Latinos love meat.

Pernil.  Pollo asado.  Pollo frito. Lechon. Chuletas.  Biftec.

Even meat — or stuff that resembles meat — that come in cans makes many of us salivate: Salchichas. Corned beef (basic instruction for cooking: Dump in a pot with some tomato sauce, sofrito, and a few papa fritas; mix, heat up and serve with white rice.)

And how about that morsilla?

So now I’m hearing one of the cool things to do now is “D.I.Y. butchering.” As in do-it-yourself butchering.  So says a recent article in the New York Times.

“ … D.I.Y. butchering also allows self-conscious carnivores — who in the past were candidates for vegetarianism — to justify their flesh-laden dinners. By learning to slaughter and butcher, they say, they can honor their pigs and eat them, too.”

Ha!  Latinos have been doing this for years. For better or for worse.

So on behalf of Latinos everywhere, I guess I can say: Welcome D.I.Y. butchering newcomers.

I was just a little kid living in Puerto Rico when I learned – very unexpectedly – where we get our chuletas from.  It was shortly after we moved back there from New Jersey after my grandmother, Mamita, got sick.

In the morning, the sound of roosters would signal the start of a new day for us.  We didn’t own any but it sounded like everyone else in Barrio Blondet did.

And some mornings, I would also hear high pitch squeals coming from the direction of the house across from us.   My “Nancy Drew” addiction hadn’t yet kicked in, but still I knew there was only one thing I could do: Go and investigate.

I set off alone one morning.  I crossed the street and walked towards the sound coming from the backyard.

I stood there and watched as the neighbor slit the throat of a screaming pig.  I didn’t move while I watched the blood flow from the gaping wound into a bucket.  I didn’t leave until the ghastly sounds subsided.  I never returned.

Many years later, as an adult, when I was walking with my mother Ines on Bergenline Avenue in Union City, I would avert my eyes whenever we passed the stores where live chickens in cages waited to meet their destiny.

The thought of fellow Latinos slaughtering pigs and sentencing chickens to death never bothered my mother.  In fact, she herself was quite handy with a knife (as one of my father’s girlfriends found out when she showed up on our doorstep).

And my mother never quite understood why her daughter did not want to eat meat.  Here’s a typical scene that played out year after year after year.

“I found the most beautiful chuletitas en Shop-Rite.  Mira que linda son! I’m going to make you two.”

“I don’t want it.  Yo no como carne!”

“Que que?  Pero estas muy flaca.   Tienes que comer!”

And often I gave in.  It was tough to look into her hurt eyes and say no.  You know how it is.

My mother is no longer around to tempt me.  I don’t eat meat anymore.  At least I do my best not to.  When I eat out, I’ve learned to ask if pork is used when I order habichuelas.

For so many years, I simply didn’t want to eat meat for ethical reasons.  And it turns out my eschewing animal flesh also has health dividends. And yet, when I talk to Latinos about this, I often get puzzled looks.  Like the ones my mother used to give me.

And while we may have differing views when it comes to meat, I have a sneaking suspicion there won’t be a lot of Latinos in these D.I.Y. butchering classes.

Their families would probably laugh themselves silly if they found out they had to pay to learn how to “honor their pigs and eat them, too.”

This entry was posted on Monday, October 26th, 2009 at 8:06 pm and is filed under General, Health. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.