Splitting Cows

I was 31 years old when I found out that when people say “We’re splitting a cow with some friends”, it absolutely does not mean that they’re going to take turns feeding and milking a cow.

The first time I heard this was 2016 at age 26. My neighbor said, “We’re thinking of splitting a cow. We figured we’d save money that way.” With zero clarifying questions on my part, my brain was like, “We get it. Raw milk from the farmer’s market is expensive. Take turns milking the cow. This is a normal conversation and you know exactly what’s going on.”

Background: I have never butchered a cow. But I have milked one. I rarely buy and cook with beef, but I regularly buy and cook with milk.

You can see where I’m coming from. You are now totally on board with milking a cow every Tuesday morning, because that’s a normal suburban community thing where all the farmland has turned into townhomes. Moving on.

Over the years, this subject would come back up in my life. No one specifically asked us to split a cow because they all know that Justin doesn’t eat beef if he can help it. And each time, either I tuned out or the subject wasn’t carried far enough to alert me that zero of these people wanted milk out of the deal.

It is a dang good thing that no one asked me to split a cow with them. Why? Because surely this is how that scenario would have played out. Now remember, they’re thinking meat, I’m thinking milk:

Them: “Do you want to go in on a cow with us?”
Me: “Yeah for sure! Who else is going in?”
“Well, just us two.”
“Whoa, that’s not enough people! We’d need at least five more people. That way we can split it evenly 7 ways. 7 families. One for every day of the week.”
“Okay…..”

And assuming maybe this is a financial decision for the 7 way split, they wouldn’t pry any further, but instead get 5 more people in on this deal and we’d continue the conversation.

Them: “Okay, I got five more people, so that’s $500 from each of you.”
Me: “$500 a year?”
“What?!”
“Do you mean $500 a year?”
“What no. That’s ludacris. Why would we have to pay every year?”
“This cow surely should last us more than a year, right?”
“Potentially I guess it could, but I doubt it. You asked me to split it 7 ways.”
“Huh?”
“It’s $500 one time. That’s all.”
“Okay, that’s fine then. Cheaper than I thought, really. When do we get it?”
“It should be here by the end of the month.”
“And you’ll just let me know.”
“Yeah, you’ll know.”

This is the point where I’d make some preparations. Buy some dedicated farm boots. Think about a cow-milking schedule. Make a list of some good names. Just your regular “We’re expecting a cow” kinda stuff.

And then the most traumatic day of my life would come.

Text: “The cow’s here. Come on over.”

I put on my farm boots, grab my favorite milk glass and head on over.

Cue: Horrifying Realization

Once the shock wears off, and I’ve plastered on the poker face of the century, I would pick up my bloody cooler of shattered dreams and mutter, “Wow. I totally didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I’ll have to buy a second freezer.”

My friends, thinking I was referring to the amount of the cow and not the liveliness of the cow would say, “Isn’t it great?! That’s so much beef!”

And with a tear in my eye, I’d whisper, “Like waaaaay more than I expected, yes.”

The hardest part wouldn’t be the endless supply of meat I don’t know how to cook.

The hardest part wouldn’t be the absence of a grill.

The hardest part wouldn’t be dropping another $500 within the hour to buy a second freezer.

The hardest part wouldn’t be returning my farm boots in the long, hope-crushing UPS line.

The hardest part would be asking my mom, “So…have I been this dumb my whole life, or is this the New Me?”