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By pigwhisperer, June 19, 2010

Embrace the sausage. This is what Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn say in their curing, salting, smoking, and sausage-making bible, Charcuterie.

A few months ago we hosted a sausage-making workshop organized by SENNAR, an education program sponsored by the Brazilian government. Everyone participated—me, James, my sister Tatiana, all of our employees, and Oscar. (He’s a chef in a dog’s body.) Before moving to the farm, James and I also took a great sausage-making class at Chicago’s Kendall College.

Unruly class member

Class disciplinarian

All you need to make sausage at home is an electric mixer with a meat grinder attachment (most Kitchen-Aid’s have this), some hog casings, and tool to stuff or encase the sausage. Actually, you don’t even have to encase the sausage; you can simply mold the ground sausage meat into patties or fry it in a pan to add to pizza and pastas.

Hog casings are pig’s intestines that have been washed and treated. The membrane encasing sausage meat is intestine, or a synthetic collagen made to resemble intestine. You can buy real or synthetic casings at The Sausage Maker, an amazing online store for all of your sausage needs. (My former catalog of choice used to be Anthropologie. Now I spend my free time drooling over curing salts and sausage prickers.)

Back to casings—we get ours from our pigs, which we kill and butcher on our property. First, we wash the intestines thoroughly with water, then turn them inside out with a bamboo rod and wash them again. After about seven to ten washes, we soak the intestines in water and limejuice. Why all of this fastidious washing? Because the intestines run from the stomach to the anus and are filled with digested materials on their way out of our bodies. (In other words, intestines are filled with poop.)

Then we take a small plastic spatula with rounded edges and scrape the cleaned intestines. We learned this scraping technique at our SENNAR workshop. It’s miraculous! Basically, the plastic spatula scrapes away the intestines’ lining, making them translucent and as thin as rubber bands. After scraping, we wash them again, inside and out. Now they are ready to use for sausage. I am amazed by how fine and light yet incredibly strong casings are. Their strength allows casings to hold in all of a sausage’s delicious fattiness, and gives the eater that amazing snap when biting into a sausage.

In homage to our workshop, here’s a great recipe for fresh Italian sausage. What is a “fresh” sausage? It’s one that is cooked and eaten hot. It is not cured or smoked, and has no curing salts in its ingredients.

Fresh Italian sausage
4 lbs lean pork butt, cubed. (The butt is not the pig’s rear end but its shoulder. The shoulder has lots of nice marbling, which is great for sausage.)
1 lb pork fat, cubed
5 tsp coarse Kosher salt
5 tsp fresh black pepper coarsely ground
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
2.5 tsp fennel seed (Yum. This adds such dimension to the sausage)
1 tsp anise seed
Crushed red pepper flakes to taste
Medium hog casings, if making links.

First, it is imperative to KEEP YOUR MEAT COLD during the entire sausage-making process. Sausage that gets too warm will “break,” meaning the fat and protein will separate from each other when cooked, and you’ll get a mealy or crumbly texture to your cooked sausage. You want a smooth but firm texture. You want your sausage to glide not crumble! So I recommend cutting up the cubes of meat and fat, freezing it, then defrosting it just a little bit. You can put it through your grinder nearly frozen, and it comes out much better than at room temperature.

First, mix the spices together in a bowl. In your meat grinder, grind the chunks of nearly frozen meat and fat together using a coarse grinding disk.

Use your mixer (with either the palette or bread kneading attachment—not the whisk) to mix the ground meat and the spices. Ideally, this mixture should become a sticky ball, where the fats, meat, and seasonings make a “primary bind” as the charcuterie boys call it. The more you knead your meat mixture, the more the meat’s protein (called myosin) develops, and the stickier it becomes.

OK, so you have your perfect sticky ball of meat. Take a little, golf ball sized round, make a patty, and fry it on the stove. Eat it. Enjoy it. Have some wine. This is your taste test, to make sure your seasoning is on point. Before you stuff a sausage, it’s best to test it. This way, you can add more seasoning (or more meat if it’s too salty) before you go through the trouble of stuffing.

