As my brother recently pointed out, it seems that I have fallen a bit behind on my blog. So, here is a quick recap. The holiday season in Maramures was everything it promised to be. I got to dress up in traditional clothing and attend a church service, watch the Rozavlean version of the nativity story, go Christmas caroling, eat so much I could burst, and witness the traditional Christmas pig slaughter.
It is not enough to eat pig for Christmas, the actual action of slaughtering the pig and processing the meat is an important part of village tradition. My neighbors, who didn’t own a pig, bought a live one, so that they could slaughter it themselves.
Though I wasn’t entirely sure this was an experience I wanted, I didn’t really look at it as an optional. I came here to be a part of society, and this seemed like part of what I signed up for when I joined the Peace Corps. By this time I have witnessed a number of pig slaughters, sometimes just by chance, when looking out my window, and I can say that it is a reality I am happy to know, as being a vegetarian has never lasted more than a few months at a time.
On this first occasion, I woke up early and walked over the neighbors to watch the slaughter before it was time for school. I wasn’t the only visitor, two other neighbors helped drag the screaming pig into the snow, by two metal chains attached to its legs. The men held it down while the man of the house slit its thought with a knife. It breathed a few last bloody breaths and then was no more than a bloody carcass in the snow. It is a graphic process, so graphic in fact, that I felt truly in need of the shot of horinca that we took in honor of the pig.
Once the pig is dead and the alcohol is drunk, the pig is torched in order to clean it and get off all that damn hair. Once clean the ear is cut up into pieces and shared among the witnesses. The others seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their pig ear, I was able to nibble it down only because it was basically tasteless.
Next the pig was hoisted up onto a table where the butchering begins. It was about this time when I had to run off to school and teach with nothing more than a pig ear and a shot of alcohol in my stomach. Needless to say I didn’t feel all that great and was happy when it was time to go back and check up on the pig. I arrived just in time to help make the carcabosi.
One of the greatest things about the pig slaughtering is that almost nothing is wasted. The bones are used to make soup, the skin is eaten like a snack, the layer fat is salted and later eaten with bread, the bladder, while now not used, was traditionally made into a drum, and lastly the organs, and all other unmentioned parts are boiled, ground, mixed with rice, and turned into a sausage called carcabosi. I will never shake the vision of my neighbor grabbing a piece of the boiled snout, taking a bite, and then throwing the remains in the meat grinder. I have nothing but respect for this ritual, but it is taking some time to get over my American bred resistance to organ eating.
