Reading: Land and Taxation edited by Nicolaus Tideman
A year ago, I wrote a post about the difficulties of giving up five years of being a vegetarian and embracing meat upon arriving in Ecuador (give or take a few months). Honestly, I’m not a very good meat eater. Living on my own allows me, as it did in the States, to cook as I please, which means that I have yet to buy meat in the market and still cannot tell you when a chicken breast is fully cooked. Granted, I now have random cravings for shawarma on the Malecón in Guayaquil, for a hamburger at La Cigale in Cuenca, or for a Peruvian civiche in Machala but aside from that life as an omnivore is not much different than life as a vegetarian. Except when I get invited to places.
No Ecuadorian ama de la casa would dream of serving a guess a meal that did not include a nice size hunk of animal flesh. It would be of bad taste. Along those lines, there is no such thing as an Ecuadorian fiesta without slaughtering some animal. The basic rule of thumb is, the bigger the party, the bigger the slaughtering. So, when the group of socios, involved in the organic fertilizer project that I am now working on, decided to throw a despedida for the previous volunteer, Jack, they slaughtered a pig.
Growing up in the upper Midwest, it’s not like I haven’t be exposed to what it means to slaughter an animal. My dad, an avid pheasant hunter, would explain to me the anatomy of the birds, where certain cuts of meat came from and how muscles worked as he cleaned the game in our garage. Likewise, it is not shocking to me to walk into a friend’s garage only to find a deer or elk strung up by its ankles to be skinned and cleaned. Yet, to walk to blocks to a neighbor’s house at 7am to pick up a 125lb pig only to see it be butchered 30 minutes later is something I have never experienced. It was, honestly, fascinating in some macabre way.
So, I filmed it. And photographed it. All of it.
Perhaps it was the process that I found so interesting. From the first and only piercing of the pig’s heart to the finishing touches placed on the fritada, ever step of the process was done with a certain diligence. In the act of doing, old traditions played out before my eyes or in this case, my camera lens. Nothing was wasted. (Except for the ears, which Ecuadorian dogs do not get to enjoy as North American canines do.)
Freddy, one of the socios, first washes the body with hot water and shaves off the hair. After he removes the innards along with the feet and the tail, he begins the slow process of skinning. Then the top most layer of fat, the butter as it is directly translated from Spanish, is cut away to become deep fried chicharrón. Afterwards, the bones are carefully removed, with a machete, and the meat left to marinate in a fragrant mixture of cilantro and garlic before it, too, is fried for the fritada. Mote and yucca are boiled and served with the staple Ecuadorian salad of tomatoes, onions, and limejuice.
Then the party begins. A mix of bachatas, salsa, and cumbia fill the open spaces of the panela plant. With deep, heartfelt laughter, beer and replacado are passed around from person to person, each one gulping down a small plastic glass worth. And there is dancing. We dance and we dance late into the night. There are passion filled speeches of gratitude, recognition, and fond memories. No camera can capture the sentiments felt that night as we celebrated Jack’s two years spent in Paccha.
I do not believe that the pictures do the pig slaughter justice either. The visceral feeling that you encounter is lost as experience is digitalized. As for the actual meal, this pork-hating-quasi-vegetarian was not as repulsed as she expected to be, but I made sure that I received a double serving on the salad. And I couldn't bring myself to eat the fried pig's tail that was saved for me, as much as I yearn to parody Little House on the Prairie.
A year ago, I wrote a post about the difficulties of giving up five years of being a vegetarian and embracing meat upon arriving in Ecuador (give or take a few months). Honestly, I’m not a very good meat eater. Living on my own allows me, as it did in the States, to cook as I please, which means that I have yet to buy meat in the market and still cannot tell you when a chicken breast is fully cooked. Granted, I now have random cravings for shawarma on the Malecón in Guayaquil, for a hamburger at La Cigale in Cuenca, or for a Peruvian civiche in Machala but aside from that life as an omnivore is not much different than life as a vegetarian. Except when I get invited to places.
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| Fritada |
Growing up in the upper Midwest, it’s not like I haven’t be exposed to what it means to slaughter an animal. My dad, an avid pheasant hunter, would explain to me the anatomy of the birds, where certain cuts of meat came from and how muscles worked as he cleaned the game in our garage. Likewise, it is not shocking to me to walk into a friend’s garage only to find a deer or elk strung up by its ankles to be skinned and cleaned. Yet, to walk to blocks to a neighbor’s house at 7am to pick up a 125lb pig only to see it be butchered 30 minutes later is something I have never experienced. It was, honestly, fascinating in some macabre way.
So, I filmed it. And photographed it. All of it.
Perhaps it was the process that I found so interesting. From the first and only piercing of the pig’s heart to the finishing touches placed on the fritada, ever step of the process was done with a certain diligence. In the act of doing, old traditions played out before my eyes or in this case, my camera lens. Nothing was wasted. (Except for the ears, which Ecuadorian dogs do not get to enjoy as North American canines do.)
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| Chicharrón |
Freddy, one of the socios, first washes the body with hot water and shaves off the hair. After he removes the innards along with the feet and the tail, he begins the slow process of skinning. Then the top most layer of fat, the butter as it is directly translated from Spanish, is cut away to become deep fried chicharrón. Afterwards, the bones are carefully removed, with a machete, and the meat left to marinate in a fragrant mixture of cilantro and garlic before it, too, is fried for the fritada. Mote and yucca are boiled and served with the staple Ecuadorian salad of tomatoes, onions, and limejuice.
Then the party begins. A mix of bachatas, salsa, and cumbia fill the open spaces of the panela plant. With deep, heartfelt laughter, beer and replacado are passed around from person to person, each one gulping down a small plastic glass worth. And there is dancing. We dance and we dance late into the night. There are passion filled speeches of gratitude, recognition, and fond memories. No camera can capture the sentiments felt that night as we celebrated Jack’s two years spent in Paccha.
I do not believe that the pictures do the pig slaughter justice either. The visceral feeling that you encounter is lost as experience is digitalized. As for the actual meal, this pork-hating-quasi-vegetarian was not as repulsed as she expected to be, but I made sure that I received a double serving on the salad. And I couldn't bring myself to eat the fried pig's tail that was saved for me, as much as I yearn to parody Little House on the Prairie.
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| Yum, pig's tail. |
Yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Come back for shawarma on the Maleco'n!!
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