In late November, Thomas and I participated in an activity that used to be a ritual every Thanksgiving (and in some cases Christmas) on farms across the South--a hog butchering. Those of you who know me well probably know that I've been hankering to assist in a hog butchering for a long time--part of my endless effort to channel the virtues of the past (I'm happy to leave the vices to the history books). For years, I have heard stories from my parents about the butcherings that they took part in when they were young. There was always a hint of disgust in my mother's voice as she described the stench of the scalded hog and the hours she spent helping her mother clean jars in which to fill sausage and tenderloin. It was clearly no fun for her, and she is certainly thankful for Oscar-Meyer and pre-packaged bacon. My dad, however, fondly remembered the experience and watching his father prepare hams and bacon for curing--and how he (Dad) had to be locked out of the smokehouse to keep him from stealing and eating the meat.
Whether enjoyable or not, the process was hard and dirty work with added pressure to provide a sufficient supply of meat for the winter. Speaking to that pressure is the old country adage: "We used every part of the pig but the squeal." And that was certainly the case. It's easy to see why one would keep the shoulders, hams, tenderloin, and middling (bacon), but hog brains, souse meat (made from boiling the head), and chitterlings (intestines) are certainly a taste acquired from knowing what it's like to be hungry. My grandmother also saved the pig tails, dyed them in colored vinegar, dried them, and gave them out as gag gifts for Christmas. I have never heard of any one else doing this, but I carry on the tradition with my Junior Apprentices at Exchange Place. I usually used colored string to simulate a pig's tail, but this year, I got to show them the real thing!
Though I never participated in the process of killing hogs, I did have the privilege to eat authentic home-cured hams in my childhood. When I was very young, my step-grandfather (Granddad) still raised and butchered his own hogs, and I remember him slicing his hams, white with salt and surface mold, with a knife whose blade had nearly worn away from so much such use. Thus began my life long love affair with cured pork. Now, I intend to learn as much as I can about this quickly dyeing art form that gave our forebears so much pride and sustenance.
After years of taking notes from my parents and reading the Foxfire books as well as numerous other descriptions of the butchering and curing process, I thought it was time to ante up and get my feet wet (or bloody), for as with so many of these old traditions, first hand experience is a better teacher than the written word. Finding a hog killing these days, however, is no easy task. You'd have better luck finding a barbecue joint. Luckily, I have friends who are "real" farmers, so I invited myself to help them (Erek and Megan) butcher their hog this year.
Any good hog killing story begins with the kill. As is best, the victim, named after the 6th century Indian mathematician Brahma Gupta, didn't know what was coming. Erek shot him in the sweet spot between the eyes, and he died instantly. After he bled out, Erek hoisted him into the air with his front end loader. Gupta was on the small side--weighing 150-200lbs--but he still broke the single tree yoke that was used as the hoist. Next came the hair removal. (Too bad Nair doesn't offer a product for hog hair.) While my grandparents would have dipped Gupta into a vat of hot water, Erek elected to burn his hair off with a flame weeder. While the scorching method requires less manpower and less scraping than the scalding method, it is also less precise. With scalding, the water temperature has to be just right. Too hot, and it will set the hair; too cold, and the hair won't release. My grandfather (and most other old timers) used their hand as a thermometer. The flame torch method also leaves the hair follicle attached, which makes for a rougher skin. As Megan and Erek just hang the skin for the birds to peck on, it didn't seem to matter that it wasn't "as smooth as a baby's butt," as my mother purports her father's hog skins were. (Of course, her mother fried the skins and distributed them among the hog butchering crew. They probably would have thought it absurd to feed such a good source of energy to the birds!) The only part of the pig that needs to retain its skin during curing is the ham, so Erek took extra care to remove all the hair from these areas, however.
While Gupta was being scorched, Thomas and Gable played in the hot tub. I took a great photograph of them stripping down while Erek was wielding the flame weeder in the background. I can see the National Geographic headline now: "Thanksgiving in Appalachia." I elected not to put the photo on a public blog, however, since it shows Thomas's cute tush.
Once Gupta had been "flame weeded," he needed to be gutted. Erek did the deed while the boys watched. Thomas was surprisingly un-grossed out by the steaming piles of entrails. In fact, he seemed to relish in the whole biology of the thing. What I was after was the bladder, which I rinsed out, blew up (with a plastic straw rather than a reed as my grandfather would have done), and tied off to make a ball. My parents grew up playing with bladder balls, and I wanted to have one on hand for Exchange Place's Christmas in the Country. I've also heard that early American rural children would pop bladders as part of their yuletide celebrations. I wonder what they would think of bubble wrap.
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| Erek demonstrating how the lung works |
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| Blessing Gupta's head |
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| Gable holding up Gupta's spleen |
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| A bit surprised when he got blood on his hands |
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| Gupta's bladder |
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| The boys playing with the bladder ball |
The final step of Day One was to split Gupta down the middle and hang his two halves high enough in the air to keep the neighbor's dogs from having a midnight snack. The overnight rest would allow the meat to cool before processing. To divide Gupta, Erek took a handsaw and worked down the vertebrae. While not an elegant method, it was better (in my opinion) than the alternative--a chainsaw.
On Day Two, Erek blocked out the meat, separating ribs from loin, ham from trotters, etc, etc. My job was to cut up the piles of white lard, which I plan to use to make soap at Exchange Place this spring. (Fresh lard, by the way, is an excellent skin moisturizer. I didn't need hand lotion for a week.) I also took the jowl, which I cooked on the hearth with "Whippoorwill" cowpeas and collard greens to insure luck for the new year. Megan and Erek were kind enough to send me home with a piece of Gupta's tenderloin, which is like the filet mignon of pork, as well as a few ribs and bones for stock.
That concludes this hog killing story. Though I have much more to learn about butchering and charcuterie, I think I have made progress in my quest to live deliberately as a historian and a foodie--and a parent who wants her son to know that bacon doesn't grow on trees. Maybe one day I will raise my own Gupta at Walnut Grove Farm. Whether I can introduce him into my food chain will be a true test of pioneer heartiness. I may find he is more valuable as a Learned Pig (you can look that one up--they really did exist!)
