#butcher shops
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stone-cold-groove · 3 months ago
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Beef cuts and how to cook them.
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if-you-fan-a-fire · 2 years ago
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"COMPEL USE OF ABATTOIR," Ottawa Citizen. August 10, 1912. Page 13. --- New Health Act Places City in Position.
The one objection to the establishment of a civic abattoir in Ottawa has been removed by the new regulations of the provincial board of health, which have just been announced. It is now likely that definite steps will be quickly taken towards the establishment in the city of an abattoir with a view to ensuring a better supply of meat and regulating the price.
The matter has been before the city council on several occasions and the city has gone so far as to acquire land adjacent to the incinerator site, which would be an ideal location for an abattoir and cattle yard, lying as it does close to the railways and the Rideau river. Then the question was referred to Con. Parent and Dr. Shirreff, medical health officer. The latter, while he has strongly advocated a civic abattoir, said it would be useless to establish one unless the city had authority to compel people to slaughter their animals there. The city did not have that power and so nothing was done for the time being. The new regulations of the province provide that where a municipality has established a public slaughter house it may pass bylaws requiring that no carcass or meat shall be offered for sale in the municipality unless it bears the stamp of the local or Dominion or provincial inspector.
"This removes the one objection there was to the establishment of a civic abattoir," said Dr. Shirreff to The Citizen when shown the new regulations. He says he will again urge the city to establish one.
BUTCHERS WELCOME IT. With regard to the regulation as to the inspection and stamping of meat in cities where civic abattoirs exist. there is no doubt that Ottawa when it gets its abattoir will take advantage of the act and that the butchers of this city will welcome it.
Mr. B. Slattery said to The Citizen: "This is exactly what we want, and a civic abattoir without such a regulation would be worse than useless. The whole object of an abattoir would be that only inspected and approved meat could be sold in Ottawa."
Another authority on the question doubted whether there would be a single butcher in the city who would object to the regulation. "It is a pity," he told The Citizen, "that Ontario has not gone further and decreed. that every city of a certain size must necessarily have its abattoir. At any rate, if Ottawa gets an abattoir it must certainly have a regulation that all meat sold in the city be stamped by inspectors for the civic authorities."
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brawley1492 · 3 days ago
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Remember the days?
When "fish and chips" and meat,
Were wrapped in yesterdays newspapers!
Kids got a "penny a pound" for newspapers at the butchers and fish and chip shops ... William
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itacats · 2 months ago
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Butcher Shop Connection
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FT: Simon x gn!reader
Warnings: DV, abuse, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏
SUM: A quiet butcher named Simon finds his routine shaken by a regular customer whose shy demeanor masks a darker secret. Drawn to their kindness, Simon discovers troubling truths about their life, including a dangerous and abusive partner.
As tension builds, Simon is thrust into a harrowing situation where his loyalty and courage are tested. Lines blur between protector and avenger, as a late-night call for help leads to a violent reckoning.
The story weaves themes of resilience, healing, and the lengths one will go to safeguard someone they care about, culminating in a final confrontation that promises justice—and a chance at a new beginning.
A/N: Welcome to my newest installment, a story that dives deep into resilience, love, and the fight for safety and freedom. This series is both an emotional journey and a thrilling ride, weaving moments of quiet vulnerability with intense, heart-pounding confrontations.
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10
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Part 1 - Butcher's Charm
The door swings open with a soft creak, the cheerful chime of the bell overhead ringing out like a friendly greeting. It’s the kind of sound that makes you feel seen, welcomed, part of a world warmer than your own. The butcher shop smells as it always does: a heady blend of freshly cut meats, earthy herbs, and the subtle, comforting tang of smoked sausages hanging in the display. It’s a place that feels alive—bustling yet intimate, orderly yet full of charm.
