Grandma and the Butcher

Here is a very short story about getting what you pay for. It relates a type of shopping experience that we'll never see again.

But first, some quick background: My Grandparents lived most of their adult life in Highland Park and New Brunswick, two adjacent towns here in New Jersey. This area of the state was an alcove for Hungarian immigrants. There were Hungarian markets, butchers, bakers, and just about any other service you could want, all with the flavor of the home country. You could effectively live your life in this area without ever having to speak English, something my grandmother was able to pull of with ease! My grandfather learned a very basic English as a means of employment survival in the outside world.

OK...now for the story.

Shopping for my grandmother was, for the most part, as she experienced it in Hungary: buying only what you could not produce yourself. The home garden supplied just about all the vegetables and seasonings you could possible want or need. But meat was a different matter. The town codes were less than accommodating if you were to try raising pigs, poultry, or any other livestock in the backyard. Fortunately, the local butchers offered both live and freshly butchered meats.

When my grandmother went to the butcher shopping for chicken, she would only accept live specimens. That's because they had to first survive the rigors of her meticulous personal inspection. She would check their size, weight, and overall health condition. Other than "clear eyes and a dry beak", the details of her selection criteria remain unknown. My aunts, however, assure me that the inspection ritual was one dictated by an exacting science, born from years of experience. She was the commensurate meat inspector and her standards could put the USDA to shame.

OK, so grandma finally picked out a worthy specimen. The next step would have the butcher disappearing to the back of the store where the head surrendering business took place.

But wait...hold on a minute.Granma's policy was to ensure that she got exactly what she paid for. She knew that the butcher couldn't be fully trusted. It wasn't unlikely that some old, gray, tired excuse of a chicken might be slyly substituted for the prized specimen she had so carefully selected.

So my grandmother always invited herself as a witness to the final deed. This participation was most often met with strong objection, but if the butcher wanted a sale, he had best cooperate. She would not leave the store until she was assured that the chicken she approved was the same one wrapped in the brown paper coffin.

So the next time you fling a polyurethane shrink-wrapped split breast into your shopping cart after considering your purchase for about two nanoseconds, remember my grandmother and her exacting purchase criteria.

Just another little bit of a life process that no longer exists.

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