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| Sweet in the sty and even sweeter in the freezer |
This week I have
discovered some deeply disturbing details about the minds of the inhabitants of
the islands commonly known as New Zealand. The Government of NZ have, over the last few weeks, updated
the list of names they deem unacceptable to name babies in their country. As of this week the names Prince, Queen
Victoria and (god forbid) 4Real are all off limits along with a further 74
names. At present though you can
call your New Zealand baby either Adolf Hitler, Mr Mucky Flap Flap or Fanny
Pong, although I suspect the authorities would take a very dim view of the last
one.
I was musing on
the subject of names this week because the pigs that we have been looking after
for the last eight months went off on their holidays to the mystical island of
abattoir. They are currently
residing in the freezers of a dozen unnamed families in the Aylesbury Vale area
awaiting roasting, mincing, frying and BBQing. Now, one of the golden rules of keeping animals for meat is
that you do NOT, under any circumstances, despite how funny it may seem, name
them. We made a big mistake a few
years ago with a sheep called Minty.
Anyone who has seen the episode of The Simpsons where Homer raises
Pinchy (a lobster) and then cries through every delicious mouthful will know
what I’m talking about.
So this year, no
names no attachments. This time it
was going to be ruthless, professional and clean. However, despite out best efforts one of the ten pigs
managed to worm its way into our affections. It was a runt, much smaller than the rest but with the kind
of kick-ass, go-getting attitude you’d expect from a Jackie Chan hero. This runty porker would muscle its way
around the sty like it owned the joint (Mmmmmmmm pig joint). It was top pig and made sure the rest
of the herd knew about it. So,
naturally the runt became the most talked about pig, the one we would give a
few extra scraps to, the porker who got the most pats and scratches. Unnamed but very much loved. My wife, in particular, became very
attached to Runty and would often pepper our evening conversations with tales
of their exploits.
And so we come to
the horns of my dilemma. Each time
we have pigs I always ask for a head so that I can make brawn and some amazing
stock for gravies and stews. This
time I was told that the head I had been given was, yes you’ve guessed, the
head of Runty. I haven’t told my
wife yet as I think she would find it all a bit upsetting. In fact, the first she knows about it
will be when she reads this column.
That’s right my darling, the gravy we had a week last Sunday was made
from Runty and my god, wasn’t it wonderful?
