Naming Your Supper: The Childhood Trauma of a Country Pig Roast

I grew up around my Aunt May’s farm, where nobody bothered with “life lessons.” You just figured them out. No one ever explained that the animals were food—you just noticed one day that the cow you’d been scratching behind the ears last week was now on a sesame seed bun between two slices of cheddar. Simple math: animals go in, dinner comes out.

Aunt May had one hard rule: don’t name the animals. Naturally, being the obedient child I was, I named every single one of them. What’s the difference between calling a cow #1305 from its ear tag or Delores? Either way, she was bound for the grill. Personally, I think Delores tastes better than #1305. Adds character.

I grew up eating Cuddles stew and Betsy sandwiches like it was the most normal thing in the world. If you’ve never slathered mayo on a piece of Wonder Bread and topped it with slices of your “best friend” Betsy, then clearly, you weren’t raised right.

So of course, I raised my kids the same way. My son wanted meat rabbits. Fine. We picked some does and a fine buck for breeding. The kids named him “Flopsy.” Cute, right? I didn’t see a problem. He wasn’t meant for the pot—he had a romantic career ahead of him. Flopsy was supposed to be the Don Juan of rabbits, the Hugh Hefner of hutches, the Barry White of bunnies.

But Mother Nature has no respect for career paths. One night, something tried to break into his cage and busted the door. In the morning I found Flopsy under the hutch with a broken back. So much for romance. He went from Playboy Bunny Mogul to Campbell’s Special of the Day.

The kids were inconsolable. Snot, tears, the whole ugly-cry. When I served Flopsy stew, they refused at first. “We can’t eat our pet!” they wailed. I told them firmly, “This is what rabbits are for.” Eventually, they each took one tiny bite. Their faces scrunched up like they were being forced to swallow poison. Then, like clockwork, the magic happened.

“Can we (sob) have more (sob, sob) Flopsy stew?!”

Folks, nothing prepares you for the sight of a child weeping uncontrollably while simultaneously shoveling meat into their mouth like they’re at a Vegas buffet. It was tragic. It was hilarious. It was farm life in one scene.

Fast forward a few years, and the grandkids continued the tradition. They named everything. Jimmy the pig. Ron the cow. They knew the animals were destined for the dinner table—but the next time they visited, Ron was in neat little packages labeled “Ground Chuck.” And every visit, they’d ask for Jimmy sausage or Ron burgers with all the casual cheer of kids ordering Happy Meals. Like it was all perfectly normal to order up your former playmate with mustard on the side.

But then came Wilbur.

We bought six piglets—one for the freezer, one for a pig roast, and four to sell. Naturally, they named the runt Wilbur. Of course they did. Charlotte’s Web had ruined an entire generation.

When pig roast day came, Wilbur was the perfect size. Goldilocks herself couldn’t have picked better. So we roasted him whole, with an apple in his mouth, as you typically do. What I neglected to do was warn the grandkids that Wilbur was going to come out of that roaster looking… well… like Wilbur, only extra crispy. It just never occurred to me.

When Jim opened the roaster lid, it was like we had just unveiled Satan himself. The children screamed—screamed—like we’d set Disneyland on fire. These weren’t normal screams. These were movie-quality horror screams. Exorcist screams. Neighbors probably peeked out their windows and wondered if we were filming a low-budget slasher flick called Night of the Pork.

I swear I saw one of my grandkids’ souls leave their body when Wilbur’s little snout poked through the steam. You know you’ve messed up when a seven-year-old looks at you like you just personally murdered Santa Claus.

They refused to eat. Refused! Wouldn’t even touch a roll from the table, like it might have “Wilbur essence” on it. Jim had to drive to the store for hot dogs, which, let’s be honest, are basically mystery pig parts ground together with hope and lies. Somehow those were fine. “Oh, this? A mashed-up collection of Wilburs from around the world? Sure, we’ll eat twelve.”

To this day, I think they’re still traumatized. They are all full-grown adults now, most with kids of their own, but you so much as mention “pig roast,” and their eyes begin to twitch like they’re having a flashback.

