Despite being 14 at the time I got myself a mug of hot wine and took a long sip. It was hot and sweet. Mine was over boiled so it had little or no alcohol. Just the way I liked it. My mom brought some hot brandy for Mr. Brana and my dad, a home made plum spirit, 55% alcohol, boiled with black pepper. Our outdoor party had to continue despite the freezing temperatures we had in Avrig, and the booze was the answer to Mr. Brana’s prayers.
“Boy, get the straw ready”, Mr. Brana addressed me again, and I put my mug down and headed for the barn. Climbed the ladder to where the wheat straw was stored and pushed down the equivalent in volume of a large Japanese goose dove futon. I climbed down and took half of it and spread it over the dead pig.
The pig was on its back, now, and my father helped it stay on its back with two bricks pushed against its body on both sides. When ready, I took a matchbox, opened it, took out a match, lit it and a moment later the pig was on fire. A few minutes later the fire was out and Mr. Brana and my father turned the pig on its belly and I burned it again with the remaining straw. Time for another mug of hot wine for me and Uncle Lulu and another shot of hot brandy for my father and Mr. Brana.
“Help me with that door”, my father said and we took down the barn door and lay it on the snow. Beside it was the charred and dead pig resting in an anthracite black spot where the snow had been melted by the fire.
The three of us (my father, Mr. Brana and I) took the pig by its legs and pushed it onto the door. Uncle Lulu went to the kitchen to hurry my mother with the hot water: the boys were about to give the pig a close shave. The straw fire burned the hairs and dead cells off the pig’s skin, so we had to literally shave it, using hot water and sharp knives. But first we had to clean it with hot water and brushes, which we did.
In less than an hour the charred looking pig had turned into an appetizing pink dream. I say dream because it was a time when eating meat was an extravagance in Romania. It was December and I had last tasted the forbidden swine in early summer. Every Saturday I had killed a chicken or a rooster for Sunday lunch and supper, but not for the last month and a half. It was the Christmas fasting period: beans, beans, cabbage and then more beans. Just seeing the dead pig made me excited at the thought of suppers to come.
Anyway, the pig was cleaner than a groom on his wedding day, so Mr. Brana went for the first cut: he chopped its ears off and handed them to me. I took them with delight. A quick move with the knife and my trophy grew bigger with a 15” size notebook piece of skin.
In few seconds later in the kitchen I saw my mom slicing the skin and the ears and taking half of them upstairs to my sister. It was our snack for the unexpected public broadcast. Kids always eat the pig’s ears. Raw. At least in Avrig they do, I’m not sure about kids in other counties. The Bucharest demonstration in support of Ceauşescu was about to begin and, strangely, it was to be aired before noon. We decided that we better watch it. Why? Who cared? Maybe nobody, not me, probably because at the time TV broadcasts amounted to a mere 2 hours of news about Ceauşescu, from 7:00pm to 9:00pm every day.
The patriotic songs and a computer generated image gave way to the image of a packed square and the building of the Central Committee of the Romanian Communist Party. Ceauşescu was doing his usual blah, blah, blah, promising a 100 lei increase in all salaries, about 4USD, despite the fact that all the stores were empty, with no goods to buy. Students were promised 10 lei more, or 40 US cents.
Listening to the fire in the terracotta stove I dipped a slice of raw pig ear in salt and put it in my mouth, savoring the moment, but before chewing it I jumped to my feet and screamed. On the TV screen there were images of other screams. Years later I learned that while I was eating the pig’s ears, someone in the crowd shouted “Jos, Ceauşescu!” or “Down with Ceauşescu”, and the rattling of guns or maybe just firecrackers were heard. The crowd started to run, the TV station tried to cut off the transmission but they cut the image feed only. We could still hear the Ceauşescus’ fearful voices. They were scared!
75% of the population of Romania was in front of their TVs, like me and my sister. The other 25% were either on the streets, shouting “Jos, Ceauşescu” or slaughtering their pigs, like my parents, Mr. Brana and Uncle Lulu.
“Hello, hello”, the brain-dead voice of the god-like former shoemaker blared in the speakers while his wife threw fuel on the fire advising him publicly:
“Talk to them, talk to them”.
It was popularly believed that Ceauşescu wasn’t so bad, but — as in many Romanian households — he was under the control of his wife. To have the proof of that feared reality was to provoke even more hysteria.
Like two broken puppets Ceauşescu and his wife stood there bewildered at what was going on. Why had they called the demonstration? Why had they given orders for the bloody backlash in Timişoara?
“Stay quietly where you are” tried Ceauşescu again, before being rushed into the building by his underlings. And the live feed was cut and replaced again with patriotic music. According to Radio Free Europe a third of the citizens of Timişoara had been killed. Way too many for Ceauşescu to get away with it by offering 100 lei more in monthly earnings for us Romanians.
With my mouthful of raw pig’s ears I rushed into the backyard to tell the news.
Dad, it’s happening, the people in Bucharest have started a revolt”, I shouted overjoyed.
Mr. Brana froze, Uncle Lulu froze, and my dad froze too. I was so loud maybe the neighbors had heard it too.
“We still have to work on this pig”, said my father, his words double edged, while my mother rushed with the hot wine and hot brandy again.
“I just hope the fucking Russians don’t invade us” said my father, and I remembered how impressed he was when he visited Hungary, the one and only foreign country he had been to, when he saw the traces of the Soviet bullets on the beautiful buildings of Budapest. Their 1956 revolt was crushed by Soviet tanks and as a father he feared for us.
“You’re right, man, we still have to work on this pig”, echoed Mr. Brana, whatever the real meaning of his words were.
When I gave them the news he was about to cut off the pig’s legs. The pig was on its belly, bricks positioned on either side of it, so he went to work on it surgically. First all four feet were chopped off and laid aside. My mom would salt them and hang them in the smokehouse. Then the legs followed. One hind leg was put in salt immediately. Four days in salt and then 1 month in the smokehouse, and then hung up to dry further. This was the method of choice for the best meat we could consume raw. The other three legs went into the kitchen where my mom started to take the meat off of them. With a small knife she cut off the fat and threw it into a bucket, the resulting fat-trimmed meat would go into another one. Two buckets full, another two to go, I carried the full buckets into the cold room and locked everything down. Our cats and dog were prowling around, waiting for a treat. If we were careless they would grab everything and this could never happen. The meat was more precious than their lives and I cared more about my family and our food supply than I cared for them.
Another two buckets in the cold room and I had to help my father put the fatback in salt.
Imagine the pig, now, with no legs. The next task was to cut the fat off the carcass. Mr. Brana made a long cut from the neck to the tail, and then cut off the back of the pig in two wide and heavy pieces. It is called “slănínă” in Romanian and it is mostly fatback. We do not remove the skin. These pieces are heavy and they have to withstand hanging on hooks for many months.