Porky

Making a Silk Purse...

By Kris Kingsland

crisp Lent morning - a good day to die... In fact it was bloody freezing. My temper was not helped when the Landrover wouldn´t start either... The early morning sun dazzled me as it shone on the rime. Most days would find me buried under my duvet - trying to forget any connection between myself and the real world in a fugue of sleep. So what was special about today? Today was Monday! Today was in the south-west of France. My nearest neighbours, a mere 7 km away, had been raising a couple of piglets for the past few months and would be killing one of them today. I had been invited as it would provide a 'deep cultural insight' - really...

The Landrover ground to a halt. Now that I was here, where the hell was everyone? When I was told about this, it sounded as if half the world was going to be here! I slammed the door and trudged about - it was too cold to hang around. I very nearly yielded to the temptation of hopping back in and driving off... I caught myself at this point - the plain truth was that I didn´t really want to be here. Perhaps it was that like most people living in the cities, I was insulated from the ´real´ world, where the food I ate came from. I was quite happy to eat meat, but to see it killed, to kill? In an age of liberalism and video tapes, it was okay to sit down and watch humans have their heads ripped off by a monster, even people being shot on the news. But to see life depart, to become involved?

A few seconds more indecision before I pulled myself straight and rapped on the door. A blind man answered. Alaim is something of a wonder - a viral infection has deprived him of his sight and yet he functions well in a rough world - mostly by touch and sound. I was heartily welcomed into a dim and muggy kitchen, smelling of dogs and fermenting hay. His wife Josee and boys I had already met, but the grim looking crone in the headscarf, was new. She shook hands in rather a suspicious sort of way, but her "Bonjour, Monsieur" held genuine warmth.

Alaim began to idly sharpen his knife as we chatted - I only felt slightly nervous. Occasionally he spat on the stone and once on his forearm, when he shaved off the hair to prove the edge. Several others turned up and introductions were made over obscenely strong glasses of pastis. A battered, old Deuxcheveux crunched up the drive and an elderly but stocky man clambered out. An intriguing leather bundle was carefully tucked under his arm and he whistled through a heavy moustache. The newcomer was introduced as Nayne - a man of legendary repute - highly respected due to his resistance fighting during the war. It seemed we´d been waiting for his arrival, and could now begin. Gratefully I went into the fresh air - the smell and the pastis had begun to make my head spin.

I was led behind their house and ushered into one side of a pen - where I´d be useful i.e. out of the way. It was an awfully muddy, squelchy affair with a small stone hut at one end and a crude wooden bench, strangely perforated, alongside. There was a mounting buzz of excitement - crude jokes and quips were traded whilst they prepared for the task ahead. A stone mantle held a steaming iron tureen suspended over glowing coals and a noose was fashioned from coarse twine. Large earthenware jars were brought and a bale of hay unbound; everyone had arrived by now and the mood began to get serious. All in all, I felt like I was on the set of the latest Hammer horror film during the sacrifice scene. Fine, but who was to be the demonic offering?

Nayne unwound the bundle - to reveal a carefully arranged set of knives and other surgical-looking instruments - impressive enough to rival any doctor´s bag. Selecting an archaic looking horn-handled spike, he held it out to meet Alaim´s tactile appraisal. It was judged and found wanting - so a brief flicker of a rough carborundum - a lover´s caress, and we were ready!

Alaim´s son, Michel disappeared into the hut - with the noose... Suddenly I heard the pig squeal for the first time. I won´t forget it. It sounded like a powersaw going through sheet metal. Michel backed out, gripping the rope as if life depended on it. It did - the pig´s! The young boar must have known something was up. It did not want to come out. "Help me, he´s big!" So we did - everyone grabbed a hold of the rope or the pig and heaved. So did my stomach.

It´s surprising how big these critters get. Everyone else there was tough with hard living, truly rock-hard. The pig weighed 150kgs. That is BIG! And hard to move - and even harder to keep still. But we managed it, and in the end the pig was pinned down on the straw. Nayne grabbed an axe that Paul Bunion might have used. The axe fell - I flinched - ´Crack!´ The pig spasmed and was still.

´Quick - the jar!´ Nayne thrust the wickedly shaped knife into the based of the pig´s neck - with fatal precision. Frothy, crimson blood fountained forth. Very little was spilled. As the pig´s legs began to jerk, I saw that the jar was beginning to fill - steam rising from it.

We couldn´t relax our grip until the pig was still - dead still. Finally the jerking stopped and the red stream slowed to a trickle. A moment´s pause to catch our breaths... And then "Heave!" We dropped the carcass on the bench. Quickly, boiling water was poured on the pig; Michel and Nayne grabbed heavy bladed knives and began to shave the pig´s bristles off. Pigs have a surprising amount of hair and it´s as tough as iron wool. The water was poured on a bristly bit of the hide, and then shaved off, along with the top layer of skin. The holes in the bench were for the water to course through.

The process requires a lot of perseverance, not to mention water - a small quagmire was forming beneath our feet. In the end it took about half an hour and several knives to shave the pig. Fortunately, Alaim´s family are well off by peasant standards - although they have no indoor toilet, they do have a tractor. This was driven up by his eleven year old son - Fabrice. The pig´s tendons were cut out from the muscle in the hind legs and looped over hooks on the tractor. Thus burdened, the tractor trundled off down the dirt path to the bescarfed Maria´s maison. There we all congregated - women inside, men out, dogs everywhere...

