Blood Sugar Chef at Crunchy Mama Farms
- Ken Daniels
- 4 days ago
- 6 min read
Back in fall 2024, during the TSP workshop, I made a commitment. You know, one of those casual, offhand things that seem easy when you're caught up in the moment.
See, meeting Shawn Kelly from Crunchy Mama Farms was like shaking hands with every good part of Texas at once. Easygoing, sharp, the kind of guy who could talk cattle or cold plunges, theology or tenderloins—all without ever making it about himself. A former beef processor with the mind of a quiet polymath, he carried that rare combo of grit and grace. I liked him instantly—not for what he said, but for what he wasn’t. No ego. No pretense. Just a man doing real work with real purpose. I left wanting to help him somehow, even if I didn’t yet know the way.
Eventually, I told Shawn I'd come to a butchering workshop in March 2025 at Crunchy Mama Farms—maybe pour a few drinks, hang out, offer something fun for his guests.
Light touch. Low pressure.
What I didn’t know was that come March 2025, I’d be a week into moving into a new house. Half my life was still in boxes.
I also didn’t know I’d be dealing with a fairly devastating diagnosis of cranial nerve palsy that causes double vision. I had been wearing an eye patch like some kind of rogue pirate chef since Valentine’s Day.
Driving 4.5 hours to Alvord, TX with one working eye? Yeah, not ideal. But a commitment is a commitment, and when your name is on something, you show up.
Funny twist—Crunchy Mama Farms sits just 15 minutes from where I grew up. A place I spent years trying to leave behind. But coming back, older, slower, with more scars than swagger—I saw it differently, even with only one eye. Small towns. Good people. The kind of quiet you don’t appreciate when you're young and itching to escape.
Day One
This was not some performative homestead influencer show.
This was real. Intentional. Deliberate.
Two bulls—Louie, an 800-pound longhorn, and Mazda, a 1300-pound Angus/Wagyu—were harvested. And it was... a lot. Not gory, not traumatic, but deeply, unshakably human.
Shawn and Amy, the heart of this farm, didn’t treat these animals like products. They treated them like God's bounty. There was no pomp, no unnecessary ritual. Just love, respect, and purpose. Watching them walk this line of joy and grief, of loss and gratitude—it cracked something open in me. Something primal.
As chefs, we order meat by the pound, sterile, vacuum-packed, anonymous. We’ve cut the cord between life and plate. But when you put your hands into still-warm organ meat—when the heat of a life just lived meets the cold of your own detachment—it rearranges you. This wasn’t just about meat. This was about reverence. And maybe even redemption.
I Wasn’t Supposed to Cook
I came to observe, to pour drinks, not to jump behind the burners. There were two chefs running the food for the event. And listen—chefs are a weird tribe. Territorial. Moody. Prone to the sudden storms of ego vs ego. I say this with love—I’m one of them. I'm an ass.
Both chefs welcomed me into their kitchen without hesitation. There was no weird tension, no ego tug-of-war. Just pure, genuine camaraderie. We talked shop, shared stories, and laughed like we’d worked together for years. It reminded me why I fell in love with kitchens in the first place—when kitchens are good, they’re sacred spaces of fire, passion, and tasting spoons.
Executive Chef Brian Santiago? No pretense. No posturing. Just damn good food and a kind, open presence. He matched the energy of the place. Anything else would have crushed the soul of what was happening at Crunchy Mama Farms. Brian understood the moment and let his food speak for itself.
Brian's food didn’t whisper—it testified. Smoke, salt, and heat preaching sermons only the hungry can hear.
Day Two
We moved from quarters to primal cuts people actually recognize. It was technical, methodical—and yet, never detached.
It hit me again. I’ve spent a career feeding people. Beautiful food, plated to perfection. But somewhere in that process, it’s easy to forget the cost.
Not the price. The cost.
