"Live a good life, and in the end, it’s not the years in the life, it’s the life in the years."

Feeding the pigs

By on December 22, 2019 in Columnist with 0 Comments
Being a farm wife (farmette really) was a lot of fun, but I’m no longer young, eager, energetic and brave, so city life suits me fine.

By Carolyn Black

Many years ago, we lived out of town in the country where we could raise pigs without offending too many neighbors. 

We started out with a pair (wonderfully named by our kids, Pork and Beans). 

The pigs thrived on leftovers from the kitchen and the garden with a generous helping of grains from the farm store. When my husband decided to get three more — another boar and two sows — the need for more scraps had us asking at a local restaurant if we could have all their leftovers and plate scrapings (from the garbage cans in the kitchen). 

It was a win-win deal as we found many pieces of silverware, glasses and even plates that had been tossed during busy times, which we returned to the restaurant. 

My husband had welded a huge aluminum kettle, complete with a device we could dump it with into a container and mix in the grains so we could cook it according to state laws. The kettle hung over a fire pit we kept burning while cooking the pig slop. 

One afternoon, I was out by the table where we sorted the food from the garbage and a neighbor stopped by. He was new to the area, and found it fascinating. 

I had a huge apron and long rubber gloves, but was almost done for the day. When I got to the huge beef roasts (10 pounds or more they used to boil up for Au Jus), I showed him all the leftover meat. 

When I picked up the roast with my gloved hands, I mentioned that this was all leftovers from XXX’s — the name of the restaurant, but not mentioning the word “restaurant.” 

The neighbor’s eyes got bigger and bigger as I tore the meat apart, saying I thought they could do something wonderful with the meat, but because of his expression, I stopped. 

After a bit more conver-sation, it came to light that the only XXX he knew of was the restaurant owner’s brother, who was the local mortician. 

The memory always causes me to laugh.

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