Roast Javelina, Portuguese Style and Vegans.
I received a call late last week inviting me to attend a local javelina barbecue being hosted by the Portuguese men in a village up the valley. Such an honour I thought. Generally, men are only invited to allow free speech. Subjects cover hunting, fishing, sport and of course other male subjects without the interference of female sensitivity. Misogyny? No. Cultural? Yes. That's the way I see it even if my female readers disagree. The fare at the barbecue consisted of chorizo sausage and olives as starters followed by the barbecued pork on a rotisserie served with fresh Pão (Portuguese bread). I believe Portuguese bread to be second to none when eaten fresh. The pig itself was cooked on a rotisserie over a half-drum of hot charcoal reminiscent of what we used to do at home on the farm, especially at larger gatherings. Such a method of cooking leads to extended eating as each cooked layer is sliced for consumption. The host of course is burdened with the task of rotating the pig and basting, allowing the rest of us to take our wine drinking seriously. I must say the boar was delicious, actually, well beyond my expectations.
It has taken me some thirty-five years to become brave enough to eat wild pig again after a traumatic experience in culinary hospitality. We had many wild pigs on the farms at home with most crop farmers employing an armed guard with a shotgun to hunt these pests when they entered our crops. These people were politically-incorrectly called shooter boys. The shotguns suffered much physical damage as to reduce poaching, a pig killed was rewarded with another round. This led to the butt of the weapon being more often than not as the ‘coup de grâce’. Pigs particularly favoured maize and groundnuts. Who does not like peanuts? Therefore, wild pig was not a rarity on farmers’ tables.
Sometime in the 80s my friend and neighbour John Gordon employed a cousin of his who used to farm in Nyanga, who on coming into hard times had to sell his farm and seek employment. John kindly employed him. His wife was an avid entertainer totally in denial about her inability to cook. Her meals were to be feared. Despite this reputation, good manners ensured that most of us would attend her dinner parties on invitation. One particular evening on arriving at their house we were met with a peculiar foul smell emitting from the kitchen. One I had never smelled before and in hindsight never want to again. On enquiry, we were told that it was a wild boar curry that was causing this obnoxious aroma. We were assured the pig was fresh and that her husband knew how long to hang a wild boar prior to it being butchered for cooking. I am not using any names here, just him and her. Doubt about this information immediately set in amongst the guests with whispered misgivings being shared. Women being much sharper than men, immediately, declared they didn't eat curry for numerous reasons, saying they were disappointed not to have been able to enjoy the pig on offer. This left us men floundering for an excuse not to partake in the dish all failing miserably. It did not take us long to find out that the curry tasted as bad as it smelled. Perhaps even somewhat worse. We limited ourselves to a small portion leaving most on the plate to the distress of our hostess. To a man, we declined the seconds on offer. Even my friend John Gordon declined seconds, the first time he had done so in living memory. The house which they occupied was very small with one toilet, therefore ensuring that all departed home early to the safety of our own toilets to rid our bodies of the meal in semi-liquid form. John Gordon a few days later told me in astonishment that his dogs had even refused to eat the leftover curry which his cousin had given him in her kindness. Since then I have avoided wild pig, although was happy to partake in warthog on occasion. This weekend the javelina on offer redeemed the wild pig as excellent fare in my eyes once again.
“Good food is made great by the skill of the cook and the provenance of the ingredients. Not by the cost.” - Peter McSporran
The only vegetables accompanying Sunday’s meal were olives. No vegetarians or vegans here. In rural Portugal, nothing of an animal goes to waste from the ears to the tails and everything in between. In fact, beyond the ears to the snout as well. It is such a good practice ensuring there is no waste while at the same time allowing a host of different flavoured and textured meals depending on the cut or should I say part. This is not to all the expats' taste. I especially like all the parts that hang, wobble or flop. Rozanne is not a fan so they are not on offer in our home menu. The people around us here are generally poor with a plot of land to grow their vegetables, keep a few sheep and goats along with grape vines and olive trees. They make cheese from both goat's and sheep's milk. There are no cows close by although there was one in the village when we first arrived. The numerous local cheese factories in the Rabaçal valley bring in cow's milk from time to time to blend with the sheep and goat's milk for large commercial cheese manufacturers. The Rabaçal valley, which lies below our village of Besteiro, is renowned for its cheese. Our neighbours are always presenting us with either fresh cream or mature cheese from their own animals.
I'm sure there must be some vegetarians that live in the area although I am not aware of them nor have I seen them catered for in the traditional local restaurants. Even bean dishes will have chorizo or smoked pork to add flavour. Vegetables are generally limited to carrots, onions, turnip tops, turnips, spinach, cabbage and potatoes. Beans and chickpeas are often included in stews. Homegrown simple salad is always available dressed with raw olive oil and fresh lemon juice. Nothing sophisticated but so delicious. The veggies are cooked in the juices of the protein, mostly in the form of meat. Funnily enough, meals are often served with two starches, rice and potatoes. Rice and batata (potato) fritters are common.
While I sat there drinking my wine on Sunday and later in the day smoking a cigar, I pondered about the vegans of this world. I've been told and read that vegan steaks, burgers and sausages can be more than double if not triple the price of normal meat. I think to myself how would our neighbours be able to afford a fad such as this? Humans are definitely omnivores. Yet another trend away from what we considered as being normal at the whim of a few who would like us to follow suit.
