Dead Pigs
The dead pig came in a box, not a coffin mind you, but in a box. It arrived via Cebu Pacific flight from my hometown. Talk about the dead going places.
In some twisted way, I have to side with those animal lovers. Have you ever seen a pig being slaughtered? The word slaughter– though evoking images of blood and gore– could not even begin to describe the bestiality with which pigs in provinces are butchered. The designated pig killer will take out a sharpened knife and approach the pig that’s held down by at least 4 people. He will then proceed to stab the pig in the neck, carefully ensuring that the knife goes in to the hilt. At this time, I am assuming that the image is now in your mind.
But that’s not yet it. Have you ever heard a pig squealing when it’s hungry? Multiply that by 10 and that’s how loud a pig squeals when it’s being killed. The folks holding the pig will ensure that not a drop of that pig’s blood goes to waste (this is for dinuguan), so there’s usually a basin under the pig as the blood is slowly drained from its neck. All the time the pig is squealing and struggling with all the life it has. In some cases the pig will even shit itself. Can you imagine the sheer brutality with which a pig’s life is ended? I am telling you, you do not want to be a pig.
When I was younger, my father asked me to hold down a chicken as he cut it’s neck. I had to hold the base of its wings and its legs to keep it from flying and deny us the fried chicken that was hidden from under its feathers. I can feel the chicken’s energy ebbing as my father sliced the chicken’s neck. I had to bite my lip to keep myself from crying and be branded a sissy by my older cousins who were watching. At an early age I have been party to the taking away of a life—it may be a chicken’s life but it is life nevertheless.
This somewhat morbid entry is, believe it or not, a birthday entry. The pig in a box is actually lechon, lovingly sent to me by the SO.
Oh we view lechon as a treat alright, with its crunchy skin and savory flesh and then we block our minds from thinking of the “before”– of the process that brought forth the delectable meal that we are about to enjoy.
But on to joyous things. Yesterday was my birthday. Another birthday spent having breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the sweet significant other who gladly had a pig killed so we can have lechon. I think birthdays are superfun. People who would normally have nothing but disdain for you do their damnedest to be pleasant during the day and those who can’t fake it would gladly get out of your hair. You usually have nothing but good vibes during the day. But then again you can be a total jerk and always look at the darker side of things even if only good things were proferred to you. I’m usually a jerk, but yesterday I decided to skip that part for a change. I must say it was a blast.
The SO also brought a cake from Mindanao. If you know Margie’s then you know which province I am from. Margie’s sells cake at such exorbitant prices that they make Goldilocks or Red Ribbon seem pedestrian (perhaps they already are, but who gives?). I am sorry to say this, and I am only expressing my opinion here, but Margie’s kicks Conti’s overrated ass (and I’m not referring to the price here) anytime.
Strangely, despite my not having a birthday party this year, I think this is one of my birthdays that I’d remember for a long time. It must be the time in the car before we arrived at my apartment from the airport when we were taking turns scooping gobs of chocolate cake with our bare hands and making a mess out of ourselves that made it so memorable. Say cheeze.
