Hog Killin'
Hog Killin’
We went over to the hog pen with a .22 rifle. The shooter – Granddaddy, as usual – was always careful to kill the first pig cleanly with a single shot. It immediately fell to the ground on its belly. Two of us ran up and rolled the hog over on its back and held it steady by the front legs, so it could be "stuck" with a narrow-blade butcher knife along a major artery. Then we got out of the way. There is a lot of blood in a stuck pig.
The next step was the scalding vat. A couple of the stronger men would lower the hog into the vat very gingerly. You had to do this to make the hair on the hog loose enough to scrape or pull off. The water had to be just right: about 140 degrees. If it was too cool the hair wouldn’t "slip". If it was too hot, you literally scald the hog and again the hair wouldn't "slip". Once the hog was safely in the vat we rolled him over with a hoe from time to time to make sure he heated evenly. When he was done enough that the hair pulled away easily, we hauled him out and placed him on the scraping table.
After he had a nice clean shave, we poured water over the now mostly hairless hog. Then, Granddaddy made a cut about 3 or 4 inches long in the back of the lower leg just above the foot so we could insert a gambrel behind the tendon. The next step was to suspend him from the gutting pole.
A lot of guys got a lesson in humility here. I speak from experience. But some men never learned, among them Al Junior. He and Cousin Ken were long time rivals, and once again, Ken challenged Al to partner him in getting the hog to the gutting pole. The two men joined hands and positioned themselves so they could catch the hog. Once the gambrel was secured behind the tendon in one of the hog’s legs, Dad pulled the hog off the scraping table and into their waiting arms. His broken arm was mostly healed, but not enough to do the carrying himself. Thus they carried the hog to the pole where they had to hoist the hog up high enough (the pole is about head high) to get the gambrel over the pole and behind the tendon of the other leg.
The results were hilarious. No matter how weak you felt, you did not drop that hog. It was a matter of pride. To drop a hog and get him dirty was roundly frowned upon. So off they went, poor Al with his knees buckling, eyes bulging, veins popping out all over and in despair because that 10 yards to the pole looked like a mile. Finally, they arrived at the pole and Al realized he had to lift that sucker up. Fortunately, that year, he didn't drop the hog, so I grabbed hold and gave him a hand. Of course, he could never acknowledge this act of kindness. To do so would be to admit defeat.
He wasn’t so lucky with the next hog.
One of the main things I learned to avoid when toting the hogs to the pole was partnering with someone taller than me. That’s why I never, ever, partnered with Cousin Ken. Either he had to walk stooped down carrying all that weight or he stood up straight and rolled all the weight over on me. Ken usually preferred to roll the weight on the short guy, and Al was no taller than I am.
Such were the lessons of life learned at a hog killing. You learn not to have an overblown estimation of yourself. You learn to embrace humility. And you learn not to tote hogs with a tall guy. I hoped that one day, even Al Junior might learn these lessons.
But not that day.
Once the hog was on the pole, the next step was gutting. This job required special care. You could not afford to nick an intestine or puncture a bladder because fecal matter or urine would contaminate the meat. You didn’t throw out the hog; you washed it off and kept on going. But you sure don't like to think about it come eating time.
Removal of the intestines began with cutting around the rectum. After you cut it all the way around, you grabbed it and held it shut (for obvious reasons) as you pulled the intestines away from the abdominal cavity. Someone had to stand at the ready to catch the guts in a foot tub. After you severed the esophagus, the guts easily rolled into the tub. You had to be sure to hang the rectum outside the pan.
Then, you removed the heart, lungs, and liver and hung them up for later use. You chopped off the head and feet and processed them separately, throwing away nothing but the burr of the ear and the hooves.
There was a special implement called a meat axe that you used to separate the hog into its several parts: Hams, shoulders, and sidemeat, so these could be strung and hung in the smokehouse. This axe had sort of an offset J shaped blade so you could cut straight down or straight ahead. You didn’t use if for anything except hog killins’.
