This very day -- at 8:23 a.m. to be exact -- my hungarian Mangalitsa pig arrived. It is small now, only about twenty pounds, but then it's only six weeks old. It's kind of weird looking; imagine a pig dressed like a sheep or Hillary Clinton in a Marilyn Monroe wig. You get the idea.
We've named the pig Litsa. My husband didn't want to name it at all. He's of the why name something you're going to slaughter and eat school of thought, but just try and bring a pig into a house with two kids and not give it a name. Impossible. Besides, I eat a Tom turkey every Thanksgiving. What's the big deal?
I know what you're thinking? Why get a pig? Well let me tell you: it's all about the blog. People love bacon. People love pets. So people will love my heartwarming story of raising my own lovely Litsa bacon. It's only a matter of time before I'm one of those bloggers the media go to for substantive comments about pork-barrel politics or Lord of the Flies commentary. Wham! Bam! Thank you Ma'am. I'll have platform coming out of my ears.
You're probably wondering if I will invite you to eat my Litsa bacon. Well, I'm afraid not. One, we can't slaughter her until she's 300 pounds; that's when her marbling is at its most deliciousness. Two, frankly, I'm not sure if you're lovely Litsa bacon worthy. I mean I'm going to a lot of work here. Raising a pig is no easy task. Just this morning it took me ninety minutes to comb her hair. So...what do you think? Are you worthy?
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16 comments:
Vanda de Toadberry is Hungarian, isn't sheee?
It's turned out to be the Year of de Pig for the loco female blogger's.
Save Litsa!
Litsa will not be saved. Her sausage is numbered
Margaret, you've got to be kidding. April Fools, right?
(No way your kids are going to let you turn their pig into prosciutto.)
:-)
Dammit. This one-upwomanship has got to stop. Just when I told you I'd picked up a couple of hares for next fall's civet de lievre.
Photos, please, or I'm not buying it. You couldn't kill a fly if you named it, let alone a pig. They're much too cute. Pretty soon you'll be buying it veterinary insurance and sending it to school.
Desiree: Hey, whose fault is you told me about those rabbits (besides, you just found those in the foothills; I had Litsa imported specially from Hungary).
Petrea: I would post photos, but as my blog is evidence, I am incompetent and don't know how to transfer photos from my camera onto my computer. But she's here. And she'll be bacon. I'm completely heartless in this matter, although she has such sweet brown eyes...
Karen: The 4-H does this all the time? I say it is all educational.
Oh, no. Not again. I will not again be taken, as with Karen's double whammy of job gloryfoolery.
I hardly know you, but your partiality to all things dog speaks tomes: you would not name and kill.
I look forward to meeting her and I'll bring my camera.
Petrea: I am hurt --HURT. I sense that you don't trust me at all. Sigh.
I'm in tears, I'm sobbing. I knew you were too innocent to be true; at last, your true self is exposed. (I want a sausage mcmuffin.)
I love bacon. It is one of the secondary things in life. The primary ones being wine, cheese, coffee, sun, skiing and sex. Not necessarily in that order - although wine does usually come first!
Methinks you're telling a porky, Margaret!
Thanks for the visit, Shell. It may be a bit of piglet.
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