“Howdy, neighbor! I’ve been wanting to talk to you!” halloed Gale. I was passing by their place on my afternoon walk, and as he tromped up through the field, I swung over to the other side of the road to meet him. “I just wanted to tell you that we’re butchering the Saturday next and ya’ll are more than welcome to come.”

And so, this morning, we did. The kids were up before daybreak, chattering with excitement. They hustled through their bowls of granola, jumping up to run to the back door every two minutes to check on the neighbors’ house. “Another car is driving in!” they’d holler. Or, “the big outside light is on!” Shortly after seven, all six of us were heading down the road, eyes watering from the cold despite being bundled up to our eyebrows.

When we arrived, the first of the six hogs was already being scalded and scraped. Fires were burning, tables were set up, and men were milling around. Things picked up speed right quick. Soon there were three pigs hanging, another being scraped, and yet another was in pieces on the cutting-up table.

This was the second pig butchering I’ve seen. The first was at our local butcher shop, and while both were community efforts (in the sense that a local butcher shop is part of the community), the scenery was totally different. The shop was professional with its concrete floors, bright lights, white coats, and tons of stainless steel. Today’s butchering was down-home and earthy with the frozen ground, wood fires, cast iron kettles, and sun shining through the clouds of steam and smoke.

They shot and stuck the pigs quite a bit a ways from where we were. Sweetsie held my hand the first time, scared the pig would scream. There was no noise, however—just the gun’s dull pop, and then the big pig was flopping around on the ground.

A tractor hauled the slaughtered pig down to the dipping station where men used ropes to lower it into the tub of 162 degree water.

After a couple minutes of swishing and a great heave-ho, it was hoisted back onto the platform where a bunch of men rapidly scraped it clean.

The pig was eased to the ground and some men drug it to one of the tripods.

After it got strung up by its hind feet, it had a quick hose-down and some touch-up scraping.

Then the cutting commenced. First to go was the head (I am sparing you those pictures) which got lugged over to the head station to get cleaned up (i.e., dissected).

The snout tips and eyeballs got tossed into the grass, but not much else got thrown away. The tongue, ears, head meat—all of it got thrown into the pudding kettle.

As for the actual gutting, it was totally fascinating. They started cutting up around the tail (the top), first tying off the rectum and then separating the organs and innards from the abdominal cavity. Then someone helped hold all the innards in place while more cuts were made down around the heart. Once most everything was cut free, the whole mass splashed into the bucket below. The heart, liver, and pancreas—those all got saved.

This might sound rather odd, but I found the innards, the perfectly shaped orbs and spheres, the billowing balloons, to be rather beautiful.

Our neighbors generously let our friend Sam, who they didn’t know from Adam, butcher his pig with them. Last night Sam’s dog attacked one of his pigs and wounded it severely enough that it couldn’t wait another couple weeks till its intended butcher date. Sam brought Lee, my distant cousin and member of our church, along to help with his pig.

Lee has ten hogs worth of experience under his belt, so he knew what he was doing.

Though he couldn’t hold a candle to the man who had been butchering pigs since 1968. That man knew everything. When he helped Lee with Sam’s injured pig, he showed us how the kidneys had dark spots caused by the trauma of the attack. One kidney, the one that was on the injured side, was much worse than the other. Amazing, no?

Anyway, Lee is also a science teacher and he seized the opportunity to educate all us novices clustered around, both young and old.

He showed us the bladder. The “pee sack,” I think he called it.

Running all through the intestines were sheets of lace, otherwise known as the capillaries. (Yes, they will also get eaten.)

Then there were the lungs and heart.

Human hearts and lungs are similar to those of pigs, though ours are smaller, of course.

Lee cut into the heart and expounded upon the ventricles and aorta, etc.

But for the lungs, he went all out.

After wiping off the trachea, he put his mouth on it and puffed air into it, first one side and then the other.

The whole thing expanded dramatically—it was absolutely fascinating … and hilarious.

After the gutting, the backbone was sawed/hacked/axed out, and the carcass cleaved into two pieces.

The halves were laid across shoulders and carried to the cutting-up table.

The fat gets rendered into the lard, and there will be hams and sausages, ribs and tenderloin.

I made only two trips down to the butchering during the morning—the kids were freezing cold, and I had sweet rolls (not sweetbreads!) to bake and a couple extra children to babysit—but Mr. Handsome stayed the whole day. Maybe he learned enough that we’ll be butchering our own pigs in a year or two.

This same time, years previous: moving big sticks of wood, baked hash brown potatoes

Last night after tucking the kids into bed and scooping myself a bowl of ice cream (twice), I curled up on the sofa and cracked the spine of a new (to me) book, Sarah’s Key by Tatiana de Rosnay, the one I am to read in preparation for our February book club meeting.

When I started the first chapter the clock said 9:15, and when I finished—yes, finished!—the book, it was a little after 12:30. I had gotten up just once, to put the bread dough into the fridge (I had mixed it up and then forgotten about it) and to go to the bathroom. (But I read while I tinkled.)