Meantime, the guts were delivered to the women for skinning. You can understand, I think, why my sisters hated coming to a hog killin’. I once tried to imagine Elsie sitting there with Aunt Bessie and the other farm women, chatting away while they cleaned hog guts. Sure.
Anyway, they removed the gut fat, and put it in the lard pot. Ordinary fat would go in with it later. Then they sent the guts to the gut hole.
The gut hole was a 5 or 6 foot trench dug in the ground with boards along one side to keep the manure off you. There, you poured large quantities of water through the intestines to wash them out. You then dropped them in a vat of lye for a while, then washed them out some more. Eventually, you turned the intestines inside out, scrubbed them with salt, and rinsed them several more times. Aunt Bessie said "You wash them until they don't feel slimy anymore". These were chitlings.
You could use them as casings for making sausage, but mostly, you cooked them. You tied them in a clean feed bag and boiled them until they were tender. Salt them, dry them, and later you could fry ‘em up like bacon.
Boiling in the same pot as the chitling bag would be the pigs’ feet, snouts, ears, and the rest of the head – minus the brain, of course, which we ate quickly. The women took all this meat, once boiled off the bone, and seasoned it with salt, pepper and vinegar to make souse.
There is an art to rendering the lard. It is a long, slow, careful process, done in large cast iron pots, black from long years of use. If you cooked it too fast you ruined it. You started off with the gut lard and slowly add in more of the ordinary fat. Cooking the lard usually took two to two and a half hours of constant stirring with a lard paddle.
When the cracklings were a golden brown and floated to the top of the lard, it was time to take up the pot. We strained the lard, then, through a clean white cloth, to catch the cracklings. It took some effort to squeeze all the lard out of the cracklings, so they’d be as dry as possible before we dumped them into a tub for salting. Sometimes, the women gave cooked sweet potatoes to the children, who dipped them into to the cracklings and ate them.
The cleaned, cooled lard was all the cooking oil a family needed for the year. Everybody got a share.
Everybody got a share of everything, especially the brains and organ meat that you couldn’t smoke and keep. We all ate real well for a while.
We went over to the hog pen with a .22 rifle. The shooter – Granddaddy, as usual – was always careful to kill the first pig cleanly with a single shot. It immediately fell to the ground on its belly. Two of us ran up and rolled the hog over on its back and held it steady by the front legs, so it could be "stuck" with a narrow-blade butcher knife along a major artery. Then we got out of the way. There is a lot of blood in a stuck pig.
The next step was the scalding vat. A couple of the stronger men would lower the hog into the vat very gingerly. You had to do this to make the hair on the hog loose enough to scrape or pull off. The water had to be just right: about 140 degrees. If it was too cool the hair wouldn’t "slip". If it was too hot, you literally scald the hog and again the hair wouldn't "slip". Once the hog was safely in the vat we rolled him over with a hoe from time to time to make sure he heated evenly. When he was done enough that the hair pulled away easily, we hauled him out and placed him on the scraping table.
After he had a nice clean shave, we poured water over the now mostly hairless hog. Then, Granddaddy made a cut about 3 or 4 inches long in the back of the lower leg just above the foot so we could insert a gambrel behind the tendon. The next step was to suspend him from the gutting pole.
A lot of guys got a lesson in humility here. I speak from experience. But some men never learned, among them Al Junior. He and Cousin Ken were long time rivals, and once again, Ken challenged Al to partner him in getting the hog to the gutting pole. The two men joined hands and positioned themselves so they could catch the hog. Once the gambrel was secured behind the tendon in one of the hog’s legs, Dad pulled the hog off the scraping table and into their waiting arms. His broken arm was mostly healed, but not enough to do the carrying himself. Thus they carried the hog to the pole where they had to hoist the hog up high enough (the pole is about head high) to get the gambrel over the pole and behind the tendon of the other leg.
