The week of pig

The mobile slaughter truck returned early Tuesday morning to take care of the last two pigs. I woke up relieved that the snow had held off overnight so that our driveway was passable. An hour later as we were cleaning the slush out of the nozzle on the hose and watching the skim of ice reappear on a tub of water as we stamped our feet for warmth, I was a little less relieved. They arrived early, before the sun was fully up, and I watched them work for well over an hour, until I couldn’t ignore the summons of my desk any longer. I walked up the driveway juggling an armload full of plastic bins – a couple liters of blood, a liver, a heart – that were deposited in the kitchen on the way to my desk. And so I began, unsuspectingly, the week of pig.

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After the slaughter guys were done and gone on Tuesday, we soaked and then brined the head. After work, we made the blood into a proper English-style black pudding.

Wednesday, we used a (fantastic) local facility to do all the cutting and wrapping.

img_1729 img_1732 img_1733Thursday, we were back to our home kitchen. We got the hams and bacons curing. I made a liver pate. And we simmered a pig head for many hours, picked it clean, and made head cheese.

Friday Dean did the final load of dishes and cleaned the kitchen. And we exhaled. We survived Pig Week 2016. We still have daily care of bacon to do, and smoking of all the cured parts, and lard to render at some point. But for today, I’m just breathing in the relief of having taken care of anything perishable.

It was overwhelming, and I underestimated how much we were taking on. I did not plan for Pig Week; I anticipated pig processing amidst the usual December bustle. In retrospect, I think my blind spot was failing to account for how many things in that scope were completely new to us. Do you have any idea how many ways you can turn pork belly into bacon? How crippling it is to think about a year’s supply of bacon at risk? Yes, I am fully aware that it would be difficult to take homegrown pork belly, apply salt and smoke, and not end up with something that tasted good. But “good enough” doesn’t seem like the right standard for bacon.

It takes so much more energy to learn to do something new than to do the thing – the reading about how to do it, deciding who to trust, which recipe to follow, doubting, worrying, finding the right tools and the efficiency of motion that only comes from practice. In the same span of days, I fought a cold, it snowed, and our kitchen faucet sprung an impressive leak.

And here we are on the other side, with a jam-packed freezer, pages full of notes for next year, and the first traces of learned memory engrained in our hands and backs. I love how much this homestead asks me to learn, and after weeks like this one, I can’t help but wish there was some shortcut to knowing.

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