No region has ever embraced the tasty pig quite like the South
We all want to believe that magical beasts live and walk amongst us. Dragons and unicorns, mermaids and leprechauns, bigfoot and Seth Rogen; magical creatures like these have enchanted and entertained the human imagination since the dawn of the spoken word.
These fanciful creatures have always held a special place in our hearts and in our dreams because they offer mystery and hope beyond the struggles of everyday life. But the crushing weight of our own mortality, the sense that our lives are essentially meaningless, and the continuous, agonizing presence of Guy Fieri have created a miasma of the mundane that obscures the magic that exists around us every day.
While unicorns and dragons remain relegated to sci-fi conventions, Netflix dramas and the funny feelings girls struggle to explain in diaries, there is one magical creature that roams the earth among us, bringing joy and ecstatic delight to millions of hungry souls. I am talking about the magical, even-toed ungulate known to scientists as sus domesticus, but known to the rest of us as simply—the pig.
A pig can’t whisk you off for a windswept ride through the clouds on the wings of Daedalus or shoot disease curing rainbow sprinkles from beneath its corkscrew tail. They possess a magic that is arguably far greater. A pig’s magic is transformative, manipulating the very atoms of its own being and offering this essential, life-giving energy to any soul willing to partake in this everyday sorcery.
Modern-day porcine prophet and swine sage, Jim Gaffigan, laid bare this oft neglected magic in his seminal work “King Baby” saying, “The pig is an amazing animal. You feed a pig an apple. It makes bacon.” Pigs are omnivores just like us; this magical beast takes common vegetables, nuts, fruits and other nearly useless matter and transforms them into pork, the undisputed nectar of the gods.
Imagine a world without bacon. Visualize a tortured existence in which there is no bacon grease for your greens or cornbread; no ham hocks for beans; no pork tenderloin, pork chops or smoked ham. Envision what it would be like if there was no prosciutto. This is the dark and joyless world we would be left with were it not for the fantastical powers of the humble pig.
It’s unclear if we, as Southerners, choose to overlook this anatomical alchemy because magic is of the devil and that makes Jesus cry, or if we have simply become blind to the miraculous in our midst. Whatever the case, this magical beast has played a pivotal role on the plates, grills, and history of the South, and should be held in the highest honor.
The arrival of the pig
Pigs have occupied this terrestrial sphere longer than humans, but they selflessly allowed themselves to be domesticated by the Chinese around 4900 BCE. By 1500 BC the good news of the pig had spread to Europe where the Celts were breeding large, meat producing pigs and the Iberians were developing smaller-framed, lard-bearing breeds.
Explorer, conquistador, and murderous extortionist Hernando de Soto introduced the first pigs to North America in 1539. Within three years, his initial herd of 13 had multiplied and grown to over 700 pigs thanks to Tampa Bay’s beaches, nightlife, and perfect mojitos. (Lost sadist Christopher Columbus brought pigs along on his voyages, but he never actually set foot on North American soil, so he doesn’t get credit for that either).
As the South grew and gracefully stumbled through history, the pig rose to a vital role in its economy and culture. Because they were a low-maintenance and convenient source of food, pigs became an omnipresent staple in the average Southerner’s diet.
They are efficient and self-sufficient foragers, so they were allowed to roam the forest in search of plant bulbs, roots, insects, and wild nuts before being captured in the late fall and “fattened up” in anticipation of their inevitable, selfless sacrifice.
On most Southern farms, the slaughter of a pig, or “hog-killin’”, was a bittersweet affair. Although this marked the onset of winter and the end of summer vegetables, it was also a time for “eatin’, fellowshippin’, whoopin’, and a-hollarin’.”
Rather than a dark assembly to mourn the loss of a majestic and magical friend, the pig slaughter was a time of celebration and feasting that started well before daylight and typically involved the entire community. Even the crazy goat man from the scary house by the river would make an appearance to trade one of his crow feather and cat sinew dreamcatchers for a nice chunk of fatback.
Early in the morning, Wilbur would say good bye to Charlotte and all the other farm animals before being respectfully dispatched, cleaned, scraped and gutted. Finally, the ultimate gift this magnificent creature had to give on its short, but magical earthbound journey would be revealed in the form of bountiful, beautiful pork.
