*A broken camera is leaving this post picture-less.
Since the very day we arrived at Jinbi Primary School, local teachers have been excitedly telling us about the 杀猪饭 (pronounced sha-jew-fawn), or 'Pig-Killing Feasts." Through rough translations of local dialects, we believed that this was a one day celebration that occurred sometime in early December, wherein families slaughter a pig and then proceed to feast on more pork than anyone can handle. A local teacher invited us to a 杀猪饭as we were heading to Dali for Thanksgiving, and we were more than a bit disappointed that we were going to miss this important holiday.
Two days after returning from Dali, however, our principal whisked us away to a school in a neighboring village, muttering something about 杀猪饭 as he drove. The four of us thought we were getting leftovers from the weekend's feast, and were glad we were at least having some part in the festivities.
Little did we know, the festivities were just beginning.
Since that first night, we have been to 15 more 杀猪饭. This Yi Minority tradition does not have a specific date; families simply choose a day sometime before the Lunar New Year and after it becomes cold enough to dry meat safely. The day of a 杀猪饭, the family kills a pig in the morning and sacrifices a portion of it to the ancestors. Then, the afternoon is spent cooking half the pig and preparing an elaborate feast for family and friends. The other half of the pig is hung to dry so it can be eaten later in the year.
Since the very day we arrived at Jinbi Primary School, local teachers have been excitedly telling us about the 杀猪饭 (pronounced sha-jew-fawn), or 'Pig-Killing Feasts." Through rough translations of local dialects, we believed that this was a one day celebration that occurred sometime in early December, wherein families slaughter a pig and then proceed to feast on more pork than anyone can handle. A local teacher invited us to a 杀猪饭as we were heading to Dali for Thanksgiving, and we were more than a bit disappointed that we were going to miss this important holiday.
Two days after returning from Dali, however, our principal whisked us away to a school in a neighboring village, muttering something about 杀猪饭 as he drove. The four of us thought we were getting leftovers from the weekend's feast, and were glad we were at least having some part in the festivities.
Little did we know, the festivities were just beginning.
Since that first night, we have been to 15 more 杀猪饭. This Yi Minority tradition does not have a specific date; families simply choose a day sometime before the Lunar New Year and after it becomes cold enough to dry meat safely. The day of a 杀猪饭, the family kills a pig in the morning and sacrifices a portion of it to the ancestors. Then, the afternoon is spent cooking half the pig and preparing an elaborate feast for family and friends. The other half of the pig is hung to dry so it can be eaten later in the year.
Every 杀猪饭is a bit different, though most have the same basic elements.
- Almost all the 杀猪饭 take place at family homes in the countryside. Generally, the homes have a large courtyard in the middle, with small rooms on three sides, hosting a living area, kitchen, and chicken pen/ barn. The fourth side is a wall, usually made of firewood. For the meal, small tables and stools are set up in the courtyard for guests.
- From head to tail, no part of the pig ever goes to waste. The gall bladder is nailed to a wall to be used as medicine in the future, but every other part of the pig is eaten. This means dishes of brain, heart, intestines and blood.
- The meals are heavily attended events. The smallest 杀猪饭 we have attended had a little over a dozen people present, but the average attendance seems to hover around 50 people. Some have been much larger than that!
- 杀猪饭 do not accommodate for vegetarians. Every dish with vegetables is stuffed with meat, and the one or two dishes that don't have pork are likely cooked in pig fat.
- Drinks generally come in the form of home-made 白酒 (think moonshine) served out of gas cans. Drinking plays a large part in Yi culture, as it is said that drinking with someone three times means you are friends. Therefore, at many dinners, more time is spent toasting than eating.
- 杀猪饭are absolutely wonderful! I have never been to one without amazing dishes and fantastic company. They are also incredible cultural experiences, with opportunities to see village homes, learn a few more words and songs in the Yi dialect, and get to know people from several generations. Though sometimes the thought of attending yet another 杀猪饭is daunting and annoying, I am always extremely happy by the time we get to the home.
Though every dinner has, more or less, the same main components, each still has a very different vibe. Some are used as tools in building relationships in the community, with many officials dining as hired help serve the meals. The vast majority are mid-size affairs, with the family cooking and serving while a steady stream of friends, colleagues, and teachers find their way in to the courtyard for a meal and leave an hour or two later. Others still are small gatherings with just a few close friends and family members, that last for hours and end with all in attendance telling stories around a fire as children play and dogs scavenge for scraps. The latter is my favorite type of 杀猪饭, and I always feel honored when we are invited.
Perhaps my favorite 杀猪饭, though, was on New Year's day, when our local music teacher invited us to his aunt's home. We drove about an hour away from campus, then hiked for 15 minutes up a mountain until we reached the traditional Yi village that he used to call home. The music teacher, Mr. Yang, is considered by our school to be the "Resident Yi Culture Expert," as he grew up in a very traditional Yi family and his gift for singing has given him the ability to capture all aspects of the very music-and-dance-heavy culture. For dinner, tiny wooden stools formed a circle around the pine leaves that had been laid on the dirt floor as a table. We sat with the teacher, his wife, his high school aged son, and five of his son's friends, half of whom were Yi themselves and were quick to begin drinking with the elder villagers and chatting in the local dialect. Though the food was simpler than most 杀猪饭, it was absolutely delicious. At a 杀猪饭, you can always tell how traditional a family is by whether or not they serve raw pork. (It is considered a delicacy in Yi culture, as is the blood from a freshly killed pig) This dinner had 3 different raw pork dishes and 4 different blood dishes. Surprisingly, raw pork and pig blood are both delicious, and, perhaps more surprisingly, I have yet to get sick from either.
Though the food is the main event at any 杀猪饭, the atmosphere is always what makes the dinners special in my eyes. At this dinner, elder women with wrinkled faces and scarves around their hair chatted in the local dialect, laughing with big, toothless grins as they stirred large vats of boiling pig. Men, in traditional "Mao jackets" and caps sat around a table, barely able to see the cards in their hands through the smoke from their cigarettes. Behind them, stairs led up to the family's room, a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminating a larger-than-life portrait of Mao that hung above a small TV and next to the family's only bed. Small fires dotted the courtyard, with people of all ages bundled in winter coats warming their hands and singing songs that had been passed down for generations. As I looked around, I longed for my broken camera, framing hundreds of shots in my mind. Yet, as I stood in the center of the courtyard, rubbing my hands together in an attempt to stay