Stuffing:
The same mixer you used to grind the meat also comes with a plastic stuffer attachment. Wet your casings, slide them on to the nozzle, then turn on your machine and stuff. When your casings are filled, twist them or tie them into links. Then prick these links with a needle, knife tip, or sausage pricker to get out air pockets.

Listen, I’m not going to lie: stuffing is hard. The casings are slippery. The meat squirts out in uneven clumps. It takes practice. My first links alternated between fat little maki rolls and weirdly pencil-like things. Oh, well. They all tasted good.

Refrigerate your fresh sausage and use it within 3 days. Or, as our Kendall College teacher said, immediately if you are using store-ground meat. (It is not as sanitary as grinding your own.) Or you can wrap sausages individually and freeze.

Here’s an inspirational little quote, to get you excited about your sticky balls:
“Sausage involves craftsmanship in the kitchen, care from the cook, and devotion from the eater. There may be no finer package of protein, fat, and seasonings than that which resides within the transparent but resilient hog casing—and none more humble.”
–Charcuterie by Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn.

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By pigwhisperer, June 2, 2010

Mona gave birth to 16 little ones, which was more than any of us expected. But many have died. (Three were stillborn, four died soon after birth from weakness, and Mona sat on one.) Now we are left with 8 and are trying hard to keep them healthy. We’ve learned that large births are sometimes more a curse than a blessing. Mona has only 14 teats, so there isn’t enough milk for more piglets than that. But hopefully these 8 will stay strong.

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By pigwhisperer, May 28, 2010

We’re on high alert tonight. Our lovely (and very pregnant) sow Mona will probably give birth in the next 12 hours. I’ve whispered in her ear to please try to push those piglets out sooner (how about 7 PM?) rather than later. But Mother Nature doesn’t care about my bedtime, and the piglets will arrive whenever they please.

How do we know that it’s Mona’s time? First, she lost her appetite. Next, she started breathing heavily. Milk began to leak from her teats today and (read no further if you’re squeamish–this is a farm blog, folks!) her vulva is really swollen and red. (The picture above says it all, really.) We’ll check her periodically to see if her water has broken. If it has, that means piglets are on the way. Births can last anywhere from 1-5 hours. Sometimes there’s a long wait between piglets, and sometimes they slide out one after the other. I’ll let you know how Mona’s birth goes. Hopefully we’ll have 8-12 new additions by morning.

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By pigwhisperer, May 8, 2010

Rich Chocolate Cake made with Lard

I found this recipe in a 2000 New York Times article. It’s probably the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had–rich, moist, and not too sweet. If you use good lard (not burnt or with a piggy flavor) you’ll never be able to tell this cake was made with pig fat and not butter. We ate the cake so fast, I didn’t have time to take a decent picture!

2 egg yolks
6 tablespoons lard
1 cup brown sugar
4 oz unsweetened chocolate
1 egg white
1.5 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup milk
1 tsp vanilla

Beat egg yolks. In another bowl, cream lard with sugar. Add yolks until smooth. Melt the chocolate in a banho maria (hot water bath) and let it cool to room temperature. Stir your room temperature chocolate into the lard-egg yolk-sugar mixture. In another bowl, beat the egg white until it’s frothy. Gently fold the egg white into the batter.

Mix the dry ingredients (flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt) together. Add half the dry ingredients into the wet mixture. Then beat gently while pouring in half of the milk and vanilla. Repeat with the other half of the dry ingredients, milk, and vanilla.

Prepare a cake pan with butter and flour. Pour the cake batter into prepared pan. Bake at 350 degrees checking every 20 minutes or so, until a toothpick comes out clean from the cake’s center. While you’re waiting for the cake to bake, lick the leftover batter from your spatula and mixing whisks. (My mom says that a good cook doesn’t lick, but I can’t help myself.)