I haven’t read a book straight through for years, probably not since I was nine years old and read The Boxcar Children three times in one Saturday while lollygagging about on the shaggy, brown living room rug, my sundress scrunched up to my navel, my little panties fully exposed to the light of day (and my mother’s camera). Last night’s read was a deeply satisfying experience—finishing a project in such short order, escaping my reality, and soaking up the life of another world for a whole three hours. What a rush!

While I was plowing through my book, my husband was stretched out on the brown sofa, his nose in his book. Once when I did something really loud and distracting, like transition from a sitting position to a laying down position, he peered around the edge of his book, grinned devilishly, and chortled, “Isn’t this fun?”

He finished his book before I finished mine, and, knowing how I hate to be left alone downstairs, he gamely (though slightly begrudgingly) sat down in the recliner and waited for me to get through my last fifty pages. He let me sleep in this morning, too.

A word about the book (book club members and anyone else who has not yet read the book and plans to, you may want to avert your eyes): it was a page turner (obviously), but there were quite a few parts that seemed farfetched. Also, the character development was weak and the end was cheesy. But apart from that, I learned some new things and had quite a pleasant little word trip. And the moral of the book’s tale? Don’t ever let your kids play with keys and cupboards. (Okay, so that wasn’t the author’s real intent, but it’s what this mama came away with. Before going to bed, I had to go seek out my little four-year-old boy and cover his silky-soft cheeks with kisses.)

The ice cream that fueled my word trip was a fabulous salted dulce de leche ice cream, studded with candied peanuts, the very peanuts that I wrote about yesterday.

I was a little nervous about adding nuts to ice cream—it always seems to me like the nuts should surely soften in all that frozen dairy—but I went ahead and added a bunch at the end of the churning process and they stayed nice and crisp-crunchy. So, those nuts aren’t only good for out-of-hand eating—they make a great addition to your favorite homemade ice cream.

As for the ice cream itself? Cream, milk, a tin of dulce de leche, and ta-da! You’ve got a churnful of deliciousness. The sprinkling of flaky salt right before eating is key. (And not Sarah’s, either.)

What books are making YOU stay up to the wee hours of the morning?

Salted Dulce de Leche Ice Cream with Candied Peanuts
Adapted from the May 2007 issue of Gourmet magazine, via Epicurious

Dulce de leche comes in tins that look the same as the sweetened condensed milk tins. In fact, if you can’t find any dulce de leche (I found mine at an Asian-Mexican grocery), you can make your own dulce de leche out of sweetened condensed milk by following these instructions.

You can substitute toasted pecans in place of the candied peanuts.

2 cups milk
1 cup cream
14-16 ounces dulce de leche (about 1 ½ – 1 2/3 cups)
1/8 teaspoon vanilla
3/4 cup chopped candied peanuts, optional
flaky salt, for garnish

Scald the milk and remove it from the heat. Add the dulce de leche and stir till dissolved. Add the cream and vanilla. Chill till good and cold and then freeze in your ice cream maker, adding the candied peanuts about one minute before the ice cream in finished. Transfer the ice cream to another container and put it in the freezer for a couple hours to allow it to set up. (This ice cream is very soft, so it does benefit from a freezer cool down.)

To serve, scoop into bowls and sprinkle with flaky salt.

This same time, years previous: turkey-noodle soup, home alone

Sunday afternoon, Francie, our 60-plus pound lab, had a head-on collision with my kneecap. She was running at top speeds—until suddenly she wasn’t. And I was spinning around like a top, clutching my leg and feeling tingly cold and burny hot all over. I didn’t want to look down for fear my kneecap had fallen into my sock. It was just a bruise, however, and not even a very big one at that, but three days later I’m still sore.

Then the next night, the Baby Nickel belly-kissed the stove. It was the weirdest thing. He was warming up by the wood stove after his bath, tired and grumpy after a long day and no nap. He asked Mr. Handsome to help him get dressed, and Mr. Handsome, busy on finances, told him no, Dress your own self, boy. The Baby Nickel turned bratty and demanding, hollering at the top of his lungs that he must be helped right that very minute. So Mr. Handsome helped him by relocating him to a timeout in the downstairs bedroom. Nickel was mad as a hornet.

Eventually he turned weepy-sad, and Mr. Handsome paid him a visit. But Nickel refused to work things out, sobbing that he wanted Mama. However, I was busy. So the girls took turns checking on him, trying to cheer him up. All to no avail. The poor kid was exhausted.

After he had been in the room for a good twenty minutes, I finally went in to see him. He was curled up on the sofa, still naked, tears streaming down his face. I told him to sit up (couldn’t very well hug him while he was fused to the cushions), and as he slowly, shakily, sat up, I caught a glimpse of some scratch marks on his belly. Then—oh my word! “John! Come here!”

There were burns on his tummy, one big, one tiny, but both puffy-angry.