Your gaze sweeps over the familiar surroundings, the polished glass counters gleaming under the golden afternoon light streaming in through the wide storefront window. Behind the counter stands Simon, his figure both unassuming and magnetic. He’s wearing his usual dark apron, the fabric smeared with streaks of blood and marinade, his sleeves rolled up just enough to expose the edges of tattoos that peek out like secrets.
The sight of him brings a smile to your lips. It always does.
“Hey there! The usual?” Simon asks as you approach the counter. His voice is deep, smooth, and unhurried, carrying a warmth that seems to settle the frayed edges of your mind. His eyes catch yours, and the corners of his lips lift in a shy smile that hints at a deeper, quieter affection he seems almost afraid to show.
“Yeah, the usual,” you reply, trying to keep your voice casual. But the flutter in your stomach betrays you, as it does every time.
Simon moves with practiced ease, pulling the knife from his station and making clean, precise cuts into the slab of meat on the cutting board. It’s mesmerizing to watch him work. Each movement is a dance of skill and confidence, his hands steady and deliberate. Those hands—they tell a story. The scars scattered across his knuckles and fingers speak of mistakes learned from, the faded tattoos of a life lived in vibrant bursts, the slight tremor in his right wrist of long hours and hard-earned experience.
He glances up at you as he wraps your order, his expression soft and attentive. "Anything else today?" he asks, the question lingering like an invitation.
You shake your head, trying not to linger too long on the way he looks at you, as if you’re the only person in the world. “No, this is great. Thanks, Simon.”
He hands you the package, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment—a fleeting touch that leaves your pulse racing. You catch the way his gaze lingers, like he’s searching for something, but before either of you can speak again, the bell rings, and another customer walks in.
As you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder. He’s still watching you, his shy smile now tinged with a quiet longing that makes your chest tighten.
Simon’s days are long, filled with the constant rhythm of knives slicing through flesh and bone, the hum of the cooler, the occasional clatter of metal trays. He loves his work, but it’s repetitive, a steady drumbeat in a life that once felt more unpredictable.
And then you walked in.
He remembers the first time he saw you, how your laughter bubbled over as you joked with him about the weather. You were bright, a spark in the monotony, and though he’d stumbled over his words that day, he’s gotten better at hiding how flustered you make him feel. Each time you visit, he finds himself lingering over your conversations, replaying the way you say his name or how your eyes light up when he teases you with a dry joke.
But Simon’s never been one to take risks when it comes to his heart. He’s spent years guarding it, locking away his past—the late nights in dive bars, the fights that left his hands bloodied and his spirit bruised. He’s a man remade, quieter now, content to find peace in his craft and the simple pleasures of routine.
And yet, here you are, stirring something in him that feels like both a risk and a refuge.
You leave the shop with your neatly wrapped package in hand, but your thoughts are still with Simon. There’s something about him—the way he’s steady but not stagnant, reserved but not cold—that pulls you back, week after week.
Over the months, you’ve pieced together fragments of his story. The tattoos on his forearms, faded and slightly smudged, hint at a wilder youth. The small scar on his cheek, which he once told you was from an accident in his first week as a butcher. The way he talks about his grandmother’s recipes, his voice softening with nostalgia, makes you wonder what kind of family shaped him into the man he is now.
And then there’s the way he looks at you. It’s a look that makes you feel seen in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying, as though he’s peeling back the layers of who you are and seeing the raw, vulnerable core.
You wish you had the courage to let him in. But courage is hard to muster when your life is split between the warmth of moments like these and the icy grip of what waits for you at home.
As you climb into your car and start the engine, you glance back toward the shop. Through the window, you see Simon helping another customer, his hands moving with the same practiced precision. For a moment, you allow yourself to imagine what it would be like to linger in that warmth a little longer, to let him know the parts of you that you’ve kept hidden.
But for now, the thought is enough.
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Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!
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phalaenopsyx · 3 months ago
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This is a couple months old but i figured the tiny people that live in my phone might enjoy this so im posting it here :3
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joehills · 7 months ago
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Giant sign at butcher’s shop: “WE NO LONGER SELL MEAT BY THE POUND, ONLY BY THE CUT.”
