Our flat was almost at the end of that street, ‘La Nuez’, but there were still several more houses before you reached the area of farmland that was still preserved. Over the years, by which time I no longer lived in this neighbourhood, this space was used for the expansion or growth of the town centre. And where there had been land, buildings and new streets sprang up like mushrooms.

In the neighbourhood, there were two shops selling groceries and other basic necessities. They were like supermarkets, but on a smaller scale, as you could find everything there, even a thimble. A little further away, there was also a butcher’s and a dairy. Five bars dotted around the area, and I can’t remember any more, I suppose I’m forgetting something. Oh yes! A private clinic, a seminary, a girls’ school run by nuns… And several factories. But what was most abundant were small vegetable gardens, usually attached to houses.

Perhaps for me, some of these places were further away than necessary, or at least that’s how it seemed when I was sent on an errand. In those days, the streets were unpaved and lacked certain amenities, such as the sewerage system and the drinking water network, which would take a few more years to be installed.

Electricity did reach the houses, so in some ways we must have differed from the way of life of ‘Robinson Crusoe’, the famous castaway from 'Daniel Defoe’s' novel.

…The other place of significance in my daily routine was school. The first one I attended was in the neighbouring district, a little further still from the city centre, known as ‘El Vivero’. As was to be expected, this nursery school was run by nuns. It was dedicated exclusively to educating girls up to compulsory school age, although they made an exception and also admitted boys aged four to five into the nursery classes. But, of course, they were kept separate. It would be many years yet before co-educational schools arrived; when they did, it was considered a major achievement for gender equality. Curiously, some private schools still practise this type of gender-segregated education today.

The nuns, who were the teachers, belonged to the Order of the Augustinians. The school had a capacity of around 260 girls, plus the twenty-odd nursery pupils.

It was divided into different classrooms, all of them on the ground floor. In the centre there was a playground where we had our break.

"TING, TING!" The bell rang, located in the entrance hall of the school’s main gate; the women and men of tomorrow could now enter this educational institution, amen!

We did this every day in an orderly fashion; ‘disturbances’ or breaches of discipline were severely punished.

I don’t have many memories of what I learnt, culturally speaking, in this first year of my education. But what did stick with me was what they ‘injected into my blood’: always striving to be the best in the class, the brightest. And believe me, those nuns were ‘crafty’, to make sure you got the message, they were marking you down in a little booklet the whole time you were in class; every pupil went through that sort of scoring system. In that tally of points, they also counted those awarded for being well-dressed, polite and, ultimately, behaving like a saint, just like their ‘boss’ Saint Augustine. A man who lived between the 4th and 5th centuries; who published some 'Rules' or guidelines to be followed by his acolytes or followers, the monks and later the nuns.

It was precisely these that they would recite when giving you advice.

“I’ll smack you if you keep insulting me!”, that was me giving the warning.

“If you’ve got the balls, go on then!” said my nursery school mate; swear words weren’t just used by the older ones, we kids were already saying them. As we all know, a child imitates what they see and hear, just like a parrot.

“Ouch… ouch!” we both complained almost in unison.

“Come with me to the corner!”

With both of us grabbed by the ear, we were dragged to a corner of the playground; Sister… I don’t know what! was holding us back, but I do remember she was a ‘nasty piece of work’. And once we were kneeling in the corner, she added a lecture to the punishment, taken from the famous rules of her religious inspiration, the aforementioned Augustine:

“Let there be no quarrels amongst you, or, if there are any, settle them as soon as possible so that anger does not turn into hatred and a speck of dust becomes a beam, turning the soul into a murderer.

For as you read: «He who hates his brother is a murderer».”

Honestly, that was a sermon or piece of advice that went on far too long; we were more focused on the pain, which started in your knees and ended up spreading throughout your whole body, than on whatever the bloody nun was trying to teach us.

…Years later, thinking back on all this, I read the famous ‘Rules of St Augustine’, though only a few ‘snippets’, he wasn’t exactly a ‘favourite saint’ of mine. And I came across a rule which, as far as I can tell, was applied by the ‘holy’ little nuns, and that’s why the word ‘forgiveness’ never passed their lips after they’d given you ‘a good thrashing’; ‘a beating’ sounds better, which went and goes like this:

«But when the need for discipline compels you to use harsh words in rebuking the young, if you realise that you have gone too far in your manner, you are not required to ask forgiveness from those you have offended, lest, by showing excessive humility towards those who ought to obey you, the authority of the one who governs be weakened. Instead, you must ask forgiveness of the Lord of all, who knows with what benevolence you love, including those whom you may have corrected beyond what is just. The love between you must not be carnal, but spiritual».

