I was not hog-wild on the idea. So before heading off on our trip to Italy last January, I firmly declared to my husband: “When pigs fly, will I spend any time with a pig!” But I ended up doing exactly that: somehow, I spent two days with a pig anyway! Though I had tried hard to avoid it, I was inevitably drawn into the traditional pig-slaughtering and sausage-making event that my Italian family engages in every year. I would have the distinct privilege of being immersed in a scent that my Italian teenage niece and nephew, with a straight face, labelled “eau de pork” – un profumo privilegiato.
Months Before Pig-Slaughtering Day
Long before any of the sausage-making can occur, a few essentials need to be undertaken. First among these, of course, is securing a pig. Making the pepper paste that will be mixed into the sausages and salami is almost equally important.
Farmers typically buy their piglets in early spring. All summer and fall the tiny beasts are organically fed. (What is organically fed, anyway?) This means the piglets eat grain feed and kitchen leftovers – vegetable peels, fruit cores, grass, rice, and pasta; an age-old practice in the rural parts of Calabria. The patriarchs continue the tradition of tending to their pigs the way their ancestors did before them. For now, at least, the younger generation, who rarely have time, it seems, maintain the tradition by piggybacking on their parents’ pig (pun intended); or they outsource to a paesano to keep the tradition alive.
The pepper paste is a labour-intensive process. Older-generation farmers in the area still plant rows and rows of hot and mild peppers. In late August, the peppers are picked, washed, sliced, and deseeded. Then they are boiled until soft, strained, and squeezed until most of the water has been extracted. They are put through a grinding machine a few times over to separate the pulp from the skin and seeds. Finally, the pulp is placed in a pot where it simmers for hours, until it turns into a paste. The last step is preserving the paste in sterilized jars, ready to use on pig-slaughtering day. In Calabria it is highly unlikely that the paste will be store bought. If you do not make it yourself, a relative or a generous paesano will usually give you what you need.
Day One: Slaughter Day
On the morning of the slaughter, the sky was grey. The fog was low and heavy, as if the weather sensed how the pig felt. Dressed in layers of old clothes and wearing a tuque and boots, I was set for the full day ahead. Although somewhat apprehensive, I was ready to go whole hog.
When we arrived at Maria’s, my sister-in-law’s house, the pig had already been slaughtered. In a shed by the pigsty and chicken coop, Maria’s son Antonio, her grandson Giulio, Zio Peppe, nephew Vito and two other men had shot the pig. They had slit the arteries to drain the blood and scalded the carcass in a cauldron of hot water to make it easier to remove the hair. The carcass was hung on a hook where the organs and intestines could be removed – everything to make the pig “presentable,” they said, and spare me the shock of this initial process.
I was relieved – and grateful!
The slaughtered pig was transported into Maria’s four-car garage on a trailer attached to a tractor. The garage was cold – the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, even if you are wearing triple layers of clothing. Two long tables were at the centre of the garage. Along the walls, three more tables were already filled with cuts of meat placed carefully in rows. Behind them were shelves behind curtains, not for decor but for practical cleanliness. One curtain was clearly an old bedspread with the design of a huge elephant dressed in Indian patterns – reds, golds, greens, blacks – on a white background. Plastic bins of yellow, blue, and white were placed throughout the garage. Each had a specific use. Stacks of old kitchen towels and tablecloths, no longer meant for tables but for this work, were folded neatly – proof that nothing is ever thrown away if it can still serve a purpose.
The men took their places at the tables. They moved confidently, knives flashing, cutting the meat into slivers of a size that can easily be put in the grinder. Even seven-year-old Salvatore, Maria’s youngest grandson, focused and proud, stood among the men with a knife in his hand. “This is how he’ll learn,” his mom said.
The boy’s mother, Alessandra, moved with authority, her eyes scanning each piece of meat. She was the one in charge of deciding what would become pork chops, what would be saved for ribs on the barbecue, and what would be cured for capocollo, pancetta and guanciale. Portions were measured, vacuum-packed, and labelled for the freezer for future meals. Scraps were set aside for ‘nduja – pig skin, tongue, fat belly, jowl, and tendon – a favourite Calabrian spread that has made it to the international table.
