Those Moments ….

Those moments that you remember that you are in another country, experiencing life in a very different way.  Sometimes it can be easy to forget. Macedonia is arguably one of the more developed Peace Corps countries and I have access to a lot of the same comforts I had in America.  I can take regular hot showers, there’s no weird animals sharing my bedroom (except that scorpion) and I have access to a diversity in fresh food that some other volunteers might kill for.  But then there are those strange and wonderful and completely new moments that bring you right back down to earth and you can remember that this definitely isn’t Philadelphia anymore. That said, I won the host family lottery in my training village, and life here has been pretty great. They quickly understood and embraced the joy I had for each and every new sensory experience. It turned into a sort of game where everyone would point out new foods, invite me to all of the traditional Macedonian events and then patiently teach me all of the new words associated with each event. This then evolved into learning that I like to take pictures of all of those foods and events and so of course they made sure I always got a good picture.  I think my host family is now better at operating my phone’s camera then I am. My host mom would inspect each picture and make sure her cakes and breads always looked their best. I mean, I totally get it. If you’re gonna do it, you gotta do it right.

“No, you need a better picture of these fluffy golden brown kifli, try from this angle.”

Or

“Did you get the best lighting for Shisharki. Nope, let me turn on the light and you can try again” [Shisharki are these yummy chocolate desserts shaped like pine cones. I find it fascinating that to make these desserts you use the bottom side of a citrus juicer. Everything is put to good use here.]

Their knowledge of the two facts above culminated into perhaps the most “non-Philadelphian moment” for me thus far.

This is the part in TV shows where they warn you that if you are squeamish you may want to change the channel. In this case, I’d guess I’d just say stop reading now and we’ll resume next time with your regularly scheduled happy go lucky cultural updates.  For those of you still intrigued, well I’m thrilled to share with you that moment where I learned how to prepare and cook rooster and pig here the old fashioned way.

I had heard from other volunteers that their host families had recently killed one of their pigs and froze it for winter. So I innocently inquired if we would be doing such a thing at our house, because you know, that would be a new experience for me and I love me some new experiences. This lead to a hilarious conversation where I had to pantomime cutting my throat and asking if the pig would be “finished”  soon because I didn’t know the word for to kill/ butcher a pig. I know for some it may not sound hilarious, but in this context, in Macedonia, with my farming family, it was a perfectly acceptable conversation. For them, this is just one more step in their seasonal calendar. Just as they make ajvar every year after they have finished harvesting the peppers, they also process and freeze meat to get ready for the long winter. The fall months here are filled with a flurry of activity and the more questions I asked, the more I learned about how intricate each process can be and how they are all connected and build on one another. It creates such a sense of community, knowing that all of your neighbors are doing the same thing at the same time. It’s what everyone talks about and bonds over.  For most in the village, this meant making Ajvar, then climbing the mountains to collect chestnuts to be sold at the market, only to be followed up by trips to the fields to harvest white beans.  I even got to come along on one trip and apparently held my own despite being a novice American who, i’d like to mention, was sick. They were proud that I was able to collect about the same as their sixteen year old daughter, I’d call that a success. I think I got some real farm cred that day, until they told me I was too weak to carry the grain for the chickens to the barn. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted. It was amazing to see their incredibly efficient use of space in the fields. Perhaps it is the same in American fields, but this city girl clearly knows nothing about that. Using the same field, first they planted potatoes, then they made rows of corn and then finally they planted the white bean seeds next to the corn stalks so they the beans could grow up alongside and wrap around the stalks. When everything was harvested, the process was reversed, beans first, corn and finally potatoes. Once the corn was harvested, all of the cornstalks and hay were then dried, cut and collected to be stored for food for the cows throughout the winter.

At the same time this is all happening in the fields, in the kitchen we were also pickling carrots, onions, green tomatoes, cauliflower and of course cucumbers for the winter. The pickled carrots and onions weren’t so bad, so I would try and grab a few of those to sustain me.  But sadly, I am not a fan of pickled vegetables, so this was also about the time that vegetables began disappearing off the table for me and my meals mostly consisted of meat, cheese and lots of bread. Lots of bread.  But as the vegetables disappeared, the meat took its place and finally it was time for “The Pig”. This is how I referred to it the whole time, I still have never learned how to say “to butcher”. Perhaps it’s a mental block; my mind refuses to think it will be a word worth knowing in the future.

