In another life, a butcher

At the supermarket’s meat section, the staff ran out of chicken adobo cuts so I had to get a whole and had it chopped by the in-house butcher.  I told him to cut it up for adobo.  (The last time I was there, I realized I knew nothing about meat cuts and so didn’t know what to instruct the butcher.  When I got home with the whole uncut chicken, I immediately sought out my sister who was visiting (she was the cook among us siblings when we were growing up) and surreptitiously asked about meat cuts.)

I was fifth in line to the butcher counter.  I had plenty of time to observe.  The butcher’s movements as he cuts the meat – precisely, wide-spaced three whacks then rapid-fire succession chopping then slow finishing ones – are on the whole the most beautiful thing, if you really focus on it.  Beautiful in that the cutting takes up a rhythm.  Beautiful because it’s like an art.  I looked at the butcher’s facial movements and saw he was enjoying the act (the reason perhaps why his movements exuded rhythm and art).

In another life, I could be a butcher (another one would be a make-up artist, the likes of Bobbi Brown).  But first I need to get over my fear of holding big knives.   Second, when the local market is already paying butchers competitive rates based on skill.  If working as a butcher pays for your rent in a decent neighborhood and buy you decent meals why ever not?

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