a platter. If not, it went into the bucket to be fed to the pig and chickens. This ritual continued until no one could eat another bite of melon. Finally, Marie made coffee, and then it was time for us to walk back into the vineyards, pick up our buckets, and return to cutting grapes—an astonishing feat after such a meal. But since Marie was well known as one of the best—if not the best—cooks around, people would rather be lethargic in the field than give up ten days at her table.
In the old days on the farms, before World War II, five meals a day were served to the workers, starting at dawn with bread, olive oil or thin slices of lard, maybe jam, and wine or hot coffee, followed by a morning
casse-croûte
of more bread and sausage or
pâté
. Then came a large lunch, and a late-afternoon or earlyevening snack similar to the morning one. The day ended well after nightfall with a final meal of soup, vegetables, more bread and wine, and maybe fruit. I can’t imagine what five meals a day would have been like at Marie and Marcel’s.
Over the more than thirty years that Marie and Marcel have been my friends, I’ve shared many meals with them and learnedmany things, among them how to slaughter, dress, and preserve a pig. Donald and I were invited to help when it was their turn for the traveling butcher to come to their house for the jour du cochon.
It was still dark when Donald went up the road to help Marcel and the other men build the fire and get the equipment ready. By the time I arrived at the farmhouse courtyard an hour or so later with Ethel and her baby brother, Oliver, steam was rising from the water in the metal oil drum, and smoke from burning grapevines and oak scented the air. A wide plank rested on top of two trestles next to the drum of boiling water. Everyone was bundled up with thick wool scarves and knit hats pulled down over their ears. They spoke quietly, not wanting to upset the pig. They understood that an agitated animal would not bleed well, and if it didn’t bleed well, the meat would be tainted, the hams wouldn’t cure, and it would be a big loss to the family.
When M. Benedict arrived about half an hour later than scheduled, it was evident he had already had a few shots of eau-de-vie from the bottle he pulled out of the truck. Dressed in a heavy white apron, he was short and stocky, with big, red meaty hands and a round red face—the stereotype of a local country butcher. By this time, Ethel had gone to play dolls in a back bedroom with Marie and Marcel’s daughter, Aileen, and Oliver was in the kitchen upstairs with Marie’s mother watching him. Everyone else was in the courtyard waiting for the ritual slaughter to begin.
M. Benedict shook hands with each of us and then asked, “Glasses?” Marcel had already brought glasses down from the kitchen. The butcher filled them with the homemade, fiery, unaged
eau-de-vie.
We raised our glasses in silence, then drank to the pig in one long swallow. It went down like liquid fire, burning and warming all the way to the bottom of my stomach.
I kept back, out of the way, and watched while M. Benedict directed the men. “You, over there. Throw this rope through the hook,” he said, indicating a triangle with sharp hooks on each end. “That’s it. No, no a little tighter. Good, good. That’s it.”
When all was ready, including Marie with a deep yellow plastic basin holding a little wine vinegar, the men became quiet.
La mise à mort,
the killing of the pig, was still steeped in superstition, and the ritual was to be accomplished according to longtime custom. It was important that the pig be treated with respect at its moment of death, a practice reminiscent of old sacrificial rites, because it would be providing the family with food throughout the year. Cooing noises by Marcel and the butcher gently coaxed the pig to come out of his house. The butcher hit him between the eyes with a hammer, and four men, Donald among them, gripped his limbs
In the old days on the farms, before World War II, five meals a day were served to the workers, starting at dawn with bread, olive oil or thin slices of lard, maybe jam, and wine or hot coffee, followed by a morning
casse-croûte
of more bread and sausage or
pâté
. Then came a large lunch, and a late-afternoon or earlyevening snack similar to the morning one. The day ended well after nightfall with a final meal of soup, vegetables, more bread and wine, and maybe fruit. I can’t imagine what five meals a day would have been like at Marie and Marcel’s.
Over the more than thirty years that Marie and Marcel have been my friends, I’ve shared many meals with them and learnedmany things, among them how to slaughter, dress, and preserve a pig. Donald and I were invited to help when it was their turn for the traveling butcher to come to their house for the jour du cochon.
It was still dark when Donald went up the road to help Marcel and the other men build the fire and get the equipment ready. By the time I arrived at the farmhouse courtyard an hour or so later with Ethel and her baby brother, Oliver, steam was rising from the water in the metal oil drum, and smoke from burning grapevines and oak scented the air. A wide plank rested on top of two trestles next to the drum of boiling water. Everyone was bundled up with thick wool scarves and knit hats pulled down over their ears. They spoke quietly, not wanting to upset the pig. They understood that an agitated animal would not bleed well, and if it didn’t bleed well, the meat would be tainted, the hams wouldn’t cure, and it would be a big loss to the family.
When M. Benedict arrived about half an hour later than scheduled, it was evident he had already had a few shots of eau-de-vie from the bottle he pulled out of the truck. Dressed in a heavy white apron, he was short and stocky, with big, red meaty hands and a round red face—the stereotype of a local country butcher. By this time, Ethel had gone to play dolls in a back bedroom with Marie and Marcel’s daughter, Aileen, and Oliver was in the kitchen upstairs with Marie’s mother watching him. Everyone else was in the courtyard waiting for the ritual slaughter to begin.
M. Benedict shook hands with each of us and then asked, “Glasses?” Marcel had already brought glasses down from the kitchen. The butcher filled them with the homemade, fiery, unaged
eau-de-vie.
We raised our glasses in silence, then drank to the pig in one long swallow. It went down like liquid fire, burning and warming all the way to the bottom of my stomach.
I kept back, out of the way, and watched while M. Benedict directed the men. “You, over there. Throw this rope through the hook,” he said, indicating a triangle with sharp hooks on each end. “That’s it. No, no a little tighter. Good, good. That’s it.”
When all was ready, including Marie with a deep yellow plastic basin holding a little wine vinegar, the men became quiet.
La mise à mort,
the killing of the pig, was still steeped in superstition, and the ritual was to be accomplished according to longtime custom. It was important that the pig be treated with respect at its moment of death, a practice reminiscent of old sacrificial rites, because it would be providing the family with food throughout the year. Cooing noises by Marcel and the butcher gently coaxed the pig to come out of his house. The butcher hit him between the eyes with a hammer, and four men, Donald among them, gripped his limbs
Similar Books