After weeks of talking about it, my host dad laughing each and every time, and telling me I was going to be the one who actually did the cutting and even a family-wide viewing of a similar pig butchering on Youtube in Bulgaria, the time was finally here.  Actually, first it was time for the rooster. It was all supposed to be done the same day. One fell swoop.  The day it was supposed to happened, we found out the neighborhood pig guy had to work and so we had to wait until the following weekend. But that didn’t stop our butchering fun; we could still do the rooster this weekend.  Don’t let my sarcasm fool you; I was actually pretty excited and nervous to see how this would all work.  So without any further notice, literally I woke up and barely had time to wash my face before host brother, host mom and I all went out back with the necessary supplies. Apparently rooster killing supplies means – a few pieces of newspaper, a lighter, a sharp knife, a baking pan and big bucket full of hot water.   The rooster, which I’ve been told is a delicacy and special treat, had already been identified and separated from the pack. He was the king of the yard and it was time for new leadership.  I of course had so many questions about this all. I learned that since roosters have more meat and don’t lay eggs, and they already had five and in order to allow the others to grow larger, the biggest one had to go. This of course led in later weeks to the roosters fighting for a higher spot in the pecking order, a few lost feathers and even one having to get a time out in the barn. So much barn drama. Sorry the puns and terrible jokes just keep coming, I’ll try and keep them to a minimum, but pecking order is just so great!

The whole process probably took less than an hour. Host mom knows what she is doing. She took the rooster, stepped on its wings, grabbed his neck and quickly slit his throat.  She stood there until his body stopped jerking. The process actually seemed quite humane considering that long ago fact I learned as a kid that roosters can run around with their heads cut off for quite some time. Thankfully I was spared that experience. Perhaps the strangest part of the whole thing was when the chickens turned into a band of cannibals and all started fighting each other to peck at the ground where their comrade had bled out. I guess any nutrition is good nutrition?!?

Next, we submerged the rooster into the boiling water to loosen the feathers and clean it.  Once a few minutes passed and I got over my shock, I stepped into action and helped with the plucking. I think this part was easier for me, because I could finally recognize it as the same animal that I buy in the supermarket.  Once the feathers were all gone, we then burned off the tiny hairs that remained. Finally we began breaking down the rooster into the typical pieces – legs, wings, thighs, breasts.  But of course, not before I got my photo shoot with the rooster.  This of course also turned into a Macedonian language lesson where I learned all of the words for each piece along with many others for the skin, bones, muscles etc.

After everything was done, I was feeling pretty good. Bring on the pig!

That was until the day of. Then suddenly I wasn’t so sure. Host mom came around and woke everyone up, like it was Christmas morning, and I guess in some ways it is. It’s a big event here, with lots of people involved. I got dressed in my best pig killing clothes with multiple layers.  You may be wondering what do you wear to kill a pig? Well I decided dark colors and pants that washed easily seemed like my best choice, I honestly stood in my room looking at my very small wardrobe for a long time. I needed clothes I can bend down in the mud and can also do without for two weeks until the next time I wash my clothes. It was a hard choice. What if I got blood on it? Then I’d be down a shirt and a pair of pants. Once that tough decision was made, I headed downstairs and we shared a cup of coffee together before heading outside. Macedonians think its bad manners to let someone drink coffee alone and thus my host mom would wait for me every morning and we would have a nice chat over coffee, it was the perfect way to wake up my brain and get it started thinking in Macedonian.

Except today. It just made the anticipation greater.

Once outside I greeted all of the men that were gathered.  It’s truly a village event that requires lots of support. There was of course the village pig guy, also known as our neighbor, one of the cousins, my host brother and a guy who lived a few houses down. They made up the A Squad, aka pig holders.  Then there was the random other players floating around, such as the guy who just came to smoke a cigarette and find out if we would be having people over for bacon later.  There was also the Grandmom who came over with her wheelbarrow and dog to grab her portion of the pig.  And another guy, who I am pretty sure just came to supervise and give his opinions on things and finally one last guy who drove by, saw us gathered in the yard and had to stop by and say hi. Everyone is of course offered rakia and coffee, but that day thankfully coffee seemed to be the popular choice that day. I don’t think I could’ve stomached a drink that day and that early in the morning.

