichurri with some rocket that looked past its best, chili, garlic, and parsley. Being less brave than the guy who ate his without sauce, I gladly used the chimichurri cooked in some onions. It was delicious; in fact, it was pure fucking magic.

Potatoes, onion, and wheat beer shot in lamplight.

 My shepherds delight- the red sky at night.

My liver dinner and a half-drunk glass of wheat beer.