Nayne selected a new knife from the bag, which he grasped as a surgeon might. Until now, the only visible mark on the pig was a half inch incision in the neck. Now Nayne sliced the pig slowly in half - still dangling from the tractor. From the tail to its midriff - a gentle motion, almost a caress. As he did this he parted the flesh with his other hand - not a drop of blood in sight. The offal went to the dogs. Continuing the incision allowed the intestines to slowly ooze out onto the ground. "You have to be careful here. One slip of the knife and you have the most awful mess..." Once he´d removed the tripe, Nayne started to carve out the kidneys and liver (careful to remove the gall bladder). Now we had to deal with the rather formidable obstacle of the ribcage - the purpose of which is to protect the heart and lungs. Consequently it is tough. You can´t cut through it. No problem. After burying a cleaver in the sternum, where the two halves of the cage fuse together - tap the knife and chisel away! Soon it yields the heart and lungs - these were whisked away as soon as they popped out.

Next Nayne cut deeply into the pig´s neck - this time all the way to the spine. Whilst Alaim held the body, I helped Nayne twist the head in a full circle and wrench it off! It´s an eerie feeling when a spine splinters... I felt like quoting ´Hamlet´... Quickly Nayne chopped the pig in half - through the spine, by using the same technique as used on the ribcage. The carcass was heaved inside and strung up out of reach of the dogs. The morning had passed.

We all trooped back to Michel´s for dejeuner. The front of his house was one big kitchen; light, airy, and warm. I was quickly shown to a basin where I washed, before being given a glass of the local plonk - very local - and very good. The dogs were all shooed out as we pushed tables together and sequestered chairs from bedrooms.

When finally sat down, I was amazed to find myself very, very hungry! Bracing weather, physical effort, and the French countryside combined to make me relish every second of the meal. There was a constant buzz of conversation - something of an art when you don´t have a CD player or TV - and a wealth of rich humour. In this casual atmosphere I began to really relax and enjoy myself - a therapeutic experience compared to many social meals.

The food was simply delicious - all local. Their pork, beef, chicken, blood pudding, eggs, vegetables, cheese, wine, butter, bread, pate, milk, liqueurs and eau de vie. Even the coffee was from Corsica. This was not simply a matter of pride but of preference! Not chauvinistic but a tribute to their discerning tastes, as the simplest of the dishes was of excellent quality. They were, after all, keeping the best of the local produce for themselves...

As the meal progressed I was immersed in a wealth of history - the ´elders´ were a veritable trove of stories, folklore, and song. At one moment, I was taken back to wartime France and heard about the various exploits of my companions in the Resistance (now I finally knew where the ´Allo allo´ scriptwriters got their inspiration) - the next to medieval times and stories of the notorious loups-garous and how to recognise them!

When finally the meal drew to an end, we (les hommes) lumbered outside, leaving the ladies to clear up and restore order. I suspected Alaim might have had a drop too much when he blindly felt for the door-frame and walked the wrong side into the wall... Hoots of laughter ensued.

Back to Maria´s house and the pig. The next task was to be the most ancient and arcane, quasi-alchemical process of making boudin noir. This is no ordinary black pudding, but a rich blend of herbs, garlic, shallots, and (euwk) blood. A cauldron was steaming away (and had been over lunch) - every so often the pig´s skull would bubble into view - strands of flesh making it look like an evil sea-anemone.

Any spare meat - brains etc., was put through a pig mangler with shallots and garlic - then mixed with the blood and simmered, before being put in pre-prepared gut (that had been soaked overnight).

One by one they turned from their tasks, and dipped their fingers in for a taste. I was horrified! Even at this point I was worried about germs! Still I dunked my finger in and... It was a good - slightly saline, metallic taste with a hint of garlic. I let out a sigh of relief which everyone took as one of appreciation.

It seemed the fun was not over as Maria salaciously enquired of me, "Quelle taille?"

My look of bewilderment begged the question of Michel.

"She wants to know how big."

"How big what?"

(PAUSE) "Erm... It´s a tradition that ´the sausage is made to the size of the man´..."

Alarm bells sounded in my head...

Surrounded by half a dozen wrinkled, blood-spattered, knife brandishing, toothless and grinning, Macbethian hags... I´d seen most of that pig go in that cauldron - God alone knew what else they´d sling in given half a chance! Michel let me suffer for a full minute, before laughing and remarking that one day someone would take them seriously... More laughter! With the aid of funnels we forced the goo into the gut, in - wait for it - 25cm sections (I was held in respect)...

This was a fairly messy operation as the gut was slippery and the pig still seemed to be trying to escape. At last we were finished and so was the pig, which was to be left hanging, overnight 8ft up. I was surprised both at how tired I was and how dark it had become - for the last hour we´d been using kerosene lamps to work by - Maria has no electricity. The only task left was to joint the pig and bury much of it in a tub of salt, for bacon. A few fatigued ´au revoirs´, kisses, and handshakes and I left them.

As I made my way home, my thoughts flickered over the days events - it was the last time I would see my friends for some months. I don´t wonder how I shall be remembered - I can guess - every time someone takes a bite of that sausage...!