It was freaky, I tell you. A burn that big and he never said a word? Never even cried his hurt cry?

We quizzed him and gradually learned that a) no, no one had pushed him against the stove, he had just gotten too close; b) yes, it hurt; and c) no, he didn’t know why he didn’t tell us. (And no, we don’t think he was afraid to tell us—he’s not that kind of kid.)

“Which hurt worse?” I asked. “The burn you got on your finger or this one?”

“This one,” he said.

Well, okay. At least he correctly identified the worse burn, pain-wise. Because I was beginning to wonder if he was missing some nerve endings.

In retrospect, I think he was not fully aware of what had happened—it’s the only explanation I can come up with.

Normally I don’t feel too bad when my kids get hurt. I don’t take responsibility for their bumps and ouchies.

You fell down? Well, shoot! Get back up!

The chicken pecked your hand? Don’t put your hand in front of its face then, silly.

You fell out of your chair and landed smack on your back? Well, if you’d minded your manners and kept your butt on your seat, you probably wouldn’t be lying there crying right now.

Your sister whacked you? Don’t provoke her. (Dummy.)

But this time I felt awful. A burn that bad? If it were me, I would be having histrionics, calling up all my friends in a quest for sympathy. I had a little burn on my thumb the other day and it hurt. I yelled and my eyes watered, and then I had to keep working around the heat (didn’t want the food to burn, too) and lost half the enamel on my teeth from gritting them so hard.

Maybe tummies and thumbs feel pain differently? Maybe I’m a wimp and the Baby Nickel is stoic? Maybe I should change his blog name to (deep, gravely voice) The Bruiser.

After Mr. Handsome and I got done staring and grilling him (sorry, bad pun), we snapped shut our slack jaws and started oozing some serious sweetness. We helped him into his jammies, gave him Tylenol, and applied medicine and a loose bandage. In short order, he was all teary-eyed smiles and cuddles (though he refused an offer to be carried up to bed, preferring to walk himself, both hands holding his shirt away from his wound).

By the next morning an outsider would never have known he was burned. He even wore blue jeans. Ouch.

But enough of that. I’m sure you’re dying to learn how I, Miss Wimpy, got burned.

It was while making my second batch of candied peanuts, one of my latest passions. One of the super-hot candied peanuts jumped out of the pan, and in a classic dumb cook move, I used my fingers (stupid stupid stupid) to pick it up and toss it back in. What followed, the desperate effort to pry off the hardened sugar-syrup with my teeth, the yowls and wails, was to be expected. The bigger surprise was that I, a cook who has never successfully made candied nuts (aside from cashew brittle), had hit a home run for the second time in a row.

Crunchy-sweet and mildly salty, these nuts are the way to go. Over the past couple weeks, and with only minimal help from the members of my immediate family, I’ve managed to tear through two whole pounds. The funny thing is, the kids love them but Mr. Handsome doesn’t. I’m not sure why, and I don’t even really care. It’s his loss.

So far I’ve made these nuts plain, with just sugar, water, and salt. The second time around I added some ground cinnamon which was lovely, though I wish I’d added more. I’m already making plans for the next batch: ground cinnamon and chipotle powder.

Candied Peanuts
Adapted from David Lebovitz’s blog

Feeling timid, I used only a couple small pinches of cinnamon. Next time I’ll use at least a quarter teaspoon.

Other nuts can be used, though I have yet to try them. Smooth ones are best, says David, for coatability. So if you want to experiment, try whole almonds, macadamias, or cashews.

2 cups raw peanuts, unsalted and untoasted
1 cup sugar
1/3 cup water
1/4 – ½ teaspoon flaky salt
optional: cinnamon, chili powder, chipotle powder, smoked salt, etc.

Dump the peanuts, sugar, and water in a cast-iron skillet or heavy-bottomed saucepan. Crank the heat up and start stirring.

The sugar and water will make a nice syrup, but all the time the water will be evaporating.

Quite suddenly, the sugar-water will turn to sugar-sand. Reduce the heat to medium and lift the pan off the burner to help it cool a bit. Stir constantly.

Alternate between setting the pan on the burner and taking it off—if the nuts are browning too quickly, take it off; not enough color, put it back on. The goal is to get them a nice golden brown, as dark as you can without scorching.

If a nut jumps out of the pan DO NOT PICK IT UP.

Soon after the sugar turns to sand, a little syrup will start to form on the bottom of the pan. Stir frantically, trying to coat all the nuts with that syrup. With about a minute of stove-time left, sprinkle in your salt and any other spices. (It’s good to have them pre-measured because at that point you’ll be moving really, really fast.)

When you can no longer keep the nuts in the pan without them burning, dump them onto an ungreased cookie sheet. Let them rest for 5-10 minutes before breaking them up into pieces. Let them cool all the way before storing in a glass jar.

Yield: a scant quart (if you don’t snitch any while they’re cooling)

This same time, years previous: chicken butchering