"Did you feel any pathos," Susan asked.
I was telling her about my morning with Cox Butcher on County Road 16 in Florence where I witnessed a hog slaughter - head shot, throat cut, no suffering - the massive carcass pushed along the winding rail above our heads, gutted - intestines slopped to the floor in one graceful movement - washed, and sent to rest in the meat locker before processing: bone-in chops, boston butt, cutlets...
I had to stop and think a moment. I had not considered the pathos I felt, the momentary disappointment in watching a living thing die - momentary only because I forced reason to the front: I love bacon, pork chops, BBQ.
The idea was not an original one, spend a few hours with my butcher to learn the cuts, the technique in carving a roast. Mark Bittman suggests doing so in How To Cook Everything. But that part came later, when I'd seen enough method and slipped out of the warm, iron-air slaughter area and into the cold, steel-tabled carving room next door. The witnessing slaughter part of this idea came from Michael Pollan and his book, The Omnivore's Dilemma. I decided to see exactly how this all worked, how that mouthwatering, rich pork belly with the crispy outside and tender, butter-like inside made it's way to my plate. The cook and foodie in me felt a responsibility. I'd killed and gutted chickens before and this experience seemed a natural progression.
Thank you to Adam & Renee Cox, owners of Cox Butcher Shop, for allowing me to sit in. And thank you to their USDA meat inspector, who took the time to show me what lymph nodes look like and where a parasite could bore a solid hole in the liver.
And yes, there was a little pathos, watching that last hog lay face down in the blood of those before him, his front legs bent in natural surrender, his hinds stubborn, knees locked, ass up, as if they might turn around and walk out.
"Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt"
- Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Slaughterhouse-Five
And the sale is: local ingredients, naturally raised. These hogs come from good stock, Lauderdale County grown. I'm told they lived a good life, no hormones, no steroids, and wandered freely, like Adam's cows grazing behind the shop. He doesn't add preservatives when he packages and everything in the case is fresh. I buy beef and lamb from Adam, and pay the processing fee on venison in the fall when lucky hunters bring home more than they can handle. Chris, Adam's part time butcher who showed me the ropes around a side of beef, suggested I come back during deer season. "It's a whole other ball game," he said.
Thank you to Chris for showing me how to move a knife with the grain, how an inch thick of meat around the outside of a ribeye defines the cut - present or not - and the trick to tough cuts sold as cutlets: extra trip or two through the tenderizer and you get a cube steak that will just about melt in your mouth.
And while I feel a little smarter with a knife and beef shoulder, and a tad familiar with the efficient job of preparing a hog, I think I'll leave this one to the professionals. I'm sticking to cooking and eating.
Comments