Well, we eat meat. More specifically, we eat well-raised local meat. Even more specifically, we eat our own meat. The cows are still working their magic and just about ready. The chickens are snugging in a bit not laying like they used to as they tough it out through winter. In the meantime, we have some cock-a-doody cockerels running about giving anything hen-like a bit of a fluff. They’re not at all aggressive towards the kids or me, but that’s mainly because we’re not their cup-o-soup. Kevin has actively chased them out of the coop for the first time today, which let me know that their time has come. And so, I’ve mounted the blood-cone of death. There are those who can’t imagine eating animals with a name. I am not one of those people. I would much rather know EXACTLY where my meat comes from. In fact, every cow in France has a name, though you will not know of it if you buy your meat in abstracting white cassettes covered in plastic wrap. It’s the law. All those cows have names. 2011 was the year of ‘G.’ 2012 is ‘H.’ Chickens are different. The first two to try out the cone will be C1 and C2. They’re plump. They’re ready. They’ve got green-chook-curry written all over their future. Though I think I will try them as a roast to see how free-range chicken on this farm tastes. See, when I use the words “free-range chicken” your taste buds fired. The cockerels have had a happy healthy life here and it’s time for them to meet the cone.