On New Year’s Day, we piled into the van and drove to Pennsylvania for a weekend of family, friends, and good food. My son drove—his first notable drive on I81 (the evilest of highways)—and I rode shotgun. Aside from one almost-missed exit (thanks to my husband’s faulty directions), it was a low-stress driving lesson, whew. We ate lunch at Subway, took advantage of the free coffee deal at Sheetz (the kids had a blast with the cream and sugar machines), and popped in at my grandparents’ for a quick visit before eventually heading to my friend’s house for the night.

Amber’s House
Amber and her family live in the house she grew up in. We’ve been friends since we were in utero (it’s possible), so I’ve always felt at home in her home. It’s magical, the kind of place dreams are made of: thick stone walls with deep set windows (the sills make excellent plant benches), three cellars at three different levels, staircases so steep they make you feel like you’re hauling your sorry butt up Mt. Everest, gardens galore, a five-story barn, a half-mile lane, a sometime-there creek, outbuildings, etc, etc, etc.

My kids positively, absolutely, completely, and totally adore the place. There is so much to do, explore, see, savor! This particular visit they played hide-and-seek, hiked through the meadow to the creek in search of freshwater clams, made a fort in the haymow, used the mow-shoot as a slide, fed the animals, and played with the kittens. My husband chipped in with barn floor repairs and wood splitting. I washed dishes, gave Amber a birthday foot massage (she’s ticklish, so I was probably torturing her), snacked on homemade beef jerky and dried apples, and talked myself silly. We ate shaggy tigers and apple pudding cake for supper, and the next morning, after my husband and I got back from our run, hot chocolate and cinnamon buns were waiting.

We had to drag ourselves away—so much fun we were having!—and ended up arriving late to our next destination point…

The Gathering, Part One: Ham at Brad and Zoe’s
The annual event is kicked off with a noontime ham dinner at my cousin Zoe’s house. (Zoe also happens to be Amber’s niece. And Amber is my second cousin once removed. Have fun with that.) For the most part, I sat at the kitchen table, drinking copious amounts of coffee and yakking with the aunts and cousins. There were games and great uncle piggy-back rides. The guys moved a piano. Some cousins had an egg cracking contest. It is said that you can’t crack an egg in a one-fisted squeeze, so my son tried and the raw egg shot out of the end, nailing my cousin in the arm and face.

Around five o’clock, people started wandering into the kitchen. They didn’t say much, but their presence was unnerving. Are they hungry already? Zoe asked. Should I get out more food? Soon the island was covered with plates of cheeses, meats, veggies, crackers, and fruit, and after a bit we cleared a section to make room for the cookies and cakes. At bedtime, everyone made their way back to their homes (or host homes). A few of us lingered around the kitchen island, drinking water and talking about shared Netflix accounts and urine because we’re exciting that way. My husband and I slept upstairs on the bed, the kids spread around us on the floor in their sleeping bags.

The Gathering, Part Two: Brunch at Jim and Val’s
The next morning, Uncle Jim and Aunt Valerie (Zoe’s parents, and Valerie is also Amber’s older sister), made the traditional feast: waffles, made-to-order omelets, granola, sweet rolls, fruit, pudding, scrapple, coffee, bacon, etc.

Afterward, we lounged about, playing games and visiting. There were more kittens to play with (we brought home two!), and my son attempted another fireball but got bested by the wind. We took a family picture, and some of us ate chips loaded with fresh horseradish just for the nasal passage-searing fun of it.

And that, my friends, is how we kicked off 2016. Happy New Year!

This same time, years previous: what it means, date nut bread, between two worlds, so worth it, salted dulce de leche ice cream with candied peanuts, turkey noodle soup, and what I did.  

Three days before Christmas, we loaded up our pigs and hauled them to market, to market…or the butcher shop, rather.

Loading was tricky. Literally a head-scratching affair…

See?

We are not farmers, so we lack the farmery equipment, such as sturdy trailers for hauling large animals. Instead, my husband put them on his trailer, in the wooden box that he built to carry boring things like trash and mulch. The pigs did not fancy the trailer or the climb up the old wooden door-turned-ramp, so my daughter coaxed them with grain, and my husband and younger kids made a makeshift barrier with sheets of cardboard. The cardboard was more of a vision block than anything, considering the pigs could have plowed through them at any point. 

Once Pig One was in the trailer, happily breakfasting, my son put a piece of wood in the middle of the trailer to serve as a partition and they set to work on Pig Two, the more temperamental of the two. Lots of hushed yelling, slopping about in the mud, and very cautious maneuvering later and Pig Two was finally up and in.

And then my older daughter was like, Uh, Dad, they’re going to bust out of this box. And it was true, the pigs’ backs were above the top, and whenever they leaned against the sides, the walls bulged out. If they decided to chuck a fit, it’d be bye-bye piggies for sure.

So my husband belted the box with ropes, and then lidded it with a tarp and firmly bungee-corded it down. It was time to hit the road. Fingers crossed we wouldn’t be chasing pigs on Route 42.