Sidenote. My good friend Anton from Anton’s Biltong swung by that day. We sat, we talked, we laughed. Good man. Passionate. Humbled to call him a friend. https://antonsusa.com/
And then there was Amy—Shawn’s wife. Her joy was infectious. Her belief in what they’re building? Unshakable. Amy's a hustler in the best sense—driven, tireless, and full of that quiet kind of perseverance that doesn’t shout, but gets it done every damn day. She is the heart and soul of Crunchy Mama Farms.
There’s a faith in God that's at the foundation of the farm. Both Shawn and Amy walk in God's grace. They openly share their time, talent, and treasure. It's not loud, not performative—just lived.
Something Smells..
I wake up early. Always have. But these mornings were something else. Roosters in the distance. Cows grazing. Wild turkeys doing whatever turkeys do at 5AM.
The smell of hay and spring grass and that wild, raw, creamy scent of wild flowers and manure in the air—sweet, feral, and somehow clean. It was intoxicating.
My nose, sharpened from a life of wine and whiskey, felt awakened. Everything smelled brighter. Deeper. Like I’ve been living in a fog and didn’t know it.
And for the first time since getting my nerve palsy diagnosis, I didn’t wear my eye patch. Not once. My vision wasn’t anywhere near perfect, but I felt—for the first time—like I was healing. A shifting of paradigms both personal and professional had occurred—quietly, without announcement—somewhere between the blood, the bone, and the sunrise. Not in a hospital, not in a kitchen, but on a farm where life and death shook hands, and where showing up—half-broken and unsure—was enough.
That weekend didn’t fix me. But it reminded me who I was.
Hospitality, Faith, and True Texas Generosity
Shawn and Amy didn’t just host—they welcomed. They gave me a private guest room, quiet and perfect.
I skipped the early butchering on Sunday and went to Shawn and Amy's church. Although they did not go, one of the attendees joined me. After everything—the blood, the bounty, the beauty—it felt right to sit still and give thanks. No show. No noise. Just a hard reset with God. A reminder that all of it belongs to something bigger.
There’s something holy about Crunchy Mama Farms. Not churchy. Not dogmatic. Just sacred. The kind of place where land, labor, and love intertwine. Where hospitality isn’t a performance—it’s who they are.
Their Beef?
It’s exquisite.
Grass-fed beef shows up unapologetic—lean, complex, and carrying the weight of a life actually lived. Deep, rich, earthy, and a little wild—like the pasture still clung to it. There was no bland neutrality. No grocery store sameness. This beef had room to roam and wasn’t fattened up in a pen, waiting for its number to be called. There’s no fluff here. Just depth. Earth. Honesty. Soul.
The fat? It’s clean, grassy, almost sweet with a slight gamey edge—like cream spiked with dandelion and minerality. It coats your mouth like heavy cream. A subtle sweetness, not from sugar but from soil, sunlight, and Texas grass.
This is beef that doesn’t need fancy tricks. It needs salt, fire, and respect. It didn’t just feed you—it told you where it came from. And it didn’t apologize for any of it.
I’ll continue to champion what Crunchy Mama Farms is doing. Not out of loyalty, but because the meat is just delicious. You can taste the difference when something was raised right and died with dignity.
To Amy and Shawn, thank you. For your joy. For your belief in God. For the way you live. For your friendship. Giving reverence.
To the Mazda and Louie, thank you for your sacrifice. You were not wasted.
And to myself:
I showed up worn out, patched-up, low on energy and low-key dreading it. But I left reminded of why I became a chef in the first place.
I remembered the joy of feeding people. To honor the ingredients. To create something meaningful. Not for praise. Not to impress. Not to prove anything. To bring something honest and genuine to the table.
And that kind of honesty doesn’t begin in the kitchen—it starts in the dirt, in the stillness after a life ends, and in the gratitude that follows. In the blood and breath of something that lived well and died with purpose.
That’s the kind of food worth cooking. That’s the kind of life worth living.
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