Pig Love

Monday, 10am

 

Steam and smoke rose off the two metal barrels in the frost-crisped yard.  The hearty boom of men's laughter beckoned as they huddled around the fire, chapped hands clasping mugs, contents suspiciously red.  The crackle from the barrels intensified as one man delivered the punchline of a raunchy joke then bent down to stoke the fire, adding fragrant stems of rosemary.

Welcome to Emilia-Romagna - the final Italian stage.  It may be foggy with a chill that saturates your bones.  But here, there will be pig in all its traditonal incarnations.

A boisterous shout of acknowledgement arose from the steaming barrels, and the men picked their way across the frozen yard to usher us into their family butchery.  We were immediately confronted with a long table of pig parts and large sharp knives.  Scattered pools of fresh blood stained the concrete floor and a large liver, spleen and set of lungs decorated metal hooks.  It was clearly the scene of a relatively fresh slaughter; Porky's last stand.  This was not for the queasy.

Producing meat only for themselves, this family answered our questions with good humour while they got down to business - grinding various pig parts, pouring wine for the inspector, sewing intestinal casings and seasoning the meat for sausage. 

We were served chitterlings (fried lard) hot from the barrels outside, poured fizzy lambrusco and offered crusty bread along with their own salume and prosciutto, not three feet from the table of raw porcine bounty. 

Hygenic, definitely not. Memorable, oh yes.