Harrowsmith Fall 2019 | 247and thereafter (until about
Christmas), walk circles around
the base of the tree. Mice will not
burrow through packed snow.
We took the pork out of the
brine and started the smoke
process Saturday morning. All
day I babysat that fire, keeping
flare-ups under control and
making sure that there was
plenty of smoke and just the right
amount of heat. That night the
fire slept and so did we.
Sunday would be the last smoke
day. Monday morning the cured
meat would be hung in our cold
room and on Monday evening we
were to deliver one ham and two
slabs of bacon to my wife’s parents.
Dad, we knew, was eagerly awaiting
our first smoked pork crop.
Sunday also went well—up to
a point. By mid-afternoon only
four or five hours of smoke time
remained. Mission accomplished
(almost). Lloyd and Shirley from
Savant Lake were coming for
supper, which they did, arriving
at 3 pm, and that doggone Lloyd
brought a bottle of rye.
So while the women-folk put
dinner together, Lloyd and I sat
in the sun, sipped and talked,
tended the fire and sipped,
and sipped. Supper-time was
announced and two hungry lads
needed no coaxing—into the
house we went, the fire forgotten.
A half hour or so later we
pushed back our chairs, patted
our tummies and Shirley, who
sat facing the patio doors, said,
“Is there a railroad track around
here?Becauseitlookslikethere’s
a steam engine passing by.”
Whoah! There was a funnel
of black smoke drifting across
our driveway! Out the door we
dashed, yanked open the fridge
and poured water on the fire and
six hunks of burning pork. Just
in time, too. They were a little
charred on the outside and some
trimming was necessary.
Now I figured the bacon and
hams were done so I closed the
fridge and Lloyd and I went back
to the house to finish off the bottle
and the evening. Two hours later
Shirley hit the smoke alarm again!
This time I used the garden hose,
but it was too little too late.
The next morning I took
what was left of one pitiful ham
and sliced it open. Right in the
centre was a perfectly cured
piece, round, about the size of a
tennis ball. I moved swiftly into
damage control mode. A call to
the abattoir at Beausejour found
a freshly-killed pig. Twenty-four
hours later we had two more
hams and four more bacon slabs
in brine. Seven days later they
were hanging in the smoker and I
baby-sat that sucker for 48 hours.
It tasted pretty darned good.
We took Mom and Dad’s share
to them and Dad wondered why
it had taken so long. We told him
we kept the meat in brine for over
three weeks to make sure it was
special. Dad never said a word
but I knew that he knew.
And we were never asked to
make bacon again. HTRAVEL & CULTURE: MAKIN’ BACON