We also made sure they were ‘bare-legged’ to make their punishments more painful, as we boys back then wore shorts, come rain or shine; in winter your legs got used to the cold, you might get the odd chilblain, but it didn’t matter!

This circumstance of having our legs ‘exposed’ was put to very good use by the nuns in nursery school and by the teachers in the following years; when it came to punishing you on your knees, I mean, ‘educating’ you.

But having to kneel was nothing compared to the weekly ‘rally’ or ‘happening’ where the ‘best pupil’ sash and the ‘donkey’s ears’ were awarded. This was based on the marks they’d been keeping track of, the ones they jotted down in their little books! I spent the whole term struggling not to be labelled or made to wear the ‘donkey ears’ prop. The idea was that the audience (or rather the mob), that is, your classmates, would either praise you for being ‘number one’ or give you a hard time for being a dunce. It seems I got the hang of it, and on more than one occasion I was honoured or recognised with the ‘best student’ sash. But I had to be careful! I also remember spending over an hour on my knees in a corner near the blackboard. Luckily, though, I didn’t have the misfortune of having to ‘wear’ the dreaded ears.

Halfway through the term, they introduced more badges to reward other virtues and good qualities in the children. There was a badge for the most punctual child, another for the most obedient, and yet another, I can’t quite remember what that one was meant to reward.

The idea worked, as it created a sense of competition amongst us to see who would be chosen each week:

"Right then! We’ve got the list of your behaviour this week, and the winners!" she said the last few words with a sneer. "This week, the ribbon for the best pupil goes to… Rodríguez Moro!"

The name was barely out of his mouth when, upon hearing his name, the aforementioned Rodríguez Moro stood up and walked to the front of the classroom, where the Mother Superior, who was also the headmistress,was standing, so she could present him with his sash and fasten it around his neck.

Immediately afterwards, and after we had applauded the winner, they continued with the next names awarded the other sashes; for whom they also re-enacted the presentation ceremony.

Then came a recital by all the pupils; they called out each of us present, assigning us a number on the list, drawn up according to a score ranging from zero to ten, we never heard a ten.

And when only the lowest-ranked student remained to be named, all our eyes turned to the figure of the only student not yet called:

"Yes, once again! This week’s ‘donkey ears’ go to Jaime Boyeras Colón!" They identified him without a doubt; poor Jaime, already standing, went up to receive his ‘prize’. But before collecting his animal implant:

"Come on, Jaime, you know how this works! Put both hands up! these were the orders from the naive headmistress:

"SMACK!" The sound of the first 'slap' on his left hand; Jaime didn’t bat an eyelid; it was his way of 'pissing off' the headmistress. Well, faced with such an attitude, which she considered 'cocky', she mustered all her energy to unleash it in her next “smack”, which was to happen a few seconds later:

"SMACK! We thought the bloody nun had broken his hand, but no, our Jaime was quite the character; and besides, he didn’t let a single sound of pain escape his lips. The headmistress was itching to increase the dose, but this wasn’t on the cards, as it was considered ‘overdoing it’, the previous one wasn’t, that’s just how the bloody rules were!

The teacher went over to the poor lad and pulled his ears: but the ordeal didn’t end there; she then sent him off to report to the nuns in every classroom, to be paraded around each one, and, naturally, to be ‘verbally stoned’ by every girl in the school. Today it would be considered incitement to hatred, or something like that. Or simply a bloody nuisance; a 'loody massive nuisance'…

By the way, as I’ve already mentioned, my sister had also been attending this school for years, although we never crossed paths, not even in the playground. To make things easier, there were two shifts, and mine was the first.

We did go and come back together; every day on the ‘San Fernando bus, a bit on foot and the rest walking’, we covered the nearly three kilometres that separated us from our home. On these journeys I’d tell her how my day had gone; it was a way of letting out the pent-up anger.

Although this wasn’t a two-way thing; she never shared her daily experiences with me. And I suppose she must have had her own little worries each day too.