And poor Flopsy? My daughter still tells people, “When I was a kid, my mom packed my school lunch with sandwiches made from my pet rabbit.” She says it with the same tone other people reserve for recounting childhood trauma involving creepy clowns or a house fire.

I don’t even try to deny it. Because she’s right.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2013 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Farm Shuffle: Life is Always Changing on a Homestead

Sometimes it feels like life hit fast-forward while I was stuck on pause with my foot in the air. I try to write, to record it while it's still fresh in my memory. And sometimes I have to think back a ways to make sure nothing escapes my forgetful brain.

Let’s rewind a bit. Back in February, I had the second surgery on my right foot to fuse the big toe joint. Why? Because about four years ago a 4x8 sheet of 3/4” plywood decided to swan-dive off a stack from about three feet up—right onto my foot. Crunch. You never realize how important that joint is until it’s been flattened like a pancake by a sheet of flying plywood.

So there I was, couch-bound for a couple of weeks, foot elevated like royalty, binging British detective shows and pretending to enjoy it. Then it was three months in a walking boot, clomping around the farm like Frankenstein’s cousin.

Meanwhile. . . everything changed.

The three grandkids all moved out. Poof. Just like that. After months of teenage angst, midnight fridge raids, and the distinct sound of video games and drums bleeding through the walls at 2 a.m., the house is now eerily quiet—and a whole lot cleaner. (And no one’s asking me where the peanut butter went. Because now I know where it is. Right where I left it, wherever that might be.)

"Hey, what's going on in here?"

Then Talon, my beloved Gypsy Cob, after almost a year on the market, was sold to a vacation farm in Pennsylvania. You know, the kind of place where folks from the city pay real money to muck stalls and milk goats because they think it’s quaint. (I’ll let you in on a secret: they haven’t done it in February. Or in mud season.)

They also bought the saddle I had custom-made for him—because obviously, you can't have a horse without the saddle. The round pen? Sold. The horse trailer? Gone last week. And a few weeks ago, someone showed up intending to buy just one goat. . . and somehow drove off with five goats and four pigs. I’m not entirely sure how that happened. It was like a barnyard clearance sale where the animals negotiated their own deals.

Let’s recap what left for greener pastures:

3 grandkids (formerly known as “The Bottomless Pits”)

1 horse and his custom saddle

5 goats

4 pigs

1 round pen

1 horse trailer

And, as of today, our van

At this rate, I feel like I should be stamping “SOLD” on everything that’s not nailed down and setting up a booth at the local flea market.

But don’t worry—it hasn’t been all subtraction around here.

We added a new member to the farm family: Libby, short for Liberty Bell. She’s a Colorado Mountain Dog—part Great Pyrenees, part Anatolian Shepherd, and 100% adorable. At eight weeks old, she’s about the cutest thing this side of a baby panda and about as coordinated. Right now, she’s in that bite-everything-that-moves stage, with a bonus side of random leaping.

She’s not quite ready to be in with the goats just yet. We’re waiting for her to grow out of the ankle-nipping ninja phase and grow into the goat-guarding phase. For now, she’s in her own little section where she can see the goats and they can see her, but no one can head-butt, nibble, or escape.

I feel like I’m supervising a preschool version of Survivor: Barnyard Edition—complete with alliances, betrayals, and someone always crying.

Gabriel, our older LGD, has been the first to accept her—he’s got that kind, fatherly soul that says “sure, kid, you can sleep here, just don’t snore.” He lets her curl up beside him and even shares meals without a grumble. It’s no small thing to be welcomed by the senior dog—LGD apprenticeships are notoriously strict.

Remi, on the other hand, thinks Libby is about as welcome as a giant, fuzzy gnat. Every time Libby bounces her way, Remi gives her that withering side-eye that says “child, no.” It’s going to take some time before Remi gives her stamp of approval—but my bet is that by the end of the month, they’ll be wrestling like sisters and stealing each other’s dinner.

So there you have it: We're lighter on livestock, heavier on puppy antics, and navigating life one unexpected plot twist at a time.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2013 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm