Chapter 100, Pigs Farm

   “Gerda? How are you?” I said to my Dutch friend over the telephone. “I'll be taking the train to Oss tomorrow morning.”

 “I'm so glad,” she said. “I can't wait to see you. we'll be waiting for you at the station.”

I met Gerda (pronounced “Cherda”) in Israel a year earlier at the swimming pool where I was the lifeguard. Her and her friend Germa were tourists in Netanya, and we became very close friends. Now, when my dancing tour in France was over, I was on my way to visit all my friends around Europe. This was my second stop. Both Gerda and Germa were waiting for me at the station. 

 

    Gerda was a middle sister in a big farming family. She has ten brothers and sisters. 

“I'd like to spend some time working with your family at the farm,” I said when we left the train station. “Your family is nice to invite me over and let me stay at the house, so I’d like to help some.” 

“Are you sure?” she asked. “We are farmers, you know.”

“I know. I went to an agricultural school and I know what it takes.”

“I'll ask my brother and we'll see how we can make it work.”

 

    I met Gerda’s family and I felt honored by them setting up a room just so I can have my privacy. Three brothers had to sleep in other rooms with their siblings just so I could have the room for myself. Well, not really; Gerda came to spend part of the time with me. 

 

The next day Gerda talked with her brothers about my offer, and they were very happy to have one more hand for the shipping job they had the next morning. Gerda's family raised pigs for meat. They get the baby pigs and raise them until they are 100 days old and then ship them for slaughter. 

 

The next morning, I was booked to wake up with Gerda's two older brothers at 3:00 A.M.  and load the pigs onto a very big truck. I was very excited about the whole concept. It was something that I'd never done before.

    The pigs were all females. They were raised in a big barn with cement floor and no windows. They were fed a special diet to keep their meat soft and were shipped to the slaughterhouse as soon as they reached the age of 100 days. My job was to help load them on to the truck and download them when we got to the logistic center. You might think, what's the big deal? Well, it wasn't an easy task. I was given an electric prong that looked like a flashlight. When you pushed it against the pigs' skin it would emit an electric surge that would zap the poor animal and send it running. I had to stand next to the rails that directed the pigs toward the truck and make sure no pig stood and disrupted the flow of the herd. We loaded, I mean packed that long semi-trailer, closed the gate, and then Mark Gerda’s oldest brother pushed a button that lifted the platform with the pigs all the way up, and by doing so made more room for the next batch.

 

“Hey, what’s this guy doing here?” asked John, the second brother. It was a male pig much older than the group we were loading.

“Hey Tib, can you jump in and redirect that pig my way?” Mark yelled toward me. 

“Sure,” I said and jumped over the fence, just to be pushed back by the oncoming pigs. The pigs were crammed in so tightly that I literally fell on top of them. It took a lot to strength to bring myself back to a standing position, and then with all the pigs around me up to my waist, to make my way, with the male pig, toward Mark across the ramp. I don't know how long it took me, but by the time I got the pig and myself out of the way, I was all bruised all over.

 

We loaded two more platforms of pigs, then locked the back doors. This semi-trailer was long and tall. It had tall, narrow windows covered with wire mesh to let the air in and keep the pigs from falling out.

“Hop in!” Mark commanded. “You did a great job. Now you can rest a bit until we get to the shipping center.”

I was seated between Mark the driver and his brother John. It was still early in the morning and I was already tired, but I didn't want to sleep. I was still amazed by the flat land and its green fields, even after having been in Europe for two months. I wanted to see the landscape and, anyway, I didn't want to look bad on my first day of work. But anything I would have done not to look bad that day would not have helped because by the end of the day I looked worse than I've ever looked.

 

We arrived at the shipping center and downloaded the pigs. Then I saw Mark take one of the pigs aside, slit open its ear and leave it to bleed at the side of the building. 

“What is going to happen to that pig?” I asked.

“I gave it as a gift to the head buyer. The holidays are coming, you know.”

“Where is John?” I asked, trying not to look at the poor pig. 

“He's driving the truck to the washing ramp.”

