What happens when you eat too much jerky?

I hope you had a great Thanksgiving!

I hope you had a great Thanksgiving!

We've been busy here at the ranchero. We just finished putting in our septic tank and missed 14 inches of snow by 90 miles. I got my boss cow's calf sold to the neighbor for a replacement heifer, too. I wish I had about 100 of them. Sweetie, my cow is a SimmAngus and is a beauty. Her calves are amazing. I was happy to get her calf down the road, though. I was able to buy new bunks for my cow pen, and every one got new mineral licks.

We also finally got the deer butchered, and we're making jerky nearly every day. Our son came home last weekend from college and about ate his weight in jerky, went to a basketball game later that night and got sick in the stands. When I talked to him in the morning, I asked him how he felt. He said good, then proceeded to tell me this:

Cody: "I think I got sick from the popcorn at the game."

Me: "Really?" I asked, "You ate like a ton of peppercorn venison jerky."


Our tradition is once we butcher a deer, we pan fry the backstraps in breading. Best thing ever. Now, I suppose when you are away at college, you don't eat as good as you would at home. It doesn't mean you should eat a full deer in one night, but I digress.

Me: "How much backstrap did you eat?" I asked him as he sipped on a clear soda.

Cody: "Well, I had five pieces at home," he smiled sheepishly. "Then, I put about seven pieces on a plate and ate them on the way to the game."

Hmm, you're not sure it was all that spiced up meat that got you sick instead of the popcorn?

When he came home tonight, he decided to skip the game and hang out at home and watch a movie with the other kids. I didn't see him munching on jerky, either. Good thinking, son.

In other news, my sheep found a little hole in the fence last night, and one got out, so they all got out. They then proceeded to find the bagged corn and ate to their hearts' content.

It looked like a battlefield when I went out to do chores this morning. One was dead, and they were all laying on their sides or walking really slow.

"That's a sheep for you," the veterinarian said, as I went up to get some more meds for them. "They'll be fine all year long, then as soon as its time to lamb or make a bit of money on them, they up and decide to keel over."


He's kind of right, you know. As much as I hate to say it. He is not a sheep person, which doesn't help, either.

There was a bright spot in my day. The kids got home from school, and as I mustered up as much excitement as I could when you have a dead animal, this was our conversation:

Me: "Hey! An ewe died this morning. I need white wool for a customer. Whoever wants to shear her will get five dollars!"

Rachel, my 9-year-old: "A real five dollar?"

Me: "Yep, I've got a brand new five dollar bill in my purse."

Later on, she strolled in the kitchen with a bag of wool over her shoulder while her 5-year-old sister had a plastic grocery bag with a little wool in it trailing her.

Rachel: "Well that was easy, Mom," she said. "I didn't even have to cut it off, it just pulled right off. By the way, her skin's all purple."

10-year-old Grace: "Awesome and interesting. ... Can I post her?"


The million-dollar question: When they get old enough, will they ever find guys who can appreciate their weirdness?

Until next time, Fairchild "I'm to blame" Farmgirl.

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