Livers, brains, cracklins, and chitterlings were eaten immediately; fat was rendered into lard; and any scraps that remained from butchering were ground into a variety of sausages. Slabs of bacon, hog jowls, shoulders, and hams were salt cured for weeks, then hung in the smokehouse and smoked over hickory or pecan wood, peanut shells, or even corncobs. No part of this spectacular animal was ever wasted, they used everything but the squeal.
More than just good BBQ
Those early hog killin’s and the accompanying feast of pork-tastic delights were a major influence on what eventually became both the event and the food we lovingly refer to as barbeque.
As soon as I mention the word barbeque, an army of tong-wielding barbecue enthusiasts don their battle aprons and prepare for war over style, technique, and every speck of minutia regarding the cooking of meat over fire.
But even though Southern barbeque cooks may differ from one another when it comes to techniques and skill, they all work within a singular tradition that recognizes the superiority and importance of the pig.
The virtually unchallenged dominance of the pig in Southern barbecue is indicative of how embedded the hog has become as a widespread symbol of the South and its culture, occupying a central place at not just the table, but also in the region’s image, personality, and character.
The image of the pig is everywhere in the South, appearing on more signs, t-shirts and bumper stickers than the Gadsden flag and the NRA. An entire generation of Southerners woke up to Porky Pig cartoons, seasoned their breakfast with salt from ceramic pig shakers, helped their grandmother shop for groceries at the Piggly Wiggly (never at that sinister imposter, Hoggly Woggly), and watched the original ManBearPig—Boss Hogg—try and catch them Duke boys every week on the teevee.
From birth, every Southerner’s eyes have been fed a steady diet of seemingly cannibalistic, cartoon pig images calling out from barbeque restaurant and butcher shop signs, repeatedly weaving the pig and the abundance it provides into the fabric of the South and Southern culture.
Sociologist John S. Reed once suggested that, “If the South needs a new flag—as it surely does—we could do worse than to use a dancing pig with a knife and a fork. You want to talk about heritage, not hate, that represents a heritage we all share and can take pride in.”
Gathering family and friends around a feast of pork, vegetables and Aunt Patsy’s weird cottage cheese and Jello salad is one of the most distinctive, long-standing, and non-controversial parts of our shared Southern heritage. It’s something everyone loves and it is directly tied to the unassailable idea of Southern hospitality.
Food is served ‘family-style’, meaning unnecessarily large amounts of ridiculously good food are served from satellite-dish sized bowls and a chunk of meat that should look suspiciously like it came from a brontosaurus is placed ceremoniously in the center of the table.
These huge bowls of food and Jurassic-sized chunks of meat are a traditional sign of abundance and generosity that have the power to transcend race, class and politics.
When advertisers use images of our beloved pig, they are invoking feelings of abundance and comfort that come from the well-stocked pantries of our grandparents. This concept of pigs being linked psychologically to abundance brings us right back to the hog killin’ feasts.
We want to make a show of abundance and sharing the most valued of all food commodities—pork—has long been a way for Southerners to demonstrate abundance. The tradition of sharing large quantities of food to large numbers of hungry family, friends and even strangers is one of the most enduring traditions of our shared Southern heritage.
Now, however, these traditions are in danger of disappearing or being lazily transferred to barbecue restaurants, recipe books, and food blogs. By co-opting the pig and its power as a symbol of abundance, these enterprises are back-handedly preserving the communal tradition of eating pork. But this commercialization has turned that symbol of abundance into a commodity, stripping it of the social aspects and cultural history that gave it the very meaning they exploit.
Of course, there’s nothing wrong with eating barbecue from a restaurant or searching for the perfect recipe in a book or on the internet. But we must protect the heritage and traditions that the pig lays down its life for—the shared meal, the bond between neighbors and a love of the animal that brings us all together.
The pig is a magical beast of mystery and community-building power. Pigs perform their practical magic through the transformation of forest forage into bacon and ham. But the pigs’ magic goes deeper, bringing communities together and helping give identity to entire communities through their role in the traditional foods of the South.
If we outsource the preparation and location of these meals or dismiss the recipes orally passed from generation to generation, we risk losing an important part of our heritage and all that the humble, magical pig has given us.
To paraphrase John Egerton; if we no longer eat the foods that define our culture, we can no longer call ourselves Southerners.