The results were hilarious. No matter how weak you felt, you did not drop that hog. It was a matter of pride. To drop a hog and get him dirty was roundly frowned upon. So off they went, poor Al with his knees buckling, eyes bulging, veins popping out all over and in despair because that 10 yards to the pole looked like a mile. Finally, they arrived at the pole and Al realized he had to lift that sucker up. Fortunately, that year, he didn't drop the hog, so I grabbed hold and gave him a hand. Of course, he could never acknowledge this act of kindness. To do so would be to admit defeat.
He wasn’t so lucky with the next hog.
One of the main things I learned to avoid when toting the hogs to the pole was partnering with someone taller than me. That’s why I never, ever, partnered with Cousin Ken. Either he had to walk stooped down carrying all that weight or he stood up straight and rolled all the weight over on me. Ken usually preferred to roll the weight on the short guy, and Al was no taller than I am.
Such were the lessons of life learned at a hog killing. You learn not to have an overblown estimation of yourself. You learn to embrace humility. And you learn not to tote hogs with a tall guy. I hoped that one day, even Al Junior might learn these lessons.
But not that day.
Once the hog was on the pole, the next step was gutting. This job required special care. You could not afford to nick an intestine or puncture a bladder because fecal matter or urine would contaminate the meat. You didn’t throw out the hog; you washed it off and kept on going. But you sure don't like to think about it come eating time.
Removal of the intestines began with cutting around the rectum. After you cut it all the way around, you grabbed it and held it shut (for obvious reasons) as you pulled the intestines away from the abdominal cavity. Someone had to stand at the ready to catch the guts in a foot tub. After you severed the esophagus, the guts easily rolled into the tub. You had to be sure to hang the rectum outside the pan.
Then, you removed the heart, lungs, and liver and hung them up for later use. You chopped off the head and feet and processed them separately, throwing away nothing but the burr of the ear and the hooves.
There was a special implement called a meat axe that you used to separate the hog into its several parts: Hams, shoulders, and sidemeat, so these could be strung and hung in the smokehouse. This axe had sort of an offset J shaped blade so you could cut straight down or straight ahead. You didn’t use if for anything except hog killins’.
Meantime, the guts were delivered to the women for skinning. You can understand, I think, why my sisters hated coming to a hog killin’. I once tried to imagine Elsie sitting there with Aunt Bessie and the other farm women, chatting away while they cleaned hog guts. Sure.
Anyway, they removed the gut fat, and put it in the lard pot. Ordinary fat would go in with it later. Then they sent the guts to the gut hole.
The gut hole was a 5 or 6 foot trench dug in the ground with boards along one side to keep the manure off you. There, you poured large quantities of water through the intestines to wash them out. You then dropped them in a vat of lye for a while, then washed them out some more. Eventually, you turned the intestines inside out, scrubbed them with salt, and rinsed them several more times. Aunt Bessie said "You wash them until they don't feel slimy anymore". These were chitlings.
You could use them as casings for making sausage, but mostly, you cooked them. You tied them in a clean feed bag and boiled them until they were tender. Salt them, dry them, and later you could fry ‘em up like bacon.
Boiling in the same pot as the chitling bag would be the pigs’ feet, snouts, ears, and the rest of the head – minus the brain, of course, which we ate quickly. The women took all this meat, once boiled off the bone, and seasoned it with salt, pepper and vinegar to make souse.
There is an art to rendering the lard. It is a long, slow, careful process, done in large cast iron pots, black from long years of use. If you cooked it too fast you ruined it. You started off with the gut lard and slowly add in more of the ordinary fat. Cooking the lard usually took two to two and a half hours of constant stirring with a lard paddle.
When the cracklings were a golden brown and floated to the top of the lard, it was time to take up the pot. We strained the lard, then, through a clean white cloth, to catch the cracklings. It took some effort to squeeze all the lard out of the cracklings, so they’d be as dry as possible before we dumped them into a tub for salting. Sometimes, the women gave cooked sweet potatoes to the children, who dipped them into to the cracklings and ate them.
The cleaned, cooled lard was all the cooking oil a family needed for the year. Everybody got a share.
Everybody got a share of everything, especially the brains and organ meat that you couldn’t smoke and keep. We all ate real well for a while.
posted by Mooms at 1:31 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home