Everyone debating beef prices should hear from someone who actually raises cattle.
I’m a small rancher. It can cost me ~$2,500 to raise an animal + ~$600 to process it. If I bring home ~500 lbs of beef, that’s $6.20/lb before I pay myself ONE DOLLAR for land, fencing, equipment, fuel, labor, losses or risk.
So no, American ranchers aren’t getting rich off expensive beef.
And importing cheaper beef isn’t the solution I want.
I’d rather see Americans cut out the mega-packers and buy directly from local ranchers. Buy a quarter, half or whole animal. Know the farm. Know how it was raised. Ask whether it was grass-fed, grass-finished, grain-finished, or something else. Know who processed it.
Quality and production standards vary, and “imported” doesn't automatically mean inferior—but cheaper commodity beef is not the same proposition as knowing exactly where your food came from.
Want to help American families AND American cattlemen?
Buy local. Buy direct. Shorten the supply chain.
Then you don’t have to wonder which multinational handled your dinner—or whether tomorrow’s “beef” came from a cow, a bioreactor or a 3D printer.
Food security starts with knowing your farmer.
#BeefPrices #BuyLocal #AmericanRancher #FarmToTable #FoodSecurity
I went to a small local donut shop at 6:30 AM.
Behind the glass stood an elderly woman with flour on her apron.
Her name tag said "Dot."
"What'll it be, sweetheart?" Dot asked.
I pointed with discipline. "One glazed ring, please."
Dot used tissue paper to place the single pastry into a brown paper bag.
Then, with a swift flick of her wrist, she grabbed four small, round fried spheres and dropped them into the bag as well.
I froze.
I had ordered one item. Four unauthorized projectiles were now inside my perimeter.
In my homeland, unexpected contraband in a commercial transaction suggests either a packaging error or an imperial test of character.
"Ma'am," I said, keeping my voice low so as not to cause a public scandal. "There has been an accidental transfer of dough."
Dot looked at me. "Those are donut holes, hon."
I examined the spheres.
"You have captured the empty space from inside the circle and deep-fried it?"
"Pretty much," Dot smiled.
"I did not pay for this void."
"They're free, baby. Everybody gets a couple holes."
Free.
In my land, a master craftsman never gives away the center of his work.
Here, they carve out the heart of a pastry, drop it in boiling oil, and distribute it to strangers at dawn for zero dollars.
I realized the gravity of the situation.
This was not an error. This was an ambush of pure hospitality.
I took the bag with both hands, gave Dot a formal bow, and ate all four fried spheres in my car before I even turned the key.
They were warm, airy, and dangerous.
I went in to purchase one simple ration.
I left with four bites of weaponized American sugar.
My ancestors spent centuries seeking enlightenment in the void.
Dot is selling it on North Main Street with extra glaze.
A kid on my street set up a stand. Not lemonade. A cardboard sign: FREE ADVICE.
He was maybe seven. He had a folding chair and a jar of pencils, in case of paperwork.
I stopped. A samurai does not pass a free consultation.
"I will take one advice," I said.
"Shoot."
"How does a man know when he is home?"
He did not hesitate. "When the dog's happy to see you."
I stood very still. Eight hundred years of my family asking that question, and a seven-year-old answered it in four words while picking his nose.
"That'll be twenty-five cents," he said.
"The sign says free."
"You got the free one. That was the free one. The dog one is premium."
I paid the twenty-five cents. I would have paid a horse.
That night I called my mother. No reason. In my family we do not call with no reason, so she answered already braced for death.
We talked for an hour about nothing. Her neighbor's tomatoes. A drama she watches. The rain.
She was happy. I could hear it. She kept finding new nothings to say so I would not hang up.
The kid was right.
Home is where someone's happy you called.
I owe that kid twenty-five more cents. I have been going back every Saturday.
His rates are insane. I pay them.