Me: huh?!
Butcher: what would you like today?
Me: well, I was going to ask for a pound of ground beef, but then I saw your sign. What is a “cut” of ground beef, do I order it by the strand?
Butcher, looking at me like an idiot: no, we sell ground beef by the pound.
Me: one pound of ground beef, please.
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thunderstruck9 · 2 months ago
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Camille Bombois (French, 1883-1970), L'Escalier et la boucherie [The Staircase and the Butcher's Shop], c.1928. Oil on canvas, 66 x 54 cm.
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merses-haunted-cat-bed · 1 month ago
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Winter is coming to town...
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bressynonym · 9 months ago
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prime cuts 🥩🔪
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longreads · 11 months ago
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Fresh Meat
"The resistance to women in butchery goes further: we associate butchery with blood and gore, and dealing with blood and gore is not a place for a woman.”
Regular #longreads food writer Olivia Potts is back! Explore how women are breaking into the male-dominated world of butchery in our new feature.
Blood, craft, and sexism. Read it here. 
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stone-cold-groove · 3 months ago
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Lamb cuts and how to cook them.
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tojigasm · 6 months ago
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Round 2
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bluebugjay · 5 months ago
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accidentally starting to believe the Charles fell first, Edwin fell harder agenda...
like we've all joked about how at face value Charles is the one who acts more like he's crushing than Edwin, the things he says, how clingy he is, the way he looks at him even from episode 1. Even, I'd argue, the way he looks at Edwin when they first meet, and him smoothly bringing up kissing and then more obviously trusting and enjoying Edwin's company enough after those few hours to stay with him rather than passing on to his afterlife. I don't think he clocked it as romantic when they met or even in the 30 years between then and the show but I think that what they have kind of transcends labels anyway. As if he's been falling ever since they first met and just hasn't really realised what that means yet, so he hasn't hit the ground yet. Charles loves Edwin and he has such a open heart and fondness for Edwin, it's hard to believe he wouldn't have fallen first.
With Edwin we actually get to see the whole journey he goes on that helps him realise his feelings and it hits him like a tonne of bricks, after 30 odd years of being best mates suddenly Edwin's forced to come face to face with the fact he's in love with Charles, not that he's falling or starting to fall but that he's right there, in love already. Fell harder.
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itacats · 1 month ago
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Butcher Shop Connection
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FT: Simon x gn!reader
Warnings: DV, abuse, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏
SUM: When your terrified voice reaches Simon in the dead of night, it shatters the fragile calm he’s barely been holding onto. The chilling sounds of Tom’s violence echo through the phone before the line goes dead, plunging Simon into a storm of panic and rage.
At the hospital, the sight of your battered body tests the limits of Simon’s resolve. Wracked with guilt and helplessness, he sits vigil by your side, promising to be your anchor through the long journey ahead. With every breath you take, Simon clings to hope, vowing that no shadow, no monster, will ever dim your light again.
A/N: Here's your daily does of emotional whirlwind —writing Simon’s frantic desperation was both exhilarating and painful. The tension, urgency, and heartbreak culminate in the ICU, where hope begins to bloom amid the wreckage. Simon’s love and determination shine as a reminder that even in the darkest of nights, there’s always a glimmer of light. 🌌💔
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 9 Part 10
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Part 8 - The Longest Night
A few more days bleed into restless nights, the heavy silence of the Manchester sky pressing down on Simon like a weight he couldn’t shake. Time moves like molasses, each second dragging him deeper into the dread of not knowing how you were, or if you were even still safe. But that night, everything changes in an instant. His troubled sleep is torn apart by the shrill ring of the phone, cutting through the air like a blade. His eyes snap open, and before he can even comprehend the sound, his hand is already reaching for the receiver. 
The voice on the other end, fragile and trembling with fear, nearly paralyzes him. "Simon?" 
