mumbles, gazing fixedly down at my slippers. ‘Eliane has asked me to inform you that we’re going to be butchering the pig tomorrow. If you would be prepared to come and assist us, then that would be greatly appreciated.’
I strain to understand what he’s saying as his accent is pure sud-ouest , as chewy as a slice of Tarte Tatin . He uses the formal ‘ vous ’, and it sounds as if he’s been rehearsing this speech on his way over here, probably dragging his feet reluctantly, having been sent by Eliane on this terrifying errand.
I reach out my hand and shake his large paw. ‘ Bonsoir, Mathieu . It would be a pleasure. What time shall I come?’
‘About nine o’clock? We start earlier, but the preliminary preparations we will handle ourselves.’
I suspect these ‘preliminary preparations’ involve doing the dire and dreadful deed itself and—call me a coward—I’m secretly relieved that I won’t have to witness it. I’ve really grown quite fond of that pig, becoming used to his appearances as he totters into sight across the lawn while I’m busy with my cooking. And I’m pleased to think that at least he’s had several feasts of my gently fermenting apples to cheer his twilight days.
‘We’ll be in the old scullery, round the back of the house.’
‘Okay, I’ll come find you about nine. A demain .’
He shambles off, settling the cap back onto his grizzled head, and disappears back across the yard at some speed, clearly relieved to have delivered Eliane’s message.
----
T he scullery must once have been a dwelling in its own right, before the farmer’s cottage was added on in front. It looks positively mediaeval: a dark, cavernous room with low-slung, smoke-blackened beams that skim the top of Mathieu’s head. The floor is uneven beneath our feet, but its ancient clay tiles have been scrubbed until they’re spotlessly clean. The rough walls are freshly whitewashed and there’s a long trestle table in the centre of the room, whose pine top is bleached from years of thorough scouring. Against one wall there’s a vast stone fireplace, tall enough for me to stand in, where a lively fire crackles beneath an iron pot that looks like a witch’s cauldron.
Eliane, wearing a clean apron, comes to kiss me as I peer tentatively in through the open doorway, and Mathieu raises one bear-like paw in greeting, brandishing a serious-looking butcher’s knife whose long steel blade glints, sharp as a razor, in the firelight.
One half of my old porcine friend is hanging from a beam near the door, where the chill air keeps it cool. Mathieu is busy carving the other half of the carcass into neat sections. He wields the knife with precision, delicately, almost as an artist would wield a paintbrush, and I watch, fascinated, forgetting to feel squeamish as I watch the single slab of meat become transformed into cuts that would look familiar on a butcher’s counter.
Eliane explains what is involved in preparing each different part so that the meat can be stored to keep them going through the coming year. We need to cure the hams, packing them with salt, pepper and bay berries before wrapping them in muslin; they’ll be hung in a cool, dark corner to dry for several months, until they’re ready to be served in wafer-thin slices with summer salads. The main cuts for roasting, or for making into tasty stews and carbonnades , can simply be wrapped up and put in the freezer for future use. But most of the work is in mincing up all the scraps that are left over and using them to make pâtés and sausages. Every single part of the animal is used so that not a thing goes to waste. The scraps that are too fatty to put through the mincer are thrown into the cauldron and slowly rendered down so that, by the end of the day, we have several large jars of pure white lard which Eliane will use for cooking. And even the tiny scraps of leaner meat, that are skimmed out of the cauldron once this fat has melted, are packed
I strain to understand what he’s saying as his accent is pure sud-ouest , as chewy as a slice of Tarte Tatin . He uses the formal ‘ vous ’, and it sounds as if he’s been rehearsing this speech on his way over here, probably dragging his feet reluctantly, having been sent by Eliane on this terrifying errand.
I reach out my hand and shake his large paw. ‘ Bonsoir, Mathieu . It would be a pleasure. What time shall I come?’
‘About nine o’clock? We start earlier, but the preliminary preparations we will handle ourselves.’
I suspect these ‘preliminary preparations’ involve doing the dire and dreadful deed itself and—call me a coward—I’m secretly relieved that I won’t have to witness it. I’ve really grown quite fond of that pig, becoming used to his appearances as he totters into sight across the lawn while I’m busy with my cooking. And I’m pleased to think that at least he’s had several feasts of my gently fermenting apples to cheer his twilight days.
‘We’ll be in the old scullery, round the back of the house.’
‘Okay, I’ll come find you about nine. A demain .’
He shambles off, settling the cap back onto his grizzled head, and disappears back across the yard at some speed, clearly relieved to have delivered Eliane’s message.
----
T he scullery must once have been a dwelling in its own right, before the farmer’s cottage was added on in front. It looks positively mediaeval: a dark, cavernous room with low-slung, smoke-blackened beams that skim the top of Mathieu’s head. The floor is uneven beneath our feet, but its ancient clay tiles have been scrubbed until they’re spotlessly clean. The rough walls are freshly whitewashed and there’s a long trestle table in the centre of the room, whose pine top is bleached from years of thorough scouring. Against one wall there’s a vast stone fireplace, tall enough for me to stand in, where a lively fire crackles beneath an iron pot that looks like a witch’s cauldron.
Eliane, wearing a clean apron, comes to kiss me as I peer tentatively in through the open doorway, and Mathieu raises one bear-like paw in greeting, brandishing a serious-looking butcher’s knife whose long steel blade glints, sharp as a razor, in the firelight.
One half of my old porcine friend is hanging from a beam near the door, where the chill air keeps it cool. Mathieu is busy carving the other half of the carcass into neat sections. He wields the knife with precision, delicately, almost as an artist would wield a paintbrush, and I watch, fascinated, forgetting to feel squeamish as I watch the single slab of meat become transformed into cuts that would look familiar on a butcher’s counter.
Eliane explains what is involved in preparing each different part so that the meat can be stored to keep them going through the coming year. We need to cure the hams, packing them with salt, pepper and bay berries before wrapping them in muslin; they’ll be hung in a cool, dark corner to dry for several months, until they’re ready to be served in wafer-thin slices with summer salads. The main cuts for roasting, or for making into tasty stews and carbonnades , can simply be wrapped up and put in the freezer for future use. But most of the work is in mincing up all the scraps that are left over and using them to make pâtés and sausages. Every single part of the animal is used so that not a thing goes to waste. The scraps that are too fatty to put through the mincer are thrown into the cauldron and slowly rendered down so that, by the end of the day, we have several large jars of pure white lard which Eliane will use for cooking. And even the tiny scraps of leaner meat, that are skimmed out of the cauldron once this fat has melted, are packed
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