It's fall, and winter's nosing up behind. I can tell it's fall without even opening my eyes, because I feel like baking cookies, and the aroma of granola is wafting through the house. A dish of roasted seckle pears and an acorn squash dotted with butter and sprinkled with salt are the most decadent dishes I've devoured this week. The nasturtiums are thriving in the neglect that occurs in the garden this time of year--no weeding or trampling, and no watering. My bag of garlic cloves and hyacinth bulbs are waiting to be planted, a task that must happen this weekend if it's to happen at all, provided my tiller can be repaired. The down comforter lies folded at the foot of the bed, and the extra quilts are dotting the house, sometimes seen draped around the body of a teenager hunched over a cup of soup or bowl of oatmeal. The pig, our very first, is ready for butchering. I made the call today, leaving a message for "Butcher Dan," a man who will come to our home with a butchering truck to do the deed right here.
It's a bittersweet idea, this hog butchering time. After all, the big black beast has been part of the scene of my kitchen window landscape for a year now. She has rendered the garbage disposal completely useless, which is great, since it decided to relieve itself of it's intermittent duty this past week. Why put through a mechanical chopper what I can feed to a live one, and eat later? I've always been very conscious of food waste, but now I feel justified when I toss out a cup of lukewarm milk or a pile of apple peels or a hunk of bread specked with mold. That beast will eat it up, and I'll eat it up when I enjoy that bacon on an icy day.
And yet, I still recognize the twinge of sadness that was my companion during the days of my vegetarianism. How can I not, when I can recall the last summer days, and how we all, as a family, gathered under the apple tree during Bard's last visit home from college, and filled buckets, baskets and barrels under the watchful eye of a beautiful sunset, keeping the good falls and dumping the bad into the pasture, musing over the swine's devouring of the fallen treats. Oh, to eat with abandon! And, of course, comes the joke of the apple in the cavernous mouth of the roasted pig; could it have been the end of the pig, the choking on the last of the fall fruits in its greedy hunger?
Today, as I mixed the granola in the large stainless steel bowl, pouring in sheets of local honey, smoky maple syrup and thick, creamy raw milk, I glanced out the window, taking in the glowing golden maples, and there was my pig, dancing in the barnyard, her squiggly tail flapping along behind her as she ran and spun and leaped in the coolness of the day. Who can help but think of Wilbur and his joyous romp as Charlotte proclaimed him to be Some Pig? And yet I wonder who would voluntarily feed a meat hog to its natural death.
I am no longer a vegetarian. Meat is not something I love, but it's something I sometimes crave and often appreciate, especially if it's very good. Pork, in all forms, is my favorite meat. A crisp bacon. A breakfast sausage. A cottage ham. A pork roast with warm sauerkraut, mashed potatoes and browned butter. And the bacon grease which provides a base for fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, spinach salad, green beans. I think of Laura Ingalls, and the day they butchered their pig, the girls clamoring over the crispy tail, batting about the inflated bladder, savoring the cracklings. I think of the pig pickins I've been to in my life, and the barbecue sauce that waits in a gallon jar in my fridge, leftover from my overzealous preparation for Bard's graduation.
Yes, I'm sorry that this pig is losing her life, but I'm glad that she's losing it to our family. There are few who will appreciate it like we will.
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