It's you. And in that one word, in the sheer terror that laces it, Simon’s world tilts, and all the anger and hurt he’s kept buried for so long rises to the surface, hot and violent. 
"What's wrong, love?" His voice is rough, half-awake, but the panic is unmistakable. He struggles to ground himself, to make sense of what he’s hearing. "What happened? What did he do?"
Your voice breaks as you speak, barely above a whisper, but it’s enough to rattle him to his core. "He’s going to kill me this time, I know it."
Simon’s blood runs cold. Every nerve in his body goes taut, and his heart pounds in his chest as the words hang in the air between you both. The rawness of your fear is something he’s never encountered before, and it pierces through him like a dagger. He can hear the crashing of objects in the background, the sounds of a struggle. Then, Tom’s voice—mocking, casual, as if your life is some game to him. 
“Sorry, but they’re a little busy at the moment,” Tom sneers, his words dripping with malice. 
Then, the line goes dead.
The silence that follows is deafening, a hollow emptiness that fills Simon’s chest with a freezing panic. His throat tightens, his stomach churns. In that moment, it’s as if time itself stands still, and Simon’s worst fear becomes a brutal reality. You’re in the hands of a monster. His mind races, each thought sharp, desperate, as the fear of losing you claws its way through him.
His fingers tremble as they dial the police, his voice a mixture of urgency and barely-contained rage as he relays the details. He pleads with them to hurry, to get to your house—now. But the suffocating weight of the night drags everything down, the darkness amplifying the terror of the unknown. There’s nothing he can do until they arrive, but he can’t sit idle. Not when your life is on the line. Not when every instinct in his body screams that he needs to act.
Without hesitation, he slams the phone down and rushes toward the truck. The engine roars to life beneath him, the sound a furious symphony against the quiet of the night. He slams his foot down on the pedal, sending the truck screeching forward. His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white, but he doesn’t feel the pain. All he can think of is getting to you, getting to you now.
The road ahead is a blur, the lights from streetlamps slicing through the night like stabs of light in a sea of dark. His mind races with memories of you—your laughter, the way your eyes lit up when you smiled, the warmth of your hand in his. Every moment he’s spent with you flashes before his eyes like a reel of precious memories, and for a split second, he lets that tiny flicker of hope ignite inside him. Maybe, just maybe, he can make it in time. 
But as the miles stretch on, that hope feels like it’s slipping through his fingers. The darkened streets pass in a haze, each second a heartbeat that echoes louder and louder in his ears. His foot presses harder on the gas pedal, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He’s already pushing the truck to its limits, but it doesn’t feel fast enough. There’s no time for caution now. Only the desperate need to reach you.
When Simon finally arrives at your house, the scene is chaotic. Police cars line the street, their flashing lights a disorienting mix of red and blue that slices through the night. Officers swarm around, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of urgent conversations, punctuated by the crackling radio transmissions and the sharp clack of boots on asphalt. The air smells of tension and fear. Simon’s stomach twists, each step he takes toward the house heavier than the last, his body moving on autopilot as his mind tries to process what could have just happened. He pushes through the crowd of officers, each one a physical barrier, until a voice rises above the rest.
“With those injuries, it’s a miracle they still had any blood left in their body.”
Simon’s breath hitches in his throat. A cold, brutal wave of dread crashes over him, freezing him in place. The words echo in his mind, each one a jagged shard that digs deeper and deeper into his chest. He can’t think, can’t breathe—his body is moving on instinct now, his legs carrying him faster as he fights through the crowd, his pulse roaring in his ears.
“Where are they? What happened?” he demands, his voice hoarse and desperate, barely recognizing the rawness in it.
The officer he approaches looks at him, and for the first time, Simon sees the weight of the world in someone else's eyes. The fatigue is etched into the lines of the officer’s face—someone who’s seen too much, someone who’s witnessed the worst of what humanity can do. He opens his mouth to answer, but his words land with the kind of heaviness Simon wasn’t prepared for.
“Looks like it was a bad scene. The victim’s been taken to the local hospital. They’ll do everything they can.”
