HOLY FUCK! I woke up this morning and there were two little piggies sleeping, ever so sweetly, in my fridge.
Cooking for MESS has meant having to handle some weird-ass shit, but these pigs: with ears, feet, little closed mouth (that I’m now supposed to stuff with an apple - for real) are by far the most fucked up things I have had to wash, salt, soak and store in my normal sized fridge.
I would like to remind anyone who is not aware that I don’t live in a restaurant - I have a small 80sq flat in Saxonwold with a silver designer fridge which should contain smart cheese and a selection of fancy beers. NOT a fucking residential abattoir.
Not wanting to live in an abattoir was a real decision I made circa 1999, when as an uneducated 19 year old I lived in London on a working visa I had to work in a real abattoir in somewhere called Slough. In gumboots-and-a-hair-net (yes), a dispossessed Russian drug addict, also in a hair net, distracted me from my duties liquidizing mince by splashing my face with veal blood. It was at that point that I remembered that I had gone to private school, I had great hair, played water-polo, and was not destined to liquidize (anything) for a living. I would get a degree I thought; a couple actually.
Anyway, right now, on my bespoke kitchen counter, in front of my black-beveled-metro-tilled-splash-board, the piggies are soaking in cold water and vinegar in a plastic tub. This, I am told, should happen for as long as possible before they go into the oven.
Once soaked, wash and pat dry (especially inside!).
Then slice the skin to keep it from bursting open.
Wash EVERYTHING. Get all pig blood/water out of your sink and burn the roller-towels used to pat the pig.
On the oven tray, sit the piggies like a small sitting dog! (for real, again). Cover the little ears with foil so they don’t burn.
Put them in the oven at 230 degrees (which sounds really hot but lets see).
After 1.5 hours turn the pigs. I have no idea what this means - turn them how, upside down? Anyway - turn them.
After another hour or so they’re ready to be served.
Some thoughts on cooking a whole animal which has eyes and feet and ears etc:
Take photos all the way. It may not get you a husband but your gran will be well-proud.
Pretending to be a Tuscan peasant generally helps at all points through the process.
Never even consider naming them.