“Can I help him wash the truck?”

“Sure, but you won't be able to do it, not just yet. He has to wait in line. Those other trucks were here before us.

I looked at the pig again. “Why are you letting the pig bleed like that? It's going to die.”

“That's the idea, but this way the meat will be softer when it’s prepared. Also, this way the pig doesn't know she's dying. Her muscles will be even softer. She’s bleeding slowly and eventually she’ll fall asleep before she dies.”

“I see.”

 

    When it became our turn to wash the big truck, John drove it up a ramp that was surrounded by a pile of pig dung as high as the Ramp. I waited for him at the top of the ramp with a big fire hose in my hand. I always loved playing with water as a kid and, even as an adult, I still enjoy it. The hose had a long spout that was connected to a lever to shut off the pressure or open it. All I had to do was aim it at the truck and squirt with this high pressure. Out of the corner of my eye I could see all the Dutch truck drivers lining up next to the pile of poop and looking at me with a smirk. “They like me,” I thought to myself. “They've never seen an Israeli working with pigs before.”

 

“Whaaaaaaaa!” was the first syllable, and the last that came out of my mouth. I couldn't believe the force of the water. At the first moment I turned the lever to let the water out, I was pushed backward right into the dung pile. I was up to my knees in pig dung. Lucky for me I had on tall boots. Getting back up the ramp was going to be challenging, though. I tried to pull up my right leg, but it came out of the boot. Trying to put it back in just threw me out of balance and, after some acrobatic moves, I fell face down into the pile. The roar of laughter, the cheers and the clapping were the last things I heard.

 

Then it was my turn to get washed. They did it just as I tried to do with the truck. I stood at the top of the ramp and John sprayed me clean and I had to stay wet all the way back home. Well, it's better than smelling like the truck. 

 

    I worked with them for a few more days, feeding the pigs and cleaning after them. I must say the pigsty was pretty clean. 

 

    Sunday afternoon Germa and Gerda took me to Rotterdam for lunch in a Chinese restaurant. When the waiter arrived, he asked in Dutch for our order. I It took me a while to figure out what I wanted, I never had Chinese food before. I ordered chicken and sesame. He then asked if I wanted a large portion of rice or a small one. But he really said if I wanted a “Lalge poltion”. Again, I never heard Chinese people speak and didn’t know they didn’t use the letter “R”, so I answered “Lalge Please”. The girls jumped in right away and asked him for forgiveness. “He is a foreigner and doesn’t speak Dutch.” I took a while for them to explain it to me and we drove back home.

 

    Two days later we stopped at Germa’s house for dessert and coffee. And again, I messed up, I didn’t offer to wash the dishes. Both explained to me that in Holland the guests always wash the dishes, but they offered to help me. Back to Gerda’s house as I was packing, I made a phone call to Germany and asked to speak with Beate. Her sister who answered the phone told me she wasn’t home. And asked if I had a message for her. Shure, please let her know that I will arrive tomorrow evening at Osnabrück. 

 “Does she have to pick you up?” she asked.

 “Of course, if she wants to see me.”

 “Oh boy!” she said and hung up the phone.  

 

***

 

Chicken Piccata

 

 Spicy hot chicken is the exact translation of this Mediterranean dish. A little time consuming but not much work.

 

Ingredients:

8 Piece Chicken Cutups

1 Big Tomatoes Cut to big pieces

½ Cup Green Olives

½ Cup Black Olives

¼ Capers

1 Medium Onion Cut to big pieces

5 Cloves Garlic Crushed

½ buttle Wine

½ Lb. Mushrooms

1 tsp Hot Pepper (Harissa)

1 TBSP Kosher Salt

1 Cup Vinegar

 

Preparation:

 Marinate chicken in salt, vinegar, and water over night. Place chicken in baking tray and roast for 20 minutes. Flip over and roast for 20 minutes longer. Replace 2/3^rd of the liquid that came out of the chicken with wine and ad the rest of the ingredients. Cover, Roast for 10 more minutes and lower the heat to 350f.  Bake for 2 hours.

 

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