But on these walks, she did something that puzzled me: she always crossed herself whenever we passed a building attached to the side of the school.

It was a small chapel used by the nuns specialising in pinching. To pray, and on certain days of the year, for the pupils to receive Communion, as they reached the ‘prescribed’ age.

It was here that my sister had received her ‘First Communion’ two years earlier, although I remember nothing of the event, only a very well-taken studio photo, which was displayed on the ledge of a chest of drawers at home. It served as a reminder of the occasion.

"Look, ‘Button Nose’! It’ll be your turn soon."

"I don’t want anything to do with the nuns!"

"‘Communion’ isn’t something the nuns do! It’s a way of ‘sealing’ your agreement with God." It seems my sister was still on a high from the coconut-flavoured food they’d given her at catechism, before “Communion”.

"I don’t know this man at all! And if he’s a friend of the nuns, even less so…

—When the time comes, you’ll change your mind!" declared my sister, considering the matter of my future “First Communion” settled.

And between the headbands and the donkey’s ears, time passed, and when the school year ended and I already knew what my next school would be like, I felt liberated and didn’t miss this place at all; I had already become a little man and would soon begin my school days with the older children, no more nursery school.

That experience made me develop a grudge against nuns, although, over the years, I realised there were all sorts of them. Even decent ones dedicated to helping others, like those working in hospitals or on missions. Which reminds me that generalising is wrong…

THE WHEEL, THE ‘GORILLAS’, THE PIGLET AND THE SLAUGHTERS.

That year, apart from the aforementioned ‘San Fernando car’, I had my own motorised mode of transport. It consisted of a large lorry tyre and the traction provided by the stick, which I held in my hand.

In my spare time, I would ride the wheel round the streets near my house; the noise of the missing exhaust pipe was replaced by my mouth:

"BRUUUN! RUUUN!" And other similar noises that made it clear at what speed and in which gear I was driving it. The tricky bit was braking, as on more than one occasion the brakes failed and the wheel would go off on its own, ending up embedded in some wall.

But it was sturdy and didn’t suffer any damage; I’d pick it up and carry on clocking up the miles, much to the envy of the other children.

“Look, there goes that wheel-head!” said one of the lads, who were criticising me not far away.

“Come on, let’s take it off him!” suggested the other, and they set about trying to strip me of it.

“Don’t do it! Don’t even think about it! His brothers are real ‘bad-tempered’ lads, and if we mess with him, they’ll come after us to beat us up.”

‘Yeah, yeah, that’s true! I’d forgotten who his brother is. The other day, Leo" my older brother. "Punched me for not giving him a cigarette:

"Since when have you had cigarettes?" asked another from the ‘little gang’ of ‘future delinquents’.

I’d nicked them off my dad! And just as I was taking a drag on the one I’d just lit, he (Leo) saw me and asked for one: «What about the rest of us? Or have you forgotten your mates?». I didn’t even think twice; I immediately pulled out another cigarette and gave it to him: «Here! This is the last one I’ve got left, you smoke it!».

"That’s just how the 'bloody little brother' is…"

Thanks to my brother’s reputation, this time they thought twice and I was spared their impertinence and a possible punch.

…Another pastime I had, and I don’t understand why it caused such a fuss, was spending hours throwing a ball the size of a tennis ball, but green and made of rubber. You’d get one as a free gift when you bought a pair of ‘Gorila’ shoes, the ones they said ‘...last a lifetime’.

This particular one was the gift from the last purchase my mother had made for me; they were ‘bomb-proof’ shoes, made in Palma, the island’s capital. The factory came to employ more than 400 workers. The secret of its success lay in the design contribution of the 'Tomás Brothers', rubber manufacturers who revolutionised production in 1942 by incorporating a vulcanised rubber sole. This technique involved applying raw rubber to the leather of the shoe once it had been assembled, and then placing it in an oven, where the vulcanisation process took place, giving it strength.

The name “Gorila” was inspired by the film 'King Kong', released in 1933, and came to its creator, Jaime Salom. He realised that his shoes were associated with the sturdiness of the giant ape.

