Food With a Face

A year go, in the dead of winter on a blistery cold day, I went with my friend, Andy, to an Amish family farm to help them butcher some pigs. We arrived just after the pigs had been cleanly shot, in time to see the first pig being hoisted up off the ground by its feet while the second pig was being skinned on the ground.

I had never seen a slaughtered animal in person before, and it wasn't as bad as I had imagined. I didn't feel an outpouring of sympathy for the pigs, mainly because I knew they had enjoyed a good life and a quick, painless death on the farm rather than in a factory. The worst part was the smell -- a mixture of blood and pig scent that rose up in clouds of steam through the winter air. It was 22 below that morning, the Amish men said. A bit cold, but a nice day for butchering.

We did most of the skinning and disemboweling outside. One pig was quartered, another was halved. We then carried the parts inside for further disassembly.

I quickly got into a grove trimming off the layers of fat and removing meat from the bones. The fat looked like butter and it was incredibly soft. There was a lot of it, too; we filled up at least three, large stainless steel bowls.

I skinned one of the heads, removing the snout and ears. I had to ask for help with the eyes; they were held in their tight, and I was too squeamish to use my fingers to pry them out.

The heads went into a stew pot and would be used to make head cheese. The rest of the pigs were divided up between two Amish families, minus the four pork chops they sent home with me as a gift.

Throughout the process, I learned their is a fine art to skinning and butchering animals. The Amish were very skilled and made quick, elegant work of the animal sections they had. Andy and I were a bit clumsier, to say the least. But we learned as the day went on and, I hope, got a little better.

Even with six of us, it took us all day to cut up two pigs and a frozen deer. We didn't get to the sausage-making or preservation activities, although the entrails were washed out, scrubbed and made ready to be used as casings. The work gave me a new appreciation for hunters, butchers, and yeoman farmers who raise, slaughter, butcher and cook their own animals. These folks know where their dinner came from and are intimately familiar with the whole farm-to-table process.

Most city folks eat in ignorance and denial, not knowing -- and not wanting to know -- just how that pork chop came to be on their plate.