Pork and Peaches

It felt like another adventure last Thursday as the kids and I set out in our truck for Conowingo, 45 minutes plus away at the far end of Cecil County, almost to the Pennsylvania line. I was off to pick up four large boxes of pork products from a locally-produced pig, which our family and three others had decided to share. We have purchased local beef several times before, and our most recent grass-fed meat from Rumbleway Farm had been the best yet. We don't eat quite as much pork, but the thought of some local scrapple, bacon and sausage was too tempting to pass up. My favorite quote about scrapple is on my 1st State Stories website: "The old saying is scrapple is made of seven different kinds of meat, all of them fit to eat."

Rumbleway uses Haas Butcher shop near Dover, Delaware, a family-owned operation that has been in business since 1955. There are not many local butchers left on Delmarva, and even fewer slaughter houses, but Haas is one that seems to be highly-regarded. To me, butchering is one of those skills that is passing away too quickly. With all of the concern about factory farms, I think we need to support and preserve the skills of the local butcher. I'm only half-joking to my husband when I say the knife skills he learned as a chef may come in handy some day. (Photo of scrapple making at the Family Butcher in Delaware)

Taken from another perspective, however, the decline of local butchers seems to directly correlate with our society's disconnect with where our meat comes from, and the fact that it once lived and breathed. In the New York Times last week, a columnist who forthrightly stated he was no vegetarian but he felt it was important for him to know his meat was humanely raised and killed before it made it to his plate, was both congratulated and vilified as a hypocrite in comments. I have never considered becoming a vegetarian and respect those who make that choice. Yet, I too want to find meat that has been produced without harming the environment,and without cruelty to the animal.

It makes all the difference for me to know how the animal lived and died. Does it make death pretty? No, but the awareness the death of animals for food used to be part of daily life everywhere in this country. On Delmarva for many generations, every fall brought family and community together for essential hard work. The animals were not treated more poorly then; on the contrary, I would say nearly all beef and pork in the late 1800s (and much more recently in some areas) was natural, grass-fed, and probably organic. The livestock were well-cared for because they were essential for the family's survival. It was only when the slaughter process moved away from the farm and the household that it became unfeeling, inhumane, and eventually unhealthful. Taking a hand in the birth, life and death of animals on the farm engendered a respect for the sacrifice God's creatures were making. That is one of the reasons I am working toward raising my own chickens, so I can truly understand that process and expose my children to it as well.

In any case, I was EXCITED about going to pick up my four large boxes of pork, but in the name of gas conservation and making full use of a trip to the other end of the county, I looked at Spring Valley Farm's ripe report to see if they had pick-your-own peaches. I had hoped to go blueberry picking earlier in the month, but just couldn't justify driving the distance. I discovered both white and yellow freestone peaches were ready, and set off with a wooden half-bushel basket and a wooden crate. My containers, it turned out, were largely unsuitable. The knowledgeable lady at the stand said the wooden crate was too heavy and I could only place peaches two deep in the basket. She gave me some useful, but less nostalgic, waxed cardboard flats.

As the kids and I followed the signs to the trees that were at their peak of ripeness, I flashed back to trips to a peach orchard with my mother and my brother when I was a kid. We always brought wooden baskets and I think our own ladder. I recall being chewed pretty thoroughly by some lower Shore mosquitos and developing an itchy rash on my forearms from the peach fuzz. Picking couldn't have been better on this day, however, with temperature in the mid-80s, fairly low humidity and not a mosquito in sight.

I had asked the Quaker woman who was one of the farm's owners whether the white peaches were better than the yellow. "Find a ripe one and taste it," she generously suggested. The white peaches were large and abundant, so we took 5 minutes to survey the orchard and find one that was perfectly ripe. I dusted it off on my shirt a little gingerly ("you can't grow peaches organically," the owner had told me) and bravely took a bite. It was like I'd never tasted a real peach before, as the sweet smell and taste collided. I beckoned the kids over and they each tried it and gushed over the deliciousness. Of course, we had to try a yellow one for comparison. Very tasty also, but the white were superior in my opinion.

I knew ahead of time that I had to control my picking. My second memory of peach-picking with my mother is that she often bit off more than she could chew, and picked so many peaches that she would be tied to the kitchen counter for the next week, peeling and pitting peaches to can and freeze. Upon arrival home, she would spread the peaches out on old canvas paint tarps on our front porch under the ping pong table, taking up about half of the porch. But eating her peaches in winter... oh, I can't even buy a canned peach in the store and forget one of those baseballs they sell in February. Mom shared some of last summer's peaches with us this past Father's Day over some angel food cake. I think that's when the burning desire to put up my own peaches started anew.

The peaches were a dollar a pound. Is that a good price? It sounded like a lot, when you're used to harvesting produce for free from your own garden. But the smell of the peaches, the sight of my children picking without being asked and my daughter's face dripping with peach juice was just too...intoxicating. After the weigh-in, the total was $72. I didn't really go overboard, did I? (Telling the story later, I related how I drove home with a whole pig and 50 pounds of peaches. "72 pounds," my daughter reminded me. "How much were the peaches?" my husband asked when he got home. "$70!" I exclaimed. "72 dollars," my daughter repeated. I think she understands me.)

With warnings from the orchardist to carry my peaches home in the front of the truck and to spread them out immediately upon getting home, we headed to Rumbleway to pick up the pork. Although the farm raises its own beef and chickens, the pigs actually come from a farm near my childhood home in Dorchester County, still local but considered natural rather than organic. The biggest challenge for most of the farmers seems to be finding certified organic grain. Pigs are almost always finished with grain, whereas beef can finish on grass. So while the pork is not organic, I still know what I am getting.

While the kids spent some time with the chickens in the barn, I asked to see where they processed their poultry. It was small, but efficient-looking. My idea of plucking and eviscerating under the maple tree in my backyard seems a little rustic in comparison. I asked if I could help with the processing next spring so I could learn how to do it, and they said absolutely, as if it were a most ordinary request. And then we were off, 150 pounds of thawing pork in the bed of the truck and 70 pounds (72 pounds, Mom) of delicate peaches in the front and the kids in the jump seats in the back. On the way home, I made my weekly stop at Locust Point Farm to pick up organic milk in glass bottles. All in all, a good day for a locavore.

© 2008 Jenifer Dolde