Full of childhood memories: killing pigs

(Full of childhood memories: killing pigs)

In my young mind, it left a deep imprint. I still can't calm down every time I think about it.

1970, my family raised a pig. At that time, people didn't have enough to eat and pigs didn't have good feed. My mother dug wild vegetables and fed them for nearly a year, only weighing more than 100 kilograms. In the twelfth lunar month, mom and dad began to discuss killing pigs. Father said that killing pigs to sell meat is more cost-effective than selling pigs, at least making money, and children have meat to eat. At that time, although pork was only 60 cents a catty, it was very rare for ordinary people to eat a meal before the New Year. My parents have just discussed killing pigs, and my sister and I are extremely happy.

My sister is four years younger than me. When she saw every little friend, she proudly announced: My family kills pigs in the New Year! Don't believe it? You ask my brother. Soon, the whole production team knew that my family was going to kill pigs during the Spring Festival. When men meet my parents, they will say hello: rotten iron. (Note: rotten iron is my dad's nickname, because my dad is outspoken.) Let me know when you kill the pig, so that you can come and give me a hand. Or, her aunt, can you ask me to eat pig killing wine? The woman is surprised: Do you really want to kill the pig?

At that time, my sister and I were always in high spirits, and our minds were full of meat. I don't know how many times I go to the pigsty every day. I want to get something to eat for the pig and hope it will grow more meat.

Mom and dad finally agreed to kill pigs. On the 26th of the twelfth lunar month, after breakfast, my father went to ask the butcher. My sister and I are also very busy. My mother filled both jars with water. I made a fire and my sister carried the pot of grass. Every time it's shipped, he will tell me that the pig killer hasn't come yet. After the water boiled, my mother scooped the boiling water into two big wooden barrels, covered the quilt, filled the pot with water, and let me continue to burn. Until two vats were filled with boiling water, the pig slayer had not come yet. My sister and I couldn't wait, so we ran to the main road at the entrance of the village to visit. Far away, I saw my father walking in front with a box to kill pigs. In front is an oval pig-killing barrel, and behind it is a scorpion. There are pig-killing knives, iron hooks for hanging pork, bone-breaking knives, grindstones, iron planers and other tools. The pig killer walked behind my father, holding an iron bar seven or eight feet long in his hand, with a thick thumb and a high finish, his stomach facing up and his head facing up. Friends who are playing by the roadside saw it and followed it to kill pigs.

When my friend and I walked around to my door, several neighbors who heard the noise had come to help. My uncles took over the burden on my father's shoulders and the iron bars in the hands of the pig slayer. An uncle put the pig-killing barrel smoothly, took a long bench next to the pig-killing barrel, then took out a ruler from the carcass and put the long sharp knife in the barrel. The butcher's apron is easy to place and hang on the wall. That apron seems to weigh a few kilograms, shiny and shiny, as if it had not been washed, and it smells like meat. Mother took out the stool and told the butcher to sit down and rest. Then go back to the house and pump smoke with kerosene lamps.

Everything is ready, everyone is silent, just staring at the pig butcher. The butcher took his time, squinting, fell heavily on the ground and stepped on it severely. Then he waved his hand and said, catch a pig! Several men rushed to the pigsty, and they didn't think pig shit was dirty. They jumped directly into the pigsty and carried the pig weighing 100 kg out of the pigsty in the blink of an eye. The pig howled and struggled desperately, and sat back. His two front legs kicked helplessly in the air, and his two rear legs kicked straight forward, plowing two deep ditches in the mud. After a while, the pig's legs were tied and his mouth was tied, and he could only purr. People put the pig's front shoulder on the bench and head towards the pig killing bucket. Two people grabbed the hind legs, one carrying the tail and the other pressing the front legs, leaving the pig's head moving there. Father took a basin of water and washed the pig's neck. Mother brought a clean wooden basin and stood by waiting to collect pig blood. The wooden basin is filled with shallow water, with a little salt in it and a pair of long chopsticks on the side. At this time, the butcher who killed the pig had already fastened the heavy apron, picked up the sharp knife in the bucket and walked to the pig's head.

The happiest moment came, and my friends and I stared at the pig killer unblinkingly. I saw him put his left knee on the back of the pig's neck, put the knife back into his mouth, grabbed the pig's chin with his left hand and pulled it hard in the direction of his right leg, so that the pig's throat protruded forward. He pressed the middle finger of his right hand twice on the pig's throat, and pressed it again in another place. Changed the position several times in a row, finally determined the place of the knife, and pressed it down heavily. Suddenly, the butcher took back his right hand, picked up the sharp knife in his mouth, aimed at the position he had just pressed, and stabbed it straight down. I didn't see it clearly. In the cheers of all, the knife has lost its handle, and the pig with its mouth tied gives a painful stuffy hum. Blood, slowly flowing out, mother busy handed me the washbasin. After the pig butcher moved the basin to a suitable position, he dug the handle out of the knife edge with the index finger and middle finger of his right hand, and then pulled it fiercely, and the pig blood hit the basin. When pigs inhale, the blood flows slowly, and when they exhale, the blood flows quickly and splashes far away. Mother pushed away and kept stirring pig blood with long chopsticks, regardless of the pig blood splashing on her body.

When the pig was motionless, the uncles untied the rope that tied the pig. The butcher cut a small hole in the pig's hind paw with a knife, and then slowly stabbed an iron bar seven or eight feet long from the blade along the inside of the pig's skin in all directions until it hit two front legs, two ear roots and another hind leg. The butcher should be extra careful when stabbing near the bleeding mouth of the neck. Once stabbed, it will leak when blowing, and the pig hair will be difficult to shave. Then, the butcher blows air on the blade of the pig's hind paw root, which is the most laborious work. It is impossible to brag without trained people. The pig killer took a breath of air and took a rest when he was tired. I don't know how many minutes passed, and finally he blew pigs like balloons. The butcher tied up the knife to prevent air leakage, and then waved his hand and burned the pig! So, the uncles immediately took two buckets of boiling water, poured it into the pig-killing bucket, then carried the pig into the bucket and turned it back and forth. Pig leg roots, ear roots and other parts are not easy to burn, so pour boiling water back and forth with a kettle. The butcher tried to pull out a few pinches of pig hair, and when he felt almost the same, he began to scrape it with an iron plane. At this time, my mother asked me to make a fire and help her make pig blood tofu. When I went to watch the fun again, I just saw the butcher cutting the pig's belly. A machete crossed to reveal glistening lard. Then, the butcher cut off three or four Jin of pig neck meat, also called trough head meat, and handed it to my mother. My sister and I followed my mother home. The disembowelling outside has lost our interest. Our eyes were fixed on the piece of meat in mother's hand. That's for the butcher.

My mother cooked a table full of dishes to kill pigs, entertained my uncles and aunts, and helped kill pigs in the village. This big pot of meat is fat but not greasy. The whole process of killing pigs reminds me of my full childhood!

More than fifty years ago, people in rural areas seldom killed pigs because they were too poor to eat meat. Today, more than 50 years later, rural people don't kill pigs. This means that they live a rich life and begin to pursue the quality and taste of life.

Bai Quanxi was written on February 8, 20 18.