“Diet dictated by allergy is a necessity, diet dictated by taste is a preference, a pseudo tasting diet dictated by a fad is a demonstration of excess wealth.” - Peter McSporran
Further, why the hell do they want their veggies to taste like meat if they prefer vegetarian food? The process of trying to equal the flavour and the nutrient value of natural meat products is what adds to the cost. I am told the biggest difficulty is maintaining both flavour and nutrient value of the product consistently. Why must they call it burger, veggie steak or
veggie sausage or even worse vegan steak etc? It is vegetables, not meat. At the same time, these munchers of the sludge are suggesting that we get rid of all our animals and take up their expensive fad. Do they ever consider getting rid of their meat-eating dogs or cats which produce nothing? No, they try to turn these carnivores into vegans as well. Rather get rid of your food-producing farm livestock and go into omnivore denial. I say disgusting vegan diet as to ensure the nutrient value of the pseudo beef, pork, chicken or even fish a lot of chemically produced taste-altering substances are used along with artificial nutrients in the process of making this expensive unnatural food. Not surprisingly at this time of rising costs, the sales of all these products have recently dropped by 20% in comparison to last year. To compound their problems there is a vegetable shortage in UK due to cold weather in Morroco and Spain.
“More than 1m fewer households bought meat-free products compared to January 2022 and 280,000 fewer households bought dairy-free, statistics show.” - Farmers Weekly
This is the opposite of what those advocates of these foods projected. Like any fad, it is grabbed by the young who are exploited by the few and it disappears with the advent of common sense. We will not ensure the good health of a nation if the cost of food is beyond the means of the poor.
“Already the transition of agricultural products from field to plate is more expensive than the actual production. Anything that adds further to this cost should be avoided.” - Peter McSporran
On completion of eating the pig right down to the bone, it was suggested that we move from our venue, an old school house, to our hosts’, his father-in-law, Eukleídē’s adego, or wine cellar. Once again, generally a males-only domain. On arrival, in the gathering dusk, we tentatively entered the 200-year-old plus gloomy cavern overwhelmed by the fragrance of wine. I once remarked when visiting the KWV cellars in Cape Town, while at a World Economic Forum conference, it was like arriving in heaven. This was on a smaller scale, but not dissimilar. We were immediately offered wine by our elderly host, renowned in the district as being the best winemaker. Our host was well into his eighties but ensured our glasses were filled at all times, prompting us to drink up if he considered we were not drinking fast enough. Of the four invited expatriates, we were down to three now and fading fast. Our spoken Portuguese had now improved greatly despite it being incomprehensible to both our host and even ourselves. Eventually, as our tongues thickened, I called Rozanne to rescue us. In doing so she was allowed into the adego for one compulsory jerepigo. The forty-metre walk to the car was a long walk. What a wonderful day!
Renewed Friendship Along with Highland Show Visits.
In the early 80s with our improved financial situation, I started attending the Highland Show in Scotland. My father, due to poor health, was now retired from farming and he and Flora, my stepmother, now lived in a large apartment on the esplanade in Oban. He had taken an administration job with McBraynes, the ferry company of the isles, to supplement his income while in the summer, Flora did bed and breakfast. Made easier now that my siblings had all left home. The apartment’s location and size made it ideal for this purpose. Father always the farmer rented some land from the Church of Scotland where he kept some cows and ran a flock of sheep. The Highland Show coincided with his sheep shearing each year and it amused me that he expected me to take up the shears and clip sheep as if I had never left, never mind it being some ten years since I clipped a sheep. My father loved his livestock and in his waning years, they gave him much joy, although I'm sure little income. Every day rain or shine he and Flora would both drive out in the early morning and late evening to check on the animals in summer and in winter to feed them. A labour of love.
On returning to attend the Highland Show, I was lucky enough to meet up and become reacquainted with my college and digs friend Mike Clark. He now farmed on Bonnytoun Farm just outside of Linlithgow. Mike was running a mixed cropping and livestock farm with his wife Vari and their two young sons. Mike met Vari while at college. They lived in a large cold farmhouse which even in summer required an AGA to keep it warm. Their Jack Russell never far from the hearth. Mike and Vari for many years were to host me during my visits to Scotland often inviting mutual friends for meals while I was there. Later my cousin’s husband Robert Hamilton actually stayed with them after being introduced to them when he became a policeman in Linlithgow. Great friends. My visits were during the school term in Zimbabwe and this, along with the fact that we had learned the hard way flying with young children is not a pleasure, I would selfishly travel on my own. My father would organise a car for me to use hired unofficially from his local garage. It was just as well I made these trips as my father had not long to live.
Like my father, Mike from time to time would ask me to carry out some simple tasks on his farm such as unloading a truck of lime or driving a tractor. I remember one instance, especially filling the silage pit for a neighbour. I never had the heart to tell him I no longer carried out these tasks. My farming role had changed. He must have thought I was useless, especially when on the neighbouring farm where I helped. Reminiscent of Clarkson I think. I could do these jobs and set all the machinery, but expertise comes with constant operation. Not so, giving the orders at the side of the field. Rather embarrassing.
Rozanne and I have been back to the Highland Show last year. Even today some fifty-odd years after leaving Scotland I still bump into old college and rugby friends. When we meet it is just like yesterday, although we are much older and more sober. Last year it coincided with our college digs reunion. This year we visit Scotland again, unfortunately will miss the Highland Show this time. I am no longer interested in the machinery, more the cattle judging and the drinks with friends in the members' tent.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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