Day of Pigs

Where to begin with this subject?

Probably with a message to any vegans or PETA card-holders who are reading:  Stop.
Seriously, don't read this.  Hit "next blog" or get up and go find an animal to save or a chunk of butter to weep over.

That's my upfront apology.

Now on with the business at hand.

Confession:
Yes I've killed me a pig or two in my day.
The Americans are shocked, the Romanians are like "So?  You're over 35, you should have killed more than 2, what have you been doing all these years, spending your days at the dentist?  What about chickens?  No, none? You're pathetic."

The thing is, it's hard to kill an animal.  I wish I were more quoteable on the subject but there it is with the bark still on.  Whether or not you enjoy bacon is pretty much beside the point when it comes time to wield the knife.  Emotionally and physically it's a rough road to travel especially when that road takes you past a dozen Trader Joes, Safeways and Whole Foods.  Oh, just a left turn into the parking lot and the bloody, pig-squealing, husband-weeping business could be avoided you think.  Just a few dollars on the counter and I walk away with a pork chop in cellophane and styrofoam.  

But we don't have Trader Joe's in Obedin.  We don't even have cellophane.  We have knives and pigs and what more do you need when you want a pork chop dinner?  Ah, actually it's a bit more organized than that: when the smell of snow is in the air, when the mayor hangs the lone string of Christmas lights from the electrical pole at the mid-way point on the village road, when the drum kettles are pulled up from the root cellars and dusted off, it's time for little Wilbers to meet their end.  Charlotte does not know how to write "some pig" in Romanian and Tempelton got eaten by the dogs on his way across the yard one morning. It ain't no Hannah Barbera cartoon here folks.

This year we didn't actually have to kill the pig.  I'm glad because I didn't have Marius here to help with that particular task, I only had Mihai and he usually can't manage much more than some quiet weeping while he secretly urges the animal: "Run, run for you life!"

The pig arrived on our doorstep already dead (the point at which it evolves from pig to pork is vague but it might be at this particular juncture) and the next step was the "processing".  What a deceptive word that is.  So small, so simple, so inadequate to describe five or six days of your hands, wrists, arms, knees, feet, nose all up in guts, blood, sinew, fat, muscle and organs.

By the end of the second 8-hour processing day the pig has begun to seek its revenge.

Pig fat coats every surface in your house, which means you can't turn door handles or walk across your kitchen floor without ending up in the splits or careening into the cabinets head first. Extra points if you were carrying a pot of diced pig skin when you fell.

By day four the odor of boiling pork parts hangs thick and humid throughout every cubic foot, not even the bathrooms are safe.  Trying to brush your teeth without breathing through your nose poses such a problem that you give it up entirely, preferring to risk tooth decay rather than have that scent trapped inside your nasal sinuses.

By day five there are no pots nor pans, no plates nor cups nor plastic bins to be found that are not filled to overflowing with pig pieces.  Your children beg for a hot meal and you tell them to stick their peanut butter sandwich in the microwave and leave you alone while you sob into your pig-perfumed hands.

In the end you have tubs of loin and chops on the balconies, pots of organs on the stove, jars of fat on the counter tops and ropes of sausages in the attic. Your pork-scented sleep is filled with nightmares of little cloven-footed animals dancing on your bed, mocking your nauseated, swine-infused exhaustion.

The next morning some insane person requests sausage with their breakfast and you dutifully stumble into the low-beamed attic to retrieve some.  On the way out, choking back the bile, you ram your head into the ceiling and then try to soothe the wound with a pork-fat covered kitchen towel.

Oh is it really that bad you ask?
Yes.
And folks here do this without running water in their homes, without washing machines in which they can throw a load of pork-fat covered clothes and towels...I don't know how they do it.
They do it because they have to.  Not like us silly Americans who do it because we're trying to be Renaissance men and women or who feel guilty enough about the tragedy of pig farms that we don't want to contribute financially to them but not so guilty that we'll give up baby back ribs.
So we get what we deserve.
And while we weep into our pork-infused pillows or crack our heads open on the pork-fat-slick floors I know that somewhere, somehow, a little pig is laughing darkly.