My Uncle owned a packing house in the late ’60s- early ’70s. One of the many jobs I had during my summer employment was grinding the mutton for hot dogs and bologna. Came in 50# flats, frozen hard enough to drive nails, I ground up meat, bone and cartilage. The grinder was scary in may ways. To this day I will not eat bologna (Oscar Meyer taught me how to spell it.) unless it is fried hard, hot dogs are split and tortured on the pit.
My wife sounds like a jake brake…..