I had told my younger daughter she could ride along in the truck. Since she’s the most resistant to the butchering process and had never been to the slaughter house, I hoped that seeing the end destination might help her integrate the whole pig-raising experience. And I told my older daughter she could go along, too. She was the one that cared for the pigs, after all. But then both my boys threw fits—they wanted to go, too. Fine, I yelled. We’ll ALL go.

After we unloaded the pigs into the holding shed behind the butcher shop…

…we crowded into the tiny office to turn in our paperwork. I had spent the previous evening researching a variety of cuts and making my selections and wanted to be sure I had done everything correctly. While we waited for the customer in front of us to finish up, I pointed out the little window behind the desk through which we could see the workers cutting up great slabs of beef. The kids jostled to see, oohing and aahing. After a minute, the woman behind the desk (over whose head we were staring) asked if we’d like a tour. 

Actually, first she said, “Are you the one who brought the two little kids to have a tour a few years ago?”

“Yep, that was us,” I said.

“We talk about you all the time,” she beamed.

(That she remembered didn’t catch me off guard completely. When I had stopped by the office to set the slaughter date and the guy behind the desk asked if we had done business with them before, I explained that no, we hadn’t, but we had come by for a tour several years ago, at which point the owner popped his head around the corner and said, “You the one that brought those two little kids? I still have their thank you letters!” And then he quoted from them, I kid you not: Mr. Joe, you have the best job in the world!, and I liked seeing the beating heart after the pig was dead. The whole exchange—connections! relationships!—made me feel fuzzy warm about the place, which come to think of it, seems a little odd, considering the place is a slaughter house and all.)

They weren’t slaughtering that day, so the kids and I got to walk all over the place in our mesh caps and white coats, getting an up-close look at the pulley systems, scalding tank, and fancy saws.

Monday morning of this week, I got the call that our meat was ready. Eight heavy boxes of tenderloin, pork butt, side meat, hams, ground pork, sausage, ribs, and fat. (We sold half of one pig, so this is 1.5 pigs.)

That evening we piled the boxes on the table. While my husband cut open the boxes to inspect the contents, I cackled like a tipsy chicken, so over-the-moon happy with our piggy-pork bounty I could hardly stand it. The next morning we ate sage sausage with our fried eggs and bagels, and that evening’s supper was pulled pork in soft tortillas.

This is the first time we’ve raised our own meat (not counting chickens) and I have two thoughts and one request.

Two Thoughts:
1. I had no idea how gratifying it would be to stand in my kitchen eating the meat that came from the animals that I, from my very kitchen window, watched grow up.
2. When raising your own food, the harvest is often overwhelming, so I’m familiar with the drowning-in-food feeling. Meat, however, is a totally new experience. The sheer quantity feels like riches untold.

One Request:
In those brown boxes are more large chunks of meat than I’ve ever possessed in my life. I have little experience preparing big pieces of meat, so I’d love to hear your favorite recipes. I know there’s pulled pork and stew with chunks of pork, but what else?

This same time, years previous: Christmas, quite frankly, 5-grain porridge with apples, breaking the fruitcake barrier, the quotidian (1.6.14), headless chickens, buckwheat apple pancakes, candied peanuts, winter chickens, and my jackpot.      

Or “a sudden fire,” as my older son calls it, as in, Hey guys, let’s go make a sudden fire.

1. Beg your mom for candles. When she says no—candles are expensive and she has hers for a reason: to enjoy them—keep begging. Point out that the fat red one from the thrift store, the one with the feeble flame, is really pathetic. Please? Pretty please can I have it? When she finally says, “Okay, whatever, take it,” snatch it from its black, three-legged stand and race out the door before she can change her mind.

2. Steal an old metal flower pot from the tool shed (don’t bother to ask Mom for permission to use it). Using a piece of rebar and a sledgehammer, punch holes about an inch from the top on either side of the pot. String a study wire or old wire pole through the holes. Put the wax in the pot.

3. Build a fire down in the field, far from the house and other outbuildings.

4. Place sawhorses on either side of the fire and dangle the pot of wax between them.

5. Fashion a long pole by attaching two poles together. Hook an old metal soup can to one end. Get a big jug of water and set it beside the pole.

6. Bring the melted wax to a rolling boil. When it starts to burn on top, yell at everyone to come outside immediately. Make sure Mom has her camera.

7. Hold the long pole steady while Dad fills the tin can with water from the jug.

8. Creep toward the fire, staying low and yelling at everyone to get back.

9. Pour the water into the kettle of wax.

10. Whoop and holler as a column of fire roars out of the kettle, shooting towards the sky and billowing into a mushroom cloud, its wall of heat flashing past. From the corner of your eye, notice the traumatized sheep and chickens bolting away.

11. Wonder if the neighbors are watching. Hope no one calls the fire department.

12. Attempt a second fireball by dumping in more water, but, considering there’s hardly any wax left, don’t be disappointed when it only sputters.

This same time, years previous: constant motion, when cars dance, cranberry crumble bars, the quotidian (1.2.12), classic cranberry sauce, of an evening and a morning, loose ends, baguettes, sweet and spicy popcorn, and lentil sausage soup.