La Boucherie
by Jim Bolner, Sr.
The coldest February day was the best boucherie day.
The colder the better. If rain was falling or if rain were threatened,
the great event was postponed. Sad was the day when the hard
decision
was made to proceed, only to have cold rain come down after the
slaughter had begun its irrevocable career. Then there was true chaos:
mud everywhere mixed with pig hair and dried pig blood. Tempers were
frayed by an early hour, and, of course, since so much depended on the
quality of the hot water for the shaving of the pig, it was often
necessary to put off the actual shaving and cutting of the animals
until the rain abated and a true fire could be built up. In short, it
was difficult, if not impossible, to do the work with any degree of
grace.
But if the February weather were cold and crisp, and
if the sun rose to make bright red streaks upon the eastern sky behind
my Uncle Rushian's place, then the fire would crackle and the water in
the black pot would hiss and steam, and the rifle shots marking the
killing of the pigs would be applauded by those warming themselves
around the fire. If it were a truly big boucherie, featuring three or
four really large pigs, then there might be two fires and two pots, and
double work.
By the time of boucherie day the pigs were often too
obese to move, and lay there in their stalls, their knuckled legs too
weak to support their huge bodies, their snouts extended over their
trough of slop--living tableaux of gluttony and excess. Once they had
been felled by the single rifle bullet in their brain, they were
unceremoniously dragged by stout men and boys pulling at the stout rope
which had been tied below the knuckled legs or behind the featureless
neck. And now the obtaining of the blood: the artful cutting of the
artery immediately after death, so that the death spasms themselves
would propel the blood into the waiting receptacle. The blood was
crucial to the making of the red boudin, the delicacy of late
afternoon.
Now the pig was ready for the main event. A really
heavy animal could not be lifted upon the trestle made of boards
deployed over sawhorses and in such cases had to be cleaned on the
ground, with gunny sacks placed on the ground next to it so that once
shaven on one side its cleaned side could be turned onto the clean
gunny sacks so that the other side could be rid of its hair. The
shaving was done in this way: hot water was poured on the hair and then
a sharp knife was used as razor to remove the hair. Once the shaving
was
started in earnest, little pads of hair were used as staging areas for
more shaving once they had been saturated with more hot water. The
shaved pig was a fine spectacle, lying there on its sack or sawhorse
with its flawless skin exposed and inviting caress.
What a wonder to behold the opening of the pig's
body and the revelation of the incredibly beautiful organs which had
empowered this animal with life! The liver was the first organ removed
and, if it was judged to be sound, it was immediately turned over to
the women for them to begin to fry pieces of the liver for the men's
breakfast of hot biscuits and fried liver. Then the intestines were
removed and also turned over to the women, who were waiting with their
water and vinegar and peach switches (to empty and clean the intestines
to be used as casings for boudin and sausage). The larger of the
intestine were destined to become the main ingredient of andouille. The
pace of activity increased. The ranchi or backbone was removed
and the
women received this precious portion to begin preparing the fricassee
de ranchi , which, served over hot white rice, and accompanied by sweet
potatoes and a green vegetable, would be the mainstay of the boucherie
lunch.
Soon the black pot would be emptied of its hot
water, washed, and readied for the making of cracklins. Into the pot
would go the fat of the pig's skin with a small strip of lean meat
attached to it. The cracklins would cook down until they had yielded
all the grease of which they were considered capable. Then they would
be scooped out of the hot grease, salted down, and allowed to cool. The
grease itself would be allowed to cool and, when cool, would be poured
into large metal cans where it would harden and whiten into marvelous
lard. Into this lard much of the links and pieces of smoked sausage
made later in the day would be deposited, to be retrieved and eaten
throughout late winter and early spring. The lard itself would be used
for frying everything from choupique (freshwater bowfin--a "trash fish"
but still a delicacy) to langue a boulée, fried bread dough.
And meanwhile the women will have been chopping and
grinding select pieces of lean meat to be seasoned with onions, green
and chopped, and bell peppers, and put in the boudin and sausage
casings which by now have been flushed and re-flushed and left to stand
in vinegar-water and turned inside out again and again with the help of
the peach switches. Funnels made of small gourds will be used to help
the thumb introduce the meat into the casing.
The slaughtering of several pigs yielded a large
quantity of meat. Some of this meat was given to those whose work had
made the boucherie possible, some distributed to neighbors and friends
as morceaux de voisin , neighbors' portions. But the bulk of the meat
was either salted down in large ceramic jars which rested majestically
in the pantry or smoked for several days in an outbuilding. The
building which was most often pressed into service for this function
was the chicken coop, a development which, as can be imagined, caused a
great upheaval among the poultry population. But how sweet the chore of
picking the eggs while the smoking was going on--sneaking in with
muffled face to see if the hens had been brave enough to lay their eggs
despite the gross intrusion upon their domain.
The varieties of delicacies to come forth from a pig
are truly amazing. There are, in addition to the roasts and chops and
steaks of various denominations: chitterlings; hogshead cheese; gogue
(pig's stomach); and pans de toilette (patties of pork sausage meat
cooked in the pig's peritoneal membrane). And then the white and the
red boudin and the pure pork sausage.
Then, once the boucherie was done, the meat salted
down, the smokehouse fire started, the neighbors' portions distributed,
there was time to bask in the fading February sun. Seated on a cleaned
table which just a few hours ago had held tubs of sausage and boudin,
propped against the weather boarded house in the receding angle of the
weakening winter sun, one felt completed and satisfied.