His first advertising campaign was groundbreaking for its time. He gave away a small green rubber ball, the one I mentioned earlier, with every purchase of a pair of shoes. It was a resounding success. All of us children wanted that little ball; it was very strong and could withstand anything. The 1950s, 60s and 70s were the brand’s heyday, with production reaching 800,000 pairs of shoes. 'Salom' failed to adapt to the strong demand that required it to expand and grow. So we could say that it 'died of its own success'. And the factory went into a tailspin, coinciding with its demise in the 1980s. The factory then passed to his heirs, who in 1990 sold it to 'Basilio García', a businessman who relaunched it and is still in business today.

…He would throw the ball through a gap about a foot wide between the two buildings: mine, which belonged to Josefina, and my neighbour Margarita’s, which stood on the right-hand side. I say ‘buildings’, but they were just a ground floor and one storey. This gap between them stemmed from a dispute over who should pay for the support between the party walls. As they couldn’t reach an agreement, one of them decided to set back a foot on one side and put up a new wall. I don’t know which of the two it was, but there was the ‘no man’s land’, like any border between countries and, in this case, my playground.

I used to run round and round, kicking the ball through the gap and off I’d go, the first lap down the steep staircase and out into the aforementioned gap leading onto the street. Usually, the ball would get stuck among the rubbish at the bottom of the passageway, which consisted of all sorts of debris: stones, bits of fabric, scraps of metal, Roman bones, forgotten gold coins, and so on.

But the human mind knows how to adapt and find solutions to problems. In this case, it involved using a long ‘bamboo’ pole; the long pole was always ‘parked’ at the back and laid flat, so as not to stick out onto the street. I would pick it up and, with the skill of a fisherman, drag the ball towards me. I’d pick it up and start all over again: climb the stairs, go out onto the terrace, lean over the low wall that served as a dividing railing, and throw the ‘toy’.

But one day I changed my routine; I was tired of going up and down the stairs, and I found the solution by throwing the ball somewhere else.

I stayed on the terrace, but I chose the roof instead, taking advantage of the slope of the tiles that channelled rainwater onto our terrace; I decided to throw it there. The ball made its way down the slope and ended up falling into my hands, as I was waiting for it.

“ZAS!” the ball flew and landed on the tiles, then slid. “RAS, RAS!”

“Got you! You’re mine now!” were my loud cries of joy.

Everything went well until one day I threw it so hard that it ended up on the other side of the roof, falling into the garden of Josefina, who lived downstairs.

“Bloody hell! I’m not going to be without my ball.”

I made up my mind, went downstairs and knocked on the door. She wasn’t the sort of woman who liked visitors, let alone angry children. But to my surprise, she let me in:

“Let’s see if you’re lucky, let’s hope you haven’t ended up in the pigsty!” she predicted. That’s when I realised that those who called her a 'half-witch' were actually onto something. After searching for it in the garden and not finding it, it occurred to me to look in the pigsty, and there it was, just as Josefina had predicted it might end up.

I put my thinking cap on again and planned how to get it back…

«Bloody hell, this bloody bucket’s heavy!». I thought, grumbling to myself about the effort it took to carry the pig’s food container, but I had to use it to carry out the rescue.

With a heave, I tipped it away from the ball and caught the piglet’s attention:

"OINK, OINK! OING, OING!" The pig was receptive and, I suppose, hungry; he came over to the food. With him occupied, it was now my turn for the next step.

“Hop to it!” I cheerfully leapt into the pen. “That’s it!” I did so by bracing my foot against a small hole in the pigsty door. I grabbed the ball and, running, climbed back up through the hole and leapt over the makeshift ladder; the mission was accomplished.

Josefina only saw my final leap, but she came towards me as white as milk:

But… what on earth possessed you to jump into the pigsty? You’ve got a screw loose!"

The woman was absolutely furious with me. And I can understand why; not long ago, in a nearby village, a few pigs had nearly eaten a boy who’d wandered into another pigsty. Luckily they managed to save him from death, but he lost a leg. Just think of all the things that must have gone through the ‘half-witch’s’ mind.

"There was no danger at all! I’ve planned it all to perfection."

"Perfection! Now I’m the one who’s going to throw you into the pigsty! Come on!"

The woman made a move to grab me, but I was very nimble and slipped away. I ran towards the door and waited for her, but outside.

“Come here, you rascal!” Once Josefina had got over her fright, she carried on with her game of chasing me, all the way to her door. When she reached it, she stopped and the fun was over.

