The pig is dead, scalded, scraped and butchered, ready for the spit on Saturday. I was amazed at how with the right temperature, 65 c - the skin and bristle came off. He went from being a black big to a white pig. He's in a chiller now, until Saturday morning. Pig died as meat animals should die, one moment a mouthful and pleased with himself, the next dead.
Peter and Helen came back to the island today flying with Frank on Flinders Island Aviation - a charter - which means you can bring a fair bit more luggage. I should have taken down a shoe-horn and some grease, when fetching them, to get it all in. They got home to a beehive in their woodbox. The beekeeping project really has to get there.
when my Dad was still in high school, he and his brothers were dispatching several pigs for the winter larder and the last one realized that although the .22 to the forehead was quick, he'd rather not give it a go. He wedged himself into a corner of the pen, head down, forehead against the fence post, and wasn't coming out, thankyouverymuch.ReplyDelete
Grandpa told them to leave him for a bit, he'd come out once hungry, and he did. He eventually walked over to the trough a day later, but when ever anyone walked out of the house with a rifle back to his post he went. So one of my uncles had a .22 revolver and they hid it from him so they could walk up on him eating to deliver a surprise coup de gras.
Aaaaah, pore, pore piggy. However, I bet he'll taste heaps better than our supermarket-bought offering. Enjoy! :-)ReplyDelete