Bring Me The Head Of Runty Garcia

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?

Shallow Grave Cooking

Warning - this blog contains a picture of a severed pig's head (although it's not as bad as I've made that sound).

Spare the axe spoil the child

OK, this is going to get grisly.  For those of a weak or sensitive constitution I'm going to begin with the good stuff.  The picture below is pure porn.  Brawn porn.

And this little piggy went all wobbly

The problem is that to get to that deliciousness you have to start with this 

It all began in those far off, crisp and cold days that history will record as ‘just before Christmas’ when we acquired a pig at a party.  I want to make it absolutely clear that this is not a countryside version of throwing car keys into a bowl.  It was a perfectly normal and straightforward party celebrating the festive season where you take a bottle of wine and bring home some livestock. 

So, we tended and fed the pigs until the beginning of April and now, after some slightly more brutal ‘tending’ by the butcher, have a freezer full of sausages, bacon, chops, offal, trotters, roasting joints and, as you can see, the head.  The head I was particularly keen on getting because stock from a pig's head opens up a world of possiblities.

My one note of caution surrounding the making of a batch of pigs' head stock is to make sure you have a pan big enough to take the head.  Even though the head was split it was still a little too big for my pans and so it required a bit more *ahem* trimming.  Now the thing about the head of a mammal is that it is full of bone and teeth and so cutting it is a little bit tricky.  My knives were inadequate so I took to the shed and had my pick of tools.  I narrowed the choice down to an axe, a small saw and the hedge trimmers before settling on the axe ( a wise move I think).

My other problem was that while I was making the stock I was also looking after my kids on a sunny, summer afternoon.  Now, whilst I want my children to be aware of the realities of what goes into a plate of meat, I also recognise that the image of their father smashing an axe through a pig's jaw could result in a good deal of therapy later in life.  

So, to recap.  

1. Pig's head, carrots, celery, onion, bay leaf, peppercorns and salt boiled together for a couple of hours make a delicious stock for soup and the perfect base for brawn.

2. On balance, a paddling pool is a better way for a six year old to spend the afternoon than being the Ewan McGregor to your Christopher Ecclestone (Pig = Keith Allen in the Shallow Grave metaphor BTW)

Drinkie..? Nibbles..? Pig..?

Just before Christmas I went to a party and bought a pig.  I would like to make it clear that this wasn't a 'buying a pig' party.  I merely happened to get chatting to someone who had a pig to sell and if there's one thing I am always in the market for it's a bit of livestock.  

Last year we had a sheep that we lovingly called Minty before we lovingly took him to a slaughterhouse, lovingly paid someone else to kill and butcher him before we lovingly ate every delicious bit of him, lovingly.  I have been banned from naming the pig (although secretly I call him Ian).  I'm already dreaming of making my own cured ham, sausages, black pudding and brawn.

Ian

This is my favourite picture of Minty.  Isn't he lovely..?