In view of what had happened, I thought it best to carry on throwing the ball where I’d been doing it before, into the usual hole. In there, however much shit there might be, no starving pig lived… Although ‘living’ was just a figure of speech, since our ‘piggy’ protagonist had little of precisely that left… life.

…Very early one morning, the voices coming from the crowd at Josefina’s house woke the whole family, and we all went to see who was responsible for such a chaotic and noisy awakening:

“What a pig! It must weigh at least 200 kilos.” shouted one of the party guests, for that was what was taking place near the pigsty downstairs, also known as a ‘slaughter’ day. These are usually held between November and February; a custom that stems from the fact that meat keeps better in cold weather.

“Well, it won’t be long before you find out! I see the ‘slaughterer’ has arrived, and it’ll be your job to get him onto the block,” remarked the woman accompanying him.

And so it was; the ‘slaughterer’, who was holding a hook in his hand, signalled to those assigned to the task of carrying the pig, until they had placed it on top of a large table they had set up on the ground. In fact, the entire space in the back garden was filled with people taking part in the ‘slaughter’.

We, who were watching the ‘circus’ from above, peering out through the large dining room window that looked out onto the back, decided that the time had come to take part in the ‘show’ too:

‘Mum! Can we go down?’ asked Leo.

“Of course, children! But be careful with the pig! Don’t go near it until they’ve killed it…” We didn’t need to wait long to get there; we went downstairs and didn’t even need to knock—the door was wide open and it looked like a fashion show.”

“Antonio, don’t go near the pig! You heard Mum!” Damian reminded me.

“Don’t worry! I’m already friends with the pig…” And, not wanting any more telling-off, I went and stood near the table, but at a safe distance.

"OINK! OINK!" These were the cries of the pig as the slaughterer hooked it by the snout to stop it from biting anyone. Its wails could be heard throughout the neighbourhood. Without wasting any time, about six men hooked their arms around different parts of the animal and soon lifted it up, like a coffin in a funeral procession.

"OINK…!, OINNNK!" Which translates as: «Let me go, you bastards! When I get my hands on you, you’ll be sorry!»-

But his grunts didn’t intimidate them, and they ended up placing him on the table; skilfully, they tied a rope to each of his legs, pulling on them to immobilise the piglet, and now with more force than ever, for the moment of slaughter was approaching and his reaction could be unexpected:

"ZASSSH…!" OIIINNNGGG!" A growl rang out, the sort you never forget and which you come to associate with the piglet’s death, caused when the ‘slaughterer’ drove the knife into the lower part of the pig’s neck (the jugular) with a precise stab. This caused the blood to flow copiously, falling into a container that a woman, unknown to me, held right at the neck, so that nothing would be wasted. Shortly afterwards, another woman handed her another bucket to continue the bleeding and took away the full one. This blood would later be used to make ‘botifarrones’; and as coagulated blood, as another ingredient in the dish known as ‘frito de matanzas’. In other parts of the country, it is used to make black pudding.

“What’s the matter, son?! You’re as white as a sheet!” asked a woman standing near me.

“I’m off…! Poor pig…!” With that, I ran off to a large cauldron they were heating over a wood fire, the old-fashioned way; I couldn’t bear to watch that carnage any longer, and never has the expression been more apt. The process continued as follows:

“Right then, every last drop! Let’s take it to the grill!” “It’s very important that the bleeding is complete, but the most crucial health check, one which, if the results were poor, meant everything would go to hell and the pig couldn’t be used—was the health test to ensure the pig was free from any diseases, such as trichinosis and the like.” To do this, several samples were taken from different parts of the piglet and handed over to the vet, who had the results by midday:

"Lola, make sure the samples get to Mr Ladaria (the vet)!"

“AP, OP, UUUP, EP!” And led by the “slaughterer”, who didn’t let go of the hook holding the snout, the “bearers” who were holding the load once more; they carried the pig to the embers, placed it there and turned it several times, so that the animal would be completely ‘socarrado’ (to burn the surface of something or the tips of a filamentous body).

Afterwards, using scrapers and knives, the very men who had carried it began scraping away until the last hair was removed from the pig; it was, and still is, one of the hardest jobs. This is done with the aid of boiling water, and the aim of this rigorous cleaning is to be able to reuse the skin as a casing for sausages or to consume it directly, these are the well-known ‘pork rinds’ that we eat as a snack. This process takes around an hour, as the pig’s hooves and head are also cleaned. For many people, these are the most delicious parts.

