Each year my French in-laws buy a pig from the farm next door and help slaughter and butcher it. We ate last year’s pig for months, every time we visited we would walk away with a bag of meat. So I decided to go this weekend. For a week I have been professing my noble reasons for wanting to become one with the animal before I eat it, for wanting to witness where my meat comes from. If I am to eat it, then I must bear witness and thank it for it’s meat. Become at peace with the food chain, blah blah blah.
My Greek accordionist friend who grew up with many farm animals asked me today after I told him where I was going and after spouting my lofty city/fake hippie girl “gets” the country life reasons…..
GA: “So, have you ever seen an animal killed before?”
ME: “Wulll….not really….I guess…(desperately searching for any moment in my New Jersey suburban childhood that might include an animal slaughter)…hmmm…..no. I guess never.”
GA: “I have to tell you, with a pig, it can be quite brutal, especially the squealing, it’s very human and you may be traumatized. And there is a LOT of blood.”