“When you spend the money, time and effort, you want to use as much of the pig as possible,” Alessandra reasoned.
Attached to the garage was a large rustic kitchen, separated by a heavy steel door. Unlike the damp garage, the kitchen was inviting and warm. Logs filled the fireplace, as well as a wood-burning stove at the opposite end. I peeled off some of the layers and was handed a full-length apron.
“You’ll need this,” Maria said, tying a kerchief over my hair.
I felt like I was being initiated into their women’s pig circle. The other women, Mariagrazia, Giovanna and Luigina, were already hard at work, each one focussed on her specific task.
“What can I do?” I asked, standing there feeling useless.
“Not this!” Giovanna grumbled, holding her breath as she lifted an intestine. “Mamma mia, what a stink!”
Maria and Giovanna were cleaning the pig’s intestines, to be used as sausage casings. Although they had done most of the cleaning at the outdoor fountain, the horrible stench persisted. The lemons and oranges in the water mixed with the odour of intestine created the “eau de pork” scent that the kids joked about.
“Giovanna, sei la regina delle intestine!” Mariagrazia teased. “You are the Queen of Intestines.”
Luigina and Mariagrazia sat by the fireplace on low wicker chairs with a large blue plastic vat between them, filled with warm water. Inside was the pig skin that they carefully shaved with a Bic razor to remove any remaining hair.
“Careful,” Luigina said, handing me a razor.
I did the best I could, knowing that my contribution would be re-examined before it qualified for the next step. The pig skin, the belly fat, and the pig’s feet and ears would be placed in a large cauldron over the fireplace, where eventually, they would produce lard and another delicacy called “gelatino.”
I looked around the room: the heat, the noise, the smell, the laughter. This was a full-contact family event. And, somehow, apron and all, I was a part of it.
Photo courtesy of Anna Maiolo
Day Two: Sausage-Filling Day
The next day, rain fell steadily. Inside, the garage was alive. Surely everyone was tired from the previous day’s work. But if they were, they didn’t show it and no one complained.
“There is work to be done,” Antonio said, as he slapped on his plastic gloves. “Andiamo!”
The garage smelled like metal, meat, and soap. Clean knives and cleavers lay near the meat grinder on the table. The meat had rested overnight, ready to be mixed with salt and pepper paste. Messy yet precise, the only way to make sure that it was seasoned well was to taste it. A few handfuls were scooped from different parts of the mixture, fried, and once cooked, everyone had a taste and everyone weighed in.
Some said it was perfect; others wanted more salt; a few insisted it was too salty. After some deliberation, a decision was made, and the process continued.
While the men filled the sausages, the women in the kitchen prepared a full pig feast. The cauldron with the simmering lard was still on the hearth. A terracotta pot filled with beans, slowly baking, was nestled on the ashes nearby. Luigina and Giovanna made meatballs from the seasoned sausage meat. Maria stirred the rich and savoury sauce from the pig’s bones and bits of meat that she had started earlier in the morning. My task was to peel potatoes which would be cooked in tomato sauce until soft and hearty.
By evening everything came together. The table was set for eighteen people, everyone invited to sit, “pig out” and raise a glass to the sausage-making experience. The rain kept falling but inside, that didn’t matter much. There was clatter, movement, and laughter. Hands had worked hard. It was simple and true. It was full; full of people, of purpose, of tradition quietly (and not so quietly) being passed from one set of hands to the next.
Surrounded by all of this, I know that this was more than just preparing meat. It is how we hold on to who we are.
Anna Mercuri Maiolo is a retired college teacher. She taught English Literature and English as a Second Language for more than 30 years in Montreal, Quebec. She is presently working on a collection of short stories. Some of her published work includes “An Apple a Day” (Accenti Magazine, 2022); “Moving Heaven and Earth” (in The Nuances of Love, 40th Anniversary Anthology of the AICW, 2025); and “The Cake” (Culinary Chronicles: Issue 5, Fall 2025). Anna is a member of The Writers’ Union of Canada.
