Kill the Pig

Kill the pig
Anthony Bourdain is my new hero. Caitriona gave me his latest for Christmas, and he’s such a bad-ass. Rangy, intrepid, mean, funny as hell, and an eater. What’s not to like?
Bourdain on integrity:

    ‘But you want to know what it’s like making television? Even a completely nonscripted, cinema verite, make-it-up-as-you-go-along travel and food show, where you do whatever the hell you want and hope the cameras can keep up? It’s being poked in the head with shotgun mikes so often, you feel like the leading lady in a late 1970s Ron Jeremy flick. There is no halfway. You don’t, it turns out, sell out a little bit. Maybe you thought you were just going to show a little ankle—okay, maybe a little calf, too—but in the end, you’re taking on the whole front line of the Pittsburgh Steelers on a dirty shag carpet.’

In A Cook’s Tour, there’s a chapter on a village pig-killing in Portugal that reminded me of my friend Joy, who grew up in Gorey, Co. Wexford, the youngest of the town butcher’s five daughters. Joy spent summers linking sausages for her father, Terry. Terry’s description of country sausage-making was crisp.
—Shave the pig, Joy, wipe his arse, and shove him through the mincer.