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By pigwhisperer, April 21, 2010

“It’s all in the goddamn suet.” This is a quote from one of my favorite literary heroines, Eva Waldvogel in Louise Erdrich’s novel The Master Butcher’s Singing Club. Suet is a form of lard made from a sheep’s kidney fat. We don’t have sheep here on the farm but we do have pigs.

These past couple weeks we’ve set out to make lard. In part because we want to be more sustainable and have lots of beautiful pig fat we’d like to use. Chef Rick Bayless calls lard “the voluptuous fat,” and says it rounds out food’s flavors. The only way to test the truth of this was to make my own lard.

What is lard, exactly? It is rendered pig fat. It used to be North America’s primary fat source until the 1950’s, when butter and margarine took over. Apparently in the 1950’s, doctors began to associate saturated animal fats with high cholesterol levels, giving lard a bad reputation. But this reputation is undeserved.

Good, pure lard is nearly 100 % fat. Butter is 81% fat and 19% other stuff (water, solids, yellow coloring, salt). According to a New York Times article on lard from October 2000, lard has less saturated fat than butter. “According to the Agriculture Department Nutrition Database, lard is composed of 42% saturated fat (which may increase cholesterol levels in the blood) and 54% unsaturated fat (which may decrease cholesterol in the blood). By comparison, butter is 43% saturated fat and 30% unsaturated…” Lard is not a villainous fat at all. But like any fat, is not bad for you as long as it’s used in small quantities.

So, why not render some lard? I read a book about farm life a few years ago when I was still living in the US, and the author was extremely earnest and energetic, to the point of being self-righteous. In one chapter, she scolded modern mothers for not making fresh mozzarella for their families. “It’s easy!” she said, and proceeded to list about two dozen ingredients and tools needed for such an “easy task.” At this point, I threw the book down. Making lard is probably unrealistic for most people. But if you have the time, some good pig fat, and a cast iron pot, it’s worth a try.

Pure pig back fat--should be white, thick, odorless, and look a little like fish.

Cubed back fat

Here’s what I needed to make lard:
3 kilos of pig’s back fat, cut into cubes
1 large cast iron pot
Water
A large metal strainer
Cheese cloth
A rectangular roasting pan

1. First, cut the pig fat into 1-inch sized (or smaller) cubes. The smaller the cubes, the faster they will melt.

2. Place the cubes in a large, cast iron or ceramic pot. Put 1/3 cup water for every 450g of lard. And please make sure your pot is large enough to hold all of the melted lard! You do not want an overflowing pot here. If in doubt, render less lard.

3. Place the pot in an oven set at 200 degrees F. After 30 minutes, stir the lard. After this, check your lard every 45 minutes or so and stir it with a long metal or wooden spoon. Be careful, this stuff is hot. My fat bits took about 4 hours to melt. The fat bits will never melt completely; they will turn golden and crispy. These are called cracklings. If you leave the lard in the oven too long, the cracklings will turn the liquid fat yellow and give it a bacon flavor. If you are using lard for Mexican food, this is exactly what you want. If, however, you want to use your lard to fry regular foods, make pie crusts, or bake, then you want the lard very white and practically odorless and flavorless. This means you must take the liguid out of the oven before the cracklings get really golden. My first batch came out better (clearer) than the second because I took it out earlier, even though the cracklings looked underdone. They weren’t.

Cracklings floating on rendered lard.

Cracklings after being strained and squeezed.

When it’s time to remove the lard from the oven, please be careful. This is hot oil—like, the kind of stuff Medieval people used to throw off castle walls to maim (and kill) their enemies. Don’t get Medieval with your lard.

