Communion

Tuesday, April 15th was a hard day.

Jerry had been one of our breeding rabbits for the past three years—the last of our original rabbits. He sired many litters and helped put a lot of food on our table. When we first got into raising meat rabbits, I decided we’d only name the breeding ones, knowing they’d be around longer. But I guess I never thought much about the end of their lives. I assumed they’d just grow old and die naturally.

What I hadn’t realized was that Jerry had stopped breeding. And so, not allowing him to feed us one last time felt like a disservice—to us, and to him. It didn’t make it any easier, though, to process his body and turn the meat into something beautiful and nourishing, like the scotch egg recipe we made with his meat and our quail eggs.

Food, at its core, is communal. It always has been—across cultures and centuries. Rituals, ceremonies, celebrations—all of them connect us to each other and to the land through food. Being directly involved in sourcing my own meat has made me more aware of my own mortality. It’s made me confront change and impermanence in a way I hadn’t before. Life is precious and fleeting. One minute, Jerry was living his ordinary life—eating, sleeping, pooping—and the next, we were breaking down his body with intention and care.

Even now, three months later, I still feel a deep well of emotion. I’m not sure I can convey it to someone who hasn’t hunted or raised meat animals. Of course it’s sad. Of course it’s hard. And yes, sometimes I feel a flicker of guilt for taking another life. But I think it’s those very feelings that make us human—the ones so many people avoid because they’re uncomfortable. I don’t say this from a place of pride, but with the quiet grief of knowing we’ve lost something essential in our detachment from death. This lifestyle forces me to hold space for deep sorrow and grief, right alongside immense joy and gratitude.

Sharing that meal—scotch eggs made from our own quail eggs and the meat of our longest-living rabbit—was something I’ll never forget. To others, it may have looked like just another meal. But for us, it was a true celebration. Jerry gave his life not only through the rabbits he sired, but through his own body. That meal was a celebration of his life, our life, and the web of love and friendship we share.

Oddly, it reminded me of communion from my religious upbringing. I always thought communion was strange—morbid, even. We weren’t really eating the body and blood of Christ, so what was the point? But this meal gave me a new kind of understanding. Life and death are deeply intertwined, not just in metaphor, but in the tangible, physical world. And in someway, it was fitting during the spring, right before Easter, to enjoy this meal in communion with our best friends.

Someday, I’ll die too. I’m aware of that. But it’s easy to forget in the bustle of everyday life. Having a hand in my own food—raising it, harvesting it—roots me in the present. It reminds me that I’m alive right now, and allows me to fully embrace the moment in front of me.