Pulp Fiction Meat Frenzy

It was a scene from the movie Pulp Fiction in my kitchen last week – blood spatter as far as the eye could see.

No, I hadn’t killed the children (although the thought had crossed my mind).

It was part of a plan by my mother’s group to save money on meat, by buying in bulk from a wholesaler.

In this time of global financial crisis, it’s become a contest to see who’s the most frugal.

“Ooh, I picked up a tin of baked beans for 50c. It was only a week past its use-by date!” one mum enthused.

“Well, our neighbour dropped off a box of eggplants from her veggie garden. I’ve been making moussaka all week,” I smiled, through gritted teeth.

(Frankly, if I ever see that godforsaken Greek dish again I’ll be smashing more than plates.)

Anyway, back to home butchery.

Meat wholesalers are often found in the same streets as brothels.

After all, there are similarities.

I walked in to find wall-to-wall flesh.

Some seemed to be throbbing, although this might have been an optical illusion brought on by years of believing that meat was grown on polystyrene trays.

Within minutes it became a shopping frenzy, the culinary equivalent of a Target red light special.

(Incidentally, actress Katie Holmes was seen shopping at Target this week, proving that frugality is the new black.)

I loaded up on the first five verses of Old McDonald Had a Farm (except for the horse) before spying the piece de resistance: a slab of scotch fillet, the length of my torso, for $45.

Throwing the slaughtered beast over my shoulder, I felt like ‘man, the hunter’.

Gathering berries and nuts is nothin’ compared with this.

At home, my elation turned to annoyance when four year old Taj screwed up his face.

“Ewww, that’s disgussin!” he spat

Ignoring his disgust, I whipped out the aptly-named Furi, a knife recommended by Russian cannibals and characters in Quentin Tarantino films.

Hubby’s BBQ apron (the one with pictures of beer cans – not the one with the fake boobs) turned a lovely shade of crimson, as blood dripped off the bench and pooled around my feet.

Thankfully, the floor was licked clean by our eager border collie, no doubt fantasising about being back on the farm.

It was at this point that hubby came home to a scene beyond his wildest dreams: wife in an apron, barefoot in the kitchen, covered in meat. Every carnivore’s dream.

“Hold on honey, I’ll just go and get the Gimp mask,” he laughed, to round out the Pulp Fiction analogy.

After slicing, dicing and glad-wrapping the meateous bounty for my friends, I reflected on the up-sides of the GFC.

Those of us with Scottish heritage can indulge in our favourite pastime – making our money go that little bit further – without being called tight-arses.

And families are rediscovering the joys of the simple things, like playing Monopoly and  Scrabble; camping in the backyard sharing spooky stories by torchlight; planting a veggie patch.

But the greatest delight is combining the two, by eating a $2 steak that tastes like filet mignon from a 3 star Michelin restaurant.

You wouldn’t be a vegetarian for quids!