My parents came for a visit last weekend. My father was giving a speech in London, which was a big hit in the advertising world, and they decided to tack on a trip here to visit little old me. It was lovely to show them around. I took two days off and we went to the coast, to a weird little non-touristy town called Piombino and then we drove up to Firenze and found ourselves in an incredibly beautiful city, chocked full of tourists!
On Sunday afternoon after returning from Florence I ran into Jessica and she asked me if there was any way I could go to the slaughterhouse with Riccio the norcino (salumi-maker/butcher) at five the next morning. I said of course and went to bed early. I didn't sleep well though, knowing I'd have to be up at 4:30, dreaming of screaming animals.
Before I knew it, Riccio, Sheridan and I were driving the refridgerated van and a trailer with four pigs in tow, down Spannocchia's long, pitch black driveway, dramatic opera emanating from the stereo. Our ride was silent aside from the eerie music. The waxing yellow moon sat low on the the horizon as we drove down the deserted road that bisects the Val d'Elsa to the slaughterhouse thirty minutes away. I was afraid. The pigs make such terrible noises when we do something as innocent as check the tags on their ears, I could not begin to imagine the cacophony that would ensue when they were killed.
We arrived at a quarter to six and I helped Riccio get the three sows and one castrated boar into the shute. Because we're an organic operation, we have to slaughter first, hence the early arrival. We waited around for a while for the water, which scalds the pigs after they've been killed, to get to temperature. I followed Riccio inside half an hour later, just as our first pig was to be slaughtered. Before I knew what had happened, it was dead instantaneously. I won't get into the gory details of the process, but I will tell you this. It was silent. Aside from the voices of the boisterous men who worked there, and the machines at work, the animals were totally quiet.
I got to help quite a bit, more than I'd expected, and to be honest I wasn't terribly disturbed by it all. Emotionally, it was much more difficult for me to find dead baby pigs in the hutch with their mom than it was to see these pigs die instantly and then be skillfully butchered. That isn't to say that the loss of a life isn't inherently sad or important, but I didn't find it disgusting or tragic. One thing I did find surprising, if that's the right word, was that once one of the pigs was fully dead, removed of it's hair, hung up by it's ankles and cut down the middle, its butt muscle was still twitching. Perhaps only five minutes after its death, I could see the muscle for a minute or so, twitching ever so slightly.
Riccio is a very skilled and sensitive butcher who dislikes the marcello (or slaughterhouse) and the men who work there. He uses every part of the animal that he can. He also happens to make damn good salumi. After we returned, he asked me to help him with another chore. He gave me his car keys and had me follow him in his Fiat (he drove the refrigerated van) to the auto body shop. I spent an hour basking in the sun while the cars were worked on. What a strange day, I thought to myself, quite a break from the usual routine of rolling around with Ricardo and Giulio building fences and feeding piggies.
By the time I returned to Spannocchia it could easily have been five in the evening, but it was only noon and I had to cook lunch for everyone. Sheridan and I busted out a delicious meal of lentils and latkes. Later that afternoon we had a wine-tasting class with Jessica, which was incredible. It was our second of its kind and I have already learned so much about tasting wine. Needless to say, I was rather tipsy afterwards (none of us spat) and made the impulsive decision to go for a run. Off I went down the road with the courage of a drunken fool, I decided to run all the way to the 13th century castle that lies about five kilometers down a beautiful road which winds through the forest which surrounds Spannocchia. I had never been before.
The evening air was warm and the reality of the day washed over me. There's nothing like being exactly where one wants to be. That's how I felt on this particular run. When I finally reached the castle, which was much bigger and less shabby than expected, I had the distinct feeling that it was somewhere people had lived for a very long time. I am not one to speak of spirits or ghosts, but this place was special. I will leave it at that. I returned home to Pulcinelli at sunset, close to two hours after I'd left. I had a light, vegetarian dinner and went to bed early. What a day.
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| "The Castle That Only God Knows" |
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| The Sunset |
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