The officer’s words are a blur, but Simon barely hears them. His mind is already miles ahead, racing toward the one place where he might find you—the hospital. Without another word, Simon turns, his breath ragged, his heart beating in overdrive as he sprints back to his truck. Every muscle in his body is screaming at him to move faster, but the agonizing truth sits like a weight on his chest: he’s already too late to prevent whatever horrors have already been inflicted.
The engine of the truck roars to life beneath him, and Simon doesn’t hesitate, his foot pressing firmly against the gas pedal. The truck surges forward, the tires squealing against the pavement as he drives faster than he ever has, weaving through the streets with the sole thought of getting to you.
When he pulls up to the hospital, the sterile smell of antiseptic and bleach hits him like a slap. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, too harsh against the darkness of the night that still clings to him. His hands shake as he pushes the door open, the noise too loud, too intrusive. He feels disconnected from everything, as though he’s walking through a dream—a nightmare he can’t escape. He’s gripped by the overwhelming pull of anxiety, guilt, and helplessness, and his heart is a wild, uncontrollable drumbeat in his chest.
A nurse sees him and gestures for him to follow. Her professionalism is almost a cruel contrast to the mess of emotions churning inside him, but he clings to it, letting it guide him through the sterile corridors. She leads him to the ICU, where the air is thick with sorrow. And then, there you are.
You lie in the bed, a quiet warrior in a battlefield of bandages. Simon’s stomach twists violently, and for a moment, he can’t breathe. His knees feel weak as he steps closer, the sight of you a punch to the gut. Your skin is marred with bruises and cuts, black and blue hues staining you like a map of countless battles fought in silence. He sees the way your body is wrapped in white gauze, each bandage a whisper of the suffering you’ve endured, each stitch a testament to the hell you’ve lived through. The enormity of it presses down on him, each breath he takes a struggle as if the air itself has been robbed of its warmth.
"Will… will they be okay?" he finally manages, his voice barely a whisper, trembling with the raw emotion he’s been holding back.
The nurse’s face softens, but her answer is cautious, laced with the knowledge of what recovery truly means. "They’re stable for now, but it’s going to be a long road. It��s going to take time."
Simon nods, his heart cracking a little more, the weight of her words settling deep inside him. Time. He wants to scream, to demand that it hurry, but he doesn’t. He just watches, helpless, as you lie there—your life hanging in the balance, the toll of your suffering written across your face.
He pulls a chair up to your bedside, his hands trembling as he reaches out to grasp yours. His fingers wrap around yours gently, but it feels like you’re a thousand miles away. Your hand is cold, too cold, lifeless in his. His throat tightens as tears threaten to spill, but he holds them back. He promised you he would protect you, and here he is—unable to protect you from the man who’s broken you.
“Stay with me, love,” Simon murmurs, his voice cracking with emotion, a raw promise slipping from his lips. “I promise I’ll take care of you. Every day after this, every moment.”
He watches the faint rise and fall of your chest, the steady rhythm of your breathing a bittersweet comfort. The night drifts on, time stretching endlessly as he sits by your side, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts—thoughts of you, thoughts of Tom, thoughts of the life you should have had. He remembers the cruelty he faced at the hands of his own father, how those scars shaped him into the man he is today—a protector. And now, watching you fight for your life, he realizes that he is fighting, too. Fighting for you in every way he can.
He thinks of his mother, who used to say, when the nights turned cold and the shadows loomed too large, "Love’s light will always pierce the darkest nights."
And Simon clings to that light. He knows it’s what will guide him through the darkest moments ahead, and it starts right here—staying, waiting, and hoping.
Until the moment you wake, he’ll be here. Fighting for you, for your healing, for the chance to give you everything you deserve.
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Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!
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darunyama · 1 year ago
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Homelander in his yandere era
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edmcmayonnaise · 7 months ago
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Port Townsend Offices (Tongue and Tail Apartments) layout.
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