I like a little held with this next step—someone sensible (as opposed to air-headed) and strong to hold either the strainer or to pour the lard. Line your metal strainer (I actually used a metal vegetable washer) with cheese cloth and set it on your roasting pan. Then pour the lard over the cloth-lined strainer. Once it’s poured, carefully use a spoon squeeze the cracklings against the cloth to get more fat out of them. Discard the cracklings (or eat tem if you want; whatever gives you a thrill.) Let the lard get to room temperature, then set it in the refrigerator. By the next day, it should be a solid snow-white block. You can scoop the lard from his block into small plastic containers, or cut the lard into blocks and wrap them in parchment paper and cling warp. Lard keeps for one year in the freezer and several months in the refrigerator. After the lard is made, what can you do with it? Well, I’ve made some really good stuff with my homemade lard. I’ll show you what, exactly, in the next few posts.

Rendered and strained-it looks quite yellow but will turn white as it cools.

Lard, the morning after.

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By pigwhisperer, December 27, 2009

Caul fat is a membrane of fat that encloses a pig’s intestines. Fat, unfortunately, has a bad reputation these days. We tend to think of it as greasy, unnecessary, or harmful. We might not think of fat as being beautiful, but caul fat is just that. It looks like lace. It is blindingly white and not at all oily.

In Jennifer McLagen’s book “Fat: An appreciation of a misunderstood ingredient, with recipes,” the author argues that, if used properly, really good animal fat gives food incredible flavors. About pork fat, she writes that, depending on the breed of pig and their diet, “pork fat is mostly monounsaturated in the form of oleic fatty acid, plus it contains palmitoleic fatty acid, which has antimicrobial properties…Pork fat’s low levels of polyunsaturtaed fatty acids means it doesn’t turn rancid easily and is very stable when heated.”

Caul fat turns a lovely golden brown when cooked and is indicated for wrapping around lean cuts of meat. So, when baking our Christmas turkey, I decided to try something new—in order to keep the breast meat tender, why not cover the bird in caul fat before slipping it in the oven? (We just happen to have an excess of caul fat around here from our pigs.) I draped that lacy membrane over the bird, and the results were incredible! The fat melted to a thin, crispy webbing. The breast was extremely tender and juicy. Caul fat is my new best friend.

Here’s the turkey recipe. I’m not specific with amounts because it really depends on the size of your bird. You can ask a local butcher to get you some caul fat, especially if you live in Chicago and have access to places like the Paulina Meat Market.

In a small bowl, combine the following:
Minced garlic
Kosher salt (not too much, because the fat will add some saltiness)
Fresh rosemary
Black pepper
Lime/lemon/orange zest (again, not too much)
2 bay leaves

Rub the bird with lemon juice and olive oil. Give her a good Swedish massage. Then apply the garlic-spice rub over and under the skin. Slide the bay leaves under the breast skin; when the bird cooks and its skin becomes transparent, the leaves look very pretty underneath. Let the bird sit, unstuffed, in the fridge over night. The next day, let the bird get nearly to room temperature (so you’re not putting it in the oven ice-cold.) Stuff the bird if you like. Give the bird a generous coating of honey or maple syrup. Soak the caul fat in lukewarm water to loosen it. Stretch it out carefully, place it on a towel, and pat dry. Drape your bird with the caul fat. (I had to carefully cut my piece of caul fat in half, because it was enormous.) Then place the bird in a roasting pan with a rack, and cover in aluminum foil. Cook depending on the turkey’s weight. In the last 30-or-so minutes, take off the aluminum foil, brush on some more honey/maple syrup, and let it get nice and golden.

If anyone actually tries this recipe, let me know how you like it. I’ll be making it again next year for sure.

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By pigwhisperer, October 30, 2009

In a bag, of course. We weighed three of Mona’s brood today. We’re keeping the three biggest, longest piglets which we have named Red, Pinks, and Spots. The other piglets will be sold, which means they’ll be raised and fattened on other farms. Here’s Red, chillin’ in her weigh bag. She weighed a whopping 14 kilos (around 30 lbs), which is great for a 45-day-old pig. Once the piglets get in the bag, they are amazingly calm. Maybe they feel swaddled?

