Porky

Happy New Year, if I haven’t already wished you Season’s greetings. 

Christmas was, yet again, different for us this year. Another country, another home, another roast. This time, we took our linguistic courage in both hands and visited the farm we pass daily to investigate its advertised porcelet. It’s a real farm, with odd and ancient equipment strewn in forgotten areas of the courtyard, a dog barking behind a shuttered window, something steaming behind the sheds, and a scrupulously clean butchery. We nearly lost our nerve, but just as we were hastening to the car, a young man appeared and wished us Moien. I explained in Luxembourgish that I only spoke a little of that language (namely enough to make that statement) so, of course, like all the business folk here, he tried again in French, German and a little English. (I do think the UK missed a trick in not introducing the learning of another language into primary schools.) As we explained our need for a Christmas Roast and that we had in mind a piglet big enough for three carnivores, his mother, the farmer, drove in to the yard. Looking relieved, he handed us over to her tender care, and she ushered us into the kitchen. 

It was a real farm kitchen. Banish from your mind any thoughts of scrubbed pine tables, cheery dressers and gingham bistro curtains. This was the dark cool kitchen where the farmhands could come in without shedding working clothes and boots, the dogs could lie on their own huge day bed without having to be sluiced down and the Portuguese daily help could swear gently into the huge deep sink in the corner. The farmer nodded towards her.  

“She won’t bother to learn Luxembourgish,” she said, disparagingly, “She can’t see the point. She only speaks Portuguese, French and a little German. English too, of course.”  

We went on to discuss porcine matters. Would there be a porcelet ready in time for Christmas? What size would she recommend for said carnivores? Would we want it jointed or whole? We explained that our oven was only so big, and Mme Farmer recommended something in the area of 8 kg. Did she sell any other products? “Well, of course,” she said, reeling of a list of hams and pates. Dearly Beloved’s ears pricked up at the sound of Boudin Noir. Did Madame have any Boudin Noir? Was it homemade? She disappeared into the darkness of the corridors beyond the kitchen. In the meantime, a portly, moustached and blue hatted elderly man appeared, boots and overalls caked with the by-products of his trade. He nodded, grunted a Moien, and sat at the cluttered table to roll a cigarette. Mme Farmer re-appeared with a list and a vacuum packed Boudin.

“You can have that,” she said, “It’s the last one for now.” Pressing it into DB’s eager hands, she refused to accept payment for it. Nor would she take any advance money for the promised piglet and took only our phone number. We would see her again on Christmas Eve and collect the little chap then, all oven ready. It was as easy as that.

Having really missed our friendly butchers in Back Lane in Coventry where the butcher knew the names of, or at least the homes of, all the beasts he was selling, we had been looking for a similar enterprise in Luxembourg. We also feel that food miles should be kept to a minimum, and this little piggy would be able to run home the 1.5 km if he so wished. 

In the interim, we invited a hungry looking couple from church to join us on the day to assist our pig handling.

Christmas Eve arrived and Dearly B was dispatched to bring home the bacon. He rang the doorbell on his return and through the entry phone, suggested I came downstairs. A little worried that there was a problem with the pig, that it might perhaps be too small and we would have to go shopping to feed our supplementary guests, I dashed down the two flights of stairs. The boot of the car was open and stretched across its depths was Hubert. All of him, his tiny trotters extended before and behind, measured at least two and a half feet.

“Where shall we put him?” I asked. “He won’t fit in the fridge like that.”

 

“He won’t fit in the oven like this,” said DB, a little panicked. “We shall have to do something. It’s too warm to keep him in the garage.”

 

It was particularly mild that day. But our drive way is on the north facing side of the building, and stays relatively cool, so Hubert spent the day in the back of the car, coming with us to Thionville  and Remich on a shopping and sightseeing tour with my visiting elder son. So much for reducing food miles. Hubert did a round trip of about 100 miles that day. And what if we had been stopped by the police or customs officers, and found to be crossing borders with a corpse in the back? An excuse of “Sorry officer, we just wanted to keep him cool” sounded rather flabby. Hubert also enjoyed his trip to Midnight communion in the city and spent the night quietly on our drive way. 

Christmas morning started with the slightly gruesome sound of sawing. Even with his feet tucked under him, it would be too tight a squeeze to get all of Hubert into the oven without some serious cosmetic surgery, so Dearly Beloved removed his little piggy head.

 

“I wish they had shut its eyes,” he said. “It’s a trifle off putting.”

 

Hubert beamed at us, his ears flapping back and his tiny teeth grinning beatifically. Dearly Beloved prized open Hubert’s mouth and I pushed in a Satsuma, the apples being far too big. Dearly B trussed the piglet’s back legs under his tummy, and folded the front legs under it. Thus arranged, Hubert fitted snugly into the roasting tray, his legs forming enough of a ridge to allow him not wallow in the roasting juices. DB had already poured boiling water all over him to ensure crispy succulent crackling and so he was oven ready. His head was popped face up into the corner of the tray but slightly disconcerting was his little whip of a tail. It was too small to be trussed, but just long enough to brush against the side of the oven. It went in anyway and singed gently, for half an hour or so in a hot oven, to be basted and then to sit in a slightly cooler temperature for several hours.

Much basting later, Hubert emerged glistening mahogany brown, having spat out his Satsuma. The meat fell apart. The crackling was crispy and melting. Served to loud and cheery toasts of cremant, accompanied by spicy braised red cabbage and roasted potatoes, Hubert was the perfect Christmas dinner companion. Five greedy grown ups had their plates filled high. We had a cold meat lunch the next day, also on the greedy side. And Dearly Beloved made five cartons of porky goulash for the freezer. We abandoned the head and the trotters due to lack of imagination and appetite. And the ham bone supplement we had bought in case there was not enough stayed in its sealed sleeve for another week.

Dearly Beloved is making plans for a pig roast in the summer. Watch this space.

“A di!”