As the squealing pig fought in a spastic dance, Papá held him down and Father shoved the short-pointed knife into his heart. Then it was all over, and all its struggles turned flaccid at once. Papá and the other men congratulated Father for the proficiency he had so proudly shown, but I found no joy in such a task.
I understood about an animal’s death. I had seen the workers at the store cut the chicken’s throats and place them head down into a funnel to let the blood run. However, this was different, for Father had taken me over to meet the little black pig the previous afternoon, and he seemed friendly and smart, grunting with joy whenever I reached out and rubbed his head and his side.
I didn’t see then the benevolence in Father’s hand. I didn’t understand the importance of his singular act. My soul didn’t see what my eyes saw when he repeatedly felt the animal’s chest until certain that he had found the precise location of its heart. I didn’t stay around to witness the shaving and dismantling of all its parts.
It was late morning before I returned to the lechón roasting on the pit, lured by the smell of the citrus, spices, herbs, and the taste of smoke from the fat dripping on the coals. Somewhere in my tutelage, someone must have taught me to ignore the brutal beginnings of a feast. Perhaps some inherited instinct made me not remember the cuddly pig when I bit into its juicy roasted flesh.
My bewilderment over Father’s calculated action to kill the pig melted when he brought me a fresh ear of corn to roast with his. Once blackened and roasted, we washed the ash away with fresh well water and salted them before gobbling it all down. My cousin Nicolás, who was four at the time, arrived on horseback with his parents, Consuelo and Ramón, in the early afternoon. Spotting him, I ran over to share my previous day’s adventures. I pointed out the beauty of the zinnia forest to him, but he could not see what I saw. Too young to understand the poetry in nature I worshiped, or appreciate the polished cool tiles, he quickly bored of me.
Alone again, I joined the women in the kitchen. I had learned many a wise lesson from the stories they told. Like bees in a busy hive, every woman performed their duty until the table was set, smoothing the floral table clothes over four tables that had been placed end to end in the great hall. With the men already sitting at the table, the women brought overflowing plates of lechón and a bounty of food to them. Congris, yucca with rings of onions and chunks of garlic that had been browned in a pungent mojo sauce. There were tamales, sliced red and green tomates, and aguacates sprinkled with vinegar, olive oil, pepper and salt. There was also fluffy crusted bread to soak up the juices, and crunchy galletas, which I used to scoop up the food rather than using my fork.
Depression glass pitchers had been filled with clear well water, sweetened with pineapple rind that floated with the ice cubes on top. There was sweet bubbly cider known as cidra, and red Rioja wine.
Curious, I reached for Father’s wine glass, and he held it to my mouth. My first sip was tart yet velvety warming and tasted of cherries, strawberries, chocolate, and cinnamon all at once.
Nicolás and I argued over which one of us would devour the greatest number of tender ribs, and who would get the largest crunchy pig’s tail treat.
All seemed right with the world that afternoon on the farm. The men talked and laughed as the women bustled to serve them before sitting at the table themselves. All was relaxed, happy, and I was full of hope and joy. We were family.