by Lynn Bailie
Lynn Bailie originates from Sunderland in the North East of England. She lives with her husband and son in a village near Burgas. Five years after buying a house in Bulgaria they moved to Bulgaria permanently.
“That’s the way people do things here. Everyone who gave up their time to help were fed and “wined” and took some of the meat home.” – Lynn Bailie
On a Friday night, a week before our first Christmas in Bulgaria, we received a call from a Bulgarian friend: “My father in law’s pig will be killed tomorrow morning”.
Before I continue with this story, let me give you an insight into our Bulgarian village. Our village is a big one and unlike many, it’s thriving. The houses are a mix of old and new, big and small and most have reasonable sized gardens or plots. Most are also occupied full-time and owned mainly by Bulgarians. Many residents are professionals who work in our local city, but some are the older generation who still cling to the old ways of doing things. Most people grow some fruit and vegetables. Some make their own wine or rakia and a few keep sheep, goats and/ or a pig. It’s normal to see chickens loose on the street or a donkey or a cow roaming around. This is all mixed up with the usual elements of 21st century life and it seems to work well together.
If you keep a pig, you feed it up through to December. This is when it’s usually slaughtered, providing meat for throughout the next year. You could argue that most of these pigs have a reasonably good (but short) life. They live fairly naturally instead of being reared in some factory farm where they never see the light of day. Each December the fattened pig “meets it’s maker” and is slaughtered at home. The tradition is for people to make quite a party of it, with family and friends mucking in to help.
Now back to the original story. On the designated day at 7:45 am, cars started to arrive at our neighbours’ house.
I joined the women in the warm, cozy kitchen. The table was covered in a plastic cloth and the range was blasting out enough heat to melt the Antarctic. We waited and chatted until the meat started to arrive. Once it started there was tons of it.
Some meat was put into large flat dishes, sprinkled with salt and herbs and put straight into the range. At this point wine and rakia appeared, home made, nicely chilled and delicious. We cleared and laid the table with pickled salads and vegetables, the cooked pork, the liver dumplings, bread, wine and the rakia. The men joined us and a lengthy lunch began. The food and drink were amazing, as was the company. After this meal we were told: “It’s time to rest, come back at 4 pm for the next session!”
Sure enough, at 4 pm it all started again. This time the men brought in huge sections of pig and stripped the bones of meat. Other family members joined us after they arrived home from work. The women had the job of cutting up all the fat into tiny pieces that rapidly filled buckets. This would later be used as cooking fat. There was loads of it and it was very greasy. I can now understand why all the other women had beautiful unlined hands, forget the expensive hand creams, a bucket of pig fat is king!
It was hard work; but to be part of it was strangely enjoyable; or was it the alcohol making me feel that way. Yes, the wine and rakia had reappeared and we were drinking again. Not a good idea when there were seriously sharp knives flashing around. Needless to say by then, I had a large plaster on my thumb.
When we’d finished it was clean up time and back into the main house for more food and booze. We sat down to a delicious pork and cabbage stew that had been flavoured with red pepper and was very filling. More wine appeared and lot’s of “nostravay’s” later I was feeling quite “merry”! We eventually left at 7:30 pm with 2 bottles of home made wine, a bag of pork and the promise of bones the next day for the dog.
True to form the next morning the promised bones arrived for a very happy pooch. That’s the way people do things here. Everyone who gave up their time to help were fed and “wined” and took some of the meat home.
I can’t imagine how the slaughtering and butchering would have been perceived by the health and safety brigade in the UK. It was a whole new experience for us and we wouldn’t have missed it for anything.
P.S. We are still alive and didn’t die of salmonella or anything.
It’s a strange old world!