With the pig now clean and tidy, looking every bit the gentleman, the next step was the butchering of the pig, which was carried out by two expert surgeons—I say this because of their skill and the way they dissected it, which I observed myself, as I had already recovered. It helped that I had returned home and had a glass of ‘Cola Cao’.

They cut each piece from the greasy pig’s body, starting by cutting it open from top to bottom along the belly.

First, they removed the intestines, to be cleaned later and turned into the natural casings where the sausages will mature. No plastic is used, you daft goose! (addressed to my ‘Subconscious’).

«I knew it, you madman!»

Next came the ribs, the loins, the shoulders, the legs and, finally, the hams, which are prepared or used here in a different way to the usual. All this meat was spread out over three tables and then sorted:

"This is for sobrasada, put it in that pile, please!" it was one of the surgeons, 'Madó…Tal'. "And this is for the 'camaiot'!"

The lean meat, combined with fatty parts, is what is used for the well-known sausage associated with Mallorca. What is it…? Could it be Jabugo ham? Take a guess... (Sobrasada).

The heart, lungs, blood and less lean cuts are used to make ‘botifarrons’. And the popular “camaiots” mentioned earlier, the sausage my father was particularly fond of; made from the skin of the pig’s thighs, sewn with special thread and stuffed with meat seasoned with paprika and salt. Before being hung to cure, they are boiled for a good while, just like the botifarrons. Longaniza and sobrasada are not boiled; they are simply hung up and left to dry for two months or more.

At this point, the production process itself was nearing its final stages. But tradition dictated a break to rest and regain one’s strength; this was when more than a few who ‘hadn’t lifted a finger’ joined the ‘feast’.

“Isn’t the ‘frit’ ready yet!? ‘Betualmón’, what a shame for the ‘slaughter’!” He was allowed the joke “because of who you are”; it was the vet Ladaria, who had come with the results of his tests. These were necessary to know whether to continue or not.

“We haven’t served it yet; we were waiting for you to arrive, Tófol (Cristobal)!” replied Josefina, the hostess of the 'matanza', who had reappeared and whom I hadn’t seen until then. She’d been in the kitchen the whole time, organising what was coming next: 'The Matanzas meal'.

Whose classic dish is ‘Frito de Matanzas’, made with chunks of freshly prepared meat, blood, liver and kidney; a popular fried dish served with vegetables, potatoes, fonoi (fennel) and peppers; an exquisite dish!

"And this starter’s for Tófol!, who’s let us know that everything’s fine and we can carry on." A round pass” or a subtle flirtation from Josefina. They’d known each other for years and were very close.

"YUM, YUM!" That’s how I like it! You can really taste the garlic and the hint of fennel, ah! And it’s got a bit of a kick, if there’s no chilli, it doesn’t feel like a proper ‘frit’!" Tófol gave his approval.

"Menja pa, que estàs molt magre! (Eat some bread, you’re far too thin)."

"YUMMM!" The vet heeded his hostess and took a bite of the bread.

Whilst these two were chatting away, the other women began serving dishes to the rest of the guests, who had been settling themselves at the various tables and in the corners; I stood near Tófol, curious about that man:

"Was the piglet healthy?" My curiosity made me ask him that, and, taken aback, the vet decided to strike up a conversation with me:

"You bet! It was healthier than I am; we’ll get some lovely sobrasadas out of it! And you, young man, which part of the pig do you like best?"

“I like everything!” and seeing that the man had opened up, I took the opportunity to ask him to ‘do me a favour’ and get me something I’d been wanting from the piglet:

“I love you, Tófol! Could you ask for something and… then give it to me?”

“Well, mate! If it’s within my power, don’t doubt it. Come on, tell me what you want?”

"The ‘picha des porc’! That’s what I need for my ball!" The pig’s penis, due to its distinctive fatty content, was used to strengthen the laces on regulation footballs. If you looked after the ‘picha de porc’, it would last you a year.

"You’re no fool! Blimey! Wait here, I’ll bring it to you right away." Having said that, he got up and a moment later handed me a bag containing it. "Here you go! It’s for you! After you rub it into the laces, put it back in the bag and keep it in the coolest place possible; and don’t you dare put it in the fridge, or in the well! All right?"