Then A squad, host mom and I headed to the backyard. This is the part where I started to get nervous. They have two pigs, and had to entice one with corn while keeping the other back. The whole time both pigs were crying and screaming and it was actually really hard to watch and listen to.  Finally the neighborhood butcher, knocked the pig on the head and slit his throat. Like the rooster, the pig didn’t die instantly. It took quite some for the muscles to stop work and the blood to stop pumping. So long in fact, that I kept getting nervous that he wasn’t actually killed. I just stood frozen to the spot taking it all in.

Finally things started to settle down and we dragged him to the side yard to start cleaning and preparing him, this is again where I could finally start to separate the live animal from the food we eat. I also was just so intrigued with the process that it helped me get past my squeamishness. Plus everyone was watching how the American would react, so I obviously had to stay tough.  Again we broke down the animal following a specific pattern and they let me help with everything. My hands got covered in pig fat, but thankfully my clothing stayed relatively clean. No random blood splattering. All the while Boobi, the dog is getting all of the pieces of the pig no one wants, it was such a randomly strange thing for me to see this dog with pig parts all over his nose. He had a feast that day! It was a full day process, where we each would rotate in and out of cutting the pig and eating breakfast which that day was Macaroni with cheese, ketchup, and sunflower oil. It’s not as strange as it sounds after you’ve had it a few times and was nice and bland for my queezy stomach.

Once the pig was mostly done being broken down, host mom, host sister and I began separating out the liver and wrapping it in the caul fat (the liner on the outside of the stomach) Forager Chef – How to cook with Caul Fat.  I was actually pretty excited for this part, because I had seen Anthony Bourdain make a similar dish before and I thought if it’s good enough for him, then it’s good enough for me! I wanted to like it so much, but I just couldn’t. For starters, I don’t love the taste and texture of liver and secondly, I finally think I was coming down with what I am coming to lovingly refer as Pig PTSD. After 8 hours of all things pig related, I just couldn’t smell it any more, eat it or even think about it.  My body finally gave up. I tried so hard to stick it out and eat some of the food my host mom had just so graciously made for me and others to enjoy, but I needed a break. I napped in my room for about two hours and then rejoined the party. During that two hour break, there was a parade of neighbors and their families who helped with the pig killing. It’s traditional to share a small snack with those who helped and is just as important as the actual killing. This is the major reason that I felt so bad leaving, I was skipping out on my responsibility to entertain and even more so, I was making my host mom very nervous. I should preface this by saying any time anyone is sick here, it’s a big deal. So when I suddenly couldn’t eat any of the food and needed such a long nap in the middle of the day, it was very hard for her, and in turn for me.

The liver being lovingly prepared by my host mom

All that said, I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything. All of the ups and downs made me appreciate both my life in America and even more my life here in Macedonia where I get to have a small view into the way others live. I enjoyed bonding with the men and surprising everyone with how I jumped in and just started cutting, but I also know that non-ground liver is just something I am probably never going to like. I did however love a lot of the meals that were made in the following days, once my PTSD has receded. It wouldn’t be one of my posts if I didn’t end with some pictures of food. Host mom made dried pork that could rival any I’ve had in America and all it took was a fire in drum barrel burning for hours and a little salt.  Nonetheless it was hilarious to come home to a tub of meat just waiting for me for lunch.  Village life was always full of fun little surprises, I’ve only been at my new site in the city for a few weeks and I already miss farm life, pig and all. So I am counting down the days until I will visit in January for Orhtodox Christmas and to meet the new calf that I got to name! Her name is Sunny, and can’t wait to see her!  I guess it’s just the circle of life and what not.

    

** From left to right: Smoked Meat. Tavcha Gravcha – A traditional Macedonian dish that is made from cannelloni beans, onions, peppers, spices and in this case smoked pork ribs. Moussaka Macedonian style with potatoes, onions and ground beef and pork.