Showing posts from February, 2015

Processing Pigs

Beware -- this is about processing pigs.  As I write these words, George is shooting our pig, Flyer. I’m inside nursing and crying with the gunfire punch. George’s stomach is churning and William is very sad. Amelia’s method is to celebrate. She is creating a Slaughter Day Celebration.    George Wilder participates and then he is sad. He has lost a friend. And William did take his toy gun outside with him to shoot the pig after he was told he didn’t have to watch. We decided years ago to raise our own meat when and if we could. We wanted our family to grow up knowing where their food came from and fully participating in that process. We’ve raised chickens, sheep, and pigs. We’ve named them and loved them and then “kindly” eaten them.   We love our pigs and we know them more as pets than we did the chickens and sheep. We pet them and talk to them and they are close to us when we play outside. Our hearts ache on slaughter day, but we know what we are doing i

Pigs, A Subaru, And A Plow

We started to see glimpses of spring and dreamily started planning our spring garden. A few warm days drew us out into the sun and we couldn't wait to get to work.  Around here, not much is done with what you might call call normal tools or materials. George is the master creator and problem solver. We've two pigs that love to furrow. We don't have a tiller. And pigs don't break down, rust, or need oil or gasoline. George lured them to the garden with the shake of corn in the green bucket and locked them in. For five days they ate away at lettuce and collard remains and dug their noses deep into the soil. The garden was tilled. Once they were back in their fence, George decided to mix in compost and make rows. He found an antique plow in the barn, which requires a horse. We don't have a horse. We do have a Subaru. George figured out how to hitch the plow to the Subaru, but cars don't respond to voice commands. Well, our 15 year old Subaru doesn't.  I