[AT] Scrapple & Head Cheese

[Cecil E Monson]

	Bear, all these stories bring back memories to me too. Generally
I think about this stuff for a while and then feel I have to write it
down. I guess this is one of those times.

	My father and mother rented a farm in Lodi Township, Mower County,
Minnesota when they were married in 1929. I came along in 1930 along with
the Great Depression. And no, it wasn't my fault. ;-)  The first memories
I have of the farm are the horses my father had and the smell of the barn.
For some reason that barn smelled good to me. Could be the silage, the hay
in the hay mow or the cows - I don't know but I always liked the barn. One
thing about being a kid on a farm, there was always something going on
somewhere.

	My father could have butchered a hog before I can remember but I
only remember him butchering one time. I imagine some of the things he
needed were there on the farm and especially a large cast iron kettle that
was suspended from a large limb on a giant oak tree in the yard. I was so
young I don't remember him starting the fire but I remember a bonfire
burning around the kettle and it full of steaming water. I imagine it was
in the fall of the year. A neighbor came over with a .22 rifle and was
supposed to shoot the hog out in the cattle yard. In my mind I can see us
all out there, the neighbor firing a shot at the hog and then all hell
breaking loose with my father grabbing me and running for the fence. I now
suppose the neighbor missed the target and just wounded the hog. It seems
to me it took a lot of shouting and squealing and a couple shots before
they got the hog down. I missed some of the next part - maybe my mother
came and got me, I don't know but I remember later the men lowering the
hog into the kettle and then scraping the hog with large knives. The
lowering and raising of the hog into the boiling water was done with a
block and tackle suspended from the same limb that held the kettle. I just
remember snatches of what went on after that as I probably wandered off
or went back and forth to the house.

	I know they used a saw to cut the hog in half because it must
have made an impression on me. By the time they got this far, I remember
the hog was all white instead of brown. They rendered all the fat off
the hog out in the yard. I have no idea now what they used to do this
but I remember they used the same fire. As most of our trees were oak
in that area of Minnesota, I have to believe they had good dry oak and
a nice hot fire. They rendered the lard and poured it into lard cans. Do
you remember the pails lard used to come in?  Sort of yellow metal - not
brass but sort of gold colored?  I think my parents had a number of these
and strained the lard as it was poured into these pails to cool. That was
when I got my first taste of cracklings as the men were eating them out
by the fire.

	Later I remember being down in the basement with my father and
he had the hams and bacon in large stoneware crocks in what he called a
pickle. Probably a pickling brine. Then I can remember him taking the
hams and the bacon out and rubbing them with a very nice smelling salt
after which the hams and bacon went to a smokehouse. When they came
back they were dark and smelled delicious. They hung a side of bacon in
the entryway to the house where it stayed cold and sliced bacon off as
it was needed for cooking. They put the hams deep in an oats bin in the
granary to keep them until they were needed for cooking. We had no
refrigeration on the farm, of course, as there was no electricity. All
meat was either cooked and eaten in cool weather or canned in jars so
it would keep.

	I think some of the meat was taken to a butcher shop to be cut
up into chops and ground into sausage.

	I don't remember my father ever butchering another hog and from
the amount of work and aggravation they went thru, I can't say as I blame
him. There could be another reason too as about that time a commercial
locker plant was put in in a butcher shop in Le Roy and I know my folks
had a locker there. The butcher would take beef or pork, slaughter and
butcher them, cut everything up, package it and pack it in a locker for
a fee. I have a feeling this is what my father did as soon as it was
available. My mother was one who would not have appreciated the mess
and blood and all and may have been against doing any more butchering.
If she had any idea any part of the operation was not clean and sanitary,
that would have been the end of it. That was the way she was. Anything
to be cooked and eaten had to be absolutely clean.

	So far, no one who lived on a farm has mentioned chickens and
sending the kids out to "get a nice rooster for supper". I have to
believe a lot of us went thru the routine of catching a "nice rooster"
for our mothers.  We never bought chicken in a butcher shop or in a
store as long as I lived on the farm. We raised chicks every year and
the roosters were fair game when it came time to get one or two to eat.
Generally when we got company we knew we were in for a nice meal and
were waiting for the chance to go catch one. We never failed to ask if
we could use the rifle instead of a wire with a hook on the end but my
mother would never allow that. She was always afraid we would shoot them
and mess up the meat. The drill was to get a "nice" one. I don't know
why that term was always used unless it was that she wanted one that was
lively and healthy. We were always glad to oblige with the catching. When
it came time to chop the heads off, that was my job as I was the oldest.
We had a stump over by the machine shed for this purpose and one of my
youngest brothers would hold the chicken by the feet while I performed
the hatchet job. Then I either had to grab and hold the chicken quick or
my younger brothers would drop the headless rooster on the grass to see
him jump. This infuriated my mother who didn't want the chicken "all
messed up". Once we brought my mother the headless chicken, that was the
end of our work. All we had to do then was wait for the meal. For some
reason, chicken has never tasted quite as good to me as it did there on
the farm as a kid. Maybe my taste buds aged by the time I left but I
just have a feeling that those chickens raised free roam and fed nothing
but good grain, besides never being over a year old, were better eating
than any you could buy in a store. Maybe it had something to do with
eating the meat within an hour or so after killing it, whatever it was
I sure liked those fried chicken meals of my mother's.

	So thanks for the stories - all of you. It woke me up too.
Sorry this is so long but I hope some of you stayed for the chicken.

Cecil
-- 
The nicest thing about telling the truth is you never have to wonder
what you said.

Cecil E Monson
Lucille Hand-Monson
Mountainville, New York   Just a little east of the North Pole

Allis Chalmers tractors and equipment

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