"Yeees!" MUUAH!" the kiss I gave him in thanks sounded loud, so loud that someone joined in on our exchange:

"Tofol! Watch out for this one, he’s a little devil!" Josefina warned jokingly.

"Goodness, he’s a very clever lad! He knows how to ask for things."

"Come on, have a bit of ‘frit’!" placing the plate in front of me. "You look like a stick!" To round off my meal, Tofol filled a glass of ‘Casera’ for me, into which he’d added a few drops of red wine to give it some colour. And that was the drink that flowed continuously throughout lunch, dinner and the farewell; the traditional drink for a pig-slaughtering feast: red wine.

Once our strength had returned and we’d checked that the meat was in perfect condition, it was time to mince it with machines; the ones used today, mostly electric, hadn’t arrived yet; the ‘rudimentary’ and handmade ones, passed down from father to son, were still the norm:

"ÑAQUI ÑAC!, ÑAQUI ÑAC!" 'L’amo', we need a bit more oil!" Usually, a fine grind is chosen, until the meat is turned into a paste. "PLAFFF, PLAFFF!" that was the sound of the mixture coming out through the grid and falling onto a tray set aside for that purpose: "PLOOOF! PLUUUFFF!"

Once full, it moved on to the next stage of the ‘manual production line’:

"Here you go, ‘Pepote’! You can get your hands on it now."

"PLEEEFFF!" Dropping the tray onto another table to the side so that someone else could season it. This demonstrated that this production line worked, whilst also serving as a tribute and recognition of the master 'Charles Chaplin', director, writer and lead actor of the 1936 film “Modern Times”. I never tire of watching it; it perfectly parodies the excesses of industrialisation.

The seasoning is made using sweet red paprika and hot paprika. All these ingredients help to preserve the meat and give the sobrasada its traditional flavour. It was customary to buy the spices from 'Especies Crespi', a factory founded in 1945. Run by the family of the same name and made up of farmers, growers and producers of condiments and spices.

The ingredients are mixed with the meat using the traditional method, that is, by kneading the mixture by hand until it acquires its characteristic reddish colour. This work is usually carried out by men with strong arms so they can mix and knead with agility, as ‘Pepote’ did that day.

From a pig weighing around 200 kilos, they manage to produce about 81 kilos and 256 grams of sobrasada. "What do you think, ’Subconscious’?

«Perplexed, you’ve left me perplexed...! I reckon you’re making it all up!».

Not at all! It’s the truth. The amount of ingredients depends on each household’s taste, but as a general rule, about five per cent of ingredients is used in relation to the amount of meat to be seasoned.

And once the seasoned and kneaded 'pasta' was ready, it was time to start stuffing the sausages. They carried out this process using the same machine they’d used to mince the meat; they adapted it by fitting a special funnel to the end. The casing slides over the funnel like a sock on a foot, or a condom on a… As the machine is activated, a thin stream of sobrasada paste is forced into the casing, thus forming the sausages.

And as I have already mentioned, the thinner casings are used to make longanizas and ‘botifarrones’, whilst the thicker ones, and even the bladder (bufeta), are turned into sobrasada. They are tied at the ends with string and hung in a pantry to be eaten and enjoyed once they have cured. The bones are also prepared for consumption throughout the year by placing them in containers with large quantities of salt to preserve them.

And at this point, with the ‘fiesta’ practically over, at around four in the afternoon, it was time once again to take a break to regain our strength and have something to eat; these breaks are part and parcel of the ‘matanzas’ tradition. It was time for the traditional ‘arroz brut’, which contains meat from the freshly slaughtered pig and usually includes mushrooms and game, and unlike paella, it is a soupy dish. As one would expect, the cooks were of the old school, and it was exquisite.

Then, without any rush, it was time to share out the ‘piglet’; every family of ‘workers’ took their share of the spoils, including us, as Josefina treated us to a piece of sobrasada:

“Isa, hang it in the pantry for at least two months before you start eating it…” the landlady reminded my sister. “And this piece of ensaimada is for you, ‘Botton Nose’! I’ve kept it especially for you.” This typical island dessert was a staple during the slaughter.

“Thank you! I’ll eat it in your honour…”

"Oink, oink…!" ■

END OF CHAPTER 3