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By pigwhisperer, September 20, 2009

Blogs are supposed to be updated at regular, frequent intervals, and I’ve been delinquent. I’m going to be better about this.

Our favorite pig, Mona, gave birth to 8 healthy piglets this past week. She was in labor for about 4 hours. We knew she was going to have her piglets because, even though her belly was enormous and it was hard for her to walk, Mona became restless and began walking around her pen. A few hours before the birth she started giving milk.

The piglets slipped out with their hooves straight in front of them, like they were rushing down a water slide arms-first. Newborn piglets are covered in a yellow-hued membrane, like a sack that encases them. For the most part, no human intervention is necessary when a pig gives birth. But it’s good to pull the membrane from the piglet’s body and especially their face, as it could suffocate them. We scoop up the newborn piglet, wipe their faces, and give a quick, strong puff of air onto their little noses to make sure they breathe. Then we wipe them down, cut their umbilical cords and tie the ends with a cotton string dipped in iodine. We also put a squirt of iodine into their freshly cut bellybuttons to prevent infection, and also to stop flies from laying eggs in there. Nature is lovely, but it can also be extremely opportunistic—flies need to lay their eggs somewhere, and an open wound is a nice, warm place with lots of food. Gross, yes. But if you think about it, aren’t those mother flies just like our mother pigs, trying to continue their line and give their young a strong start? Flies are nature’s clean-up crew. Without them, wouldn’t we be neck-deep in a lot of nastiness? I’m a fan of flies, as long as they stay clear of my little pigs’ belly buttons, hence the iodine.

After the belly button treatment, we place the piglets in a small pen filled with sawdust, which keeps them nice and warm. Then, one by one, we let them nurse. The baby pigs must nurse immediately because during the first 12-24 hours of their lives, their mother’s milk is filled with colostrum. What’s this? It’s a mammal mother’s first milk, which contains natural antibodies that help babies survive. Even humans have it.

Mona is doing fine, as are the piggies.
Our next post: The Life of a Coffee Bean, Part 2. You’re excited about this one. I can tell.

Thanks for reading, everyone.

xoxo
Frances

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By pigwhisperer, July 12, 2009

One of our mother pigs, Iracema, gave birth to 6 healthy piglets. Iracema got so big during her pregnancy we though 20 piglets would be born, but sometimes less is more; these 6 pigs will not have to compete with a dozen other siblings for their mother’s milk. We have 5 mother pigs on the farm: Mona II, Julieta II, Serena (aka Crazy Eyes), Iracema, and Clara. Our stud is named Barto. He’s a big guy who likes getting his ears scratched. We have brushes outside of each of our pig pens, so we can rub the pigs’ backs and bellies. Most of the pigs like this brushing business; some just squirm and squeal. Our pigs are a mix of Lean variety and Landrasse (or Landrace). The Landrace breed was developed in Denmark by crossing the native pig with the Large White. Danes refused to export live pigs until World War II, when the best specimens of the breed were exported to Sweden. The progeny from these pigs eventually reached England and Ireland. According to the online Encyclopedia Britannica, Landrace pigs have “white skin” and are a “lop-eared pig with a long middle, light forequarters, and excellent ham development.”

Outside of our 5 mother pigs and Barto, we have 19 pigs for “engorda” or fattening. These pigs are fed a combination of grains, fruits, greens, sugar cane, and banana tree trunks multiple times a day. We will harvest the engorda pigs for hams, and eventually prosciutto and sausages. I got the term “harvest” from Barbara Kingsolver’s book, “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.” I like the term “harvest” as opposed to other terms like “kill” or “butcher.” Not because “harvest” sounds prettier — these pigs will be killed and we will eat their meat, and there is no way to deny or obfuscate this fact. To me, the term “harvest” implies that care was taken in raising these animals. That their deaths are part of a longer process, and that they lived well during each stage of their development.