The Pig Lady

Today is what I call a ‘pig day’. This entails collecting a whole pig from our lovely local butchers, Fraser Brothers in Dingwall, trimming a vast quantity of vacuum packs containing various cuts of pork, before weighing and hand labelling each and every one, packing it into our ‘pork-a-cabin’ deep freeze, or distributing it to customers.

The weighing and labelling part is not my favourite thing to do in the world, but it’s a change from the writing and I only have myself to thank that I do it at all.

Having successfully bred and reared his Gloucestershire Old Spots (This Little Piggy...), the farmer and I were astounded by our first taste of the rare breed meat. Not only was it rich red in colour rather than the usual grey, it was succulent and close-grained thanks to the outdoor life, milk-apples-and-barley diet and subsequent generous layer of fat characteristic of traditional breed piggies. And the crackling! It was the best we’d ever tasted.

The feedback we got from the pork we had given to family and friends was overwhelming too, which is when I decided we should turn the farmer’s hobby pigs into a business. As usual, I got overly excited with the branding and business side of things – we would make pancetta, prosciutto and chorizo! – not quite appreciating what a hard slog artisan food production actually is.

However, 3 years ago it seemed like a good idea as we launched ‘plum pork – free range, traditional breed pork and charcuterie from the Scottish Highlands’ at the north’s largest agricultural event, the Black Isle Show. And demand for our pork still outstrips supply. So while the bijoux business has been a big success, it has also been a steep learning curve for us.

At the launch, for example, the food hall’s Chef offered to cook some of our sausages during one of his demonstrations. (Now, due to the high number of artificial colours and E numbers found in many seasonings, I had opted for an organic, preservative-free mix for our premium pork sausages, giving them a slightly crumbly texture when cooked.) Located at the opposite end of the hall from our stall, we were alarmed to see Chef William rushing towards us with his pan, strangely shielded under a tea towel.

‘Look!’ he commanded dramatically, pulling up a corner of the tea towel. The farmer and I peered into the pan and saw that the sausages had burst out of their casing a bit when cooked. ‘Oh no,’ I panicked, caught up in William’s mild hysteria.

‘Who made these sausages for you?’ he demanded. ‘Our local butchers,’ I told him. ‘Ah-ha!’ he said, triumphantly. ‘What are you saying?’ the farmer asked. ‘That they’ve sabotaged our sausages,’ I supplied, rolling my eyes. ‘Thank you! Exactly!’ William confirmed, unaware of my irony.

By now, the farmer had had enough and helped himself to a broken half sausage. ‘Tastes pretty good,’ he announced firmly, dismissing William’s theatrical claims. ‘You mark my words, they’re trying to put you out of business, you’ll see,’ William muttered as he walked away.

Yet 3 years and a number of pigs later, I have a great relationship with our butchers and although we’re currently winding the business down this, I’m happy to say, is nothing to do with Chef William’s wild conspiracy theories. The farmer is busy enough with the cows and as for me, well I’m way past my 2-year boredom threshold (Julie & Julia) and let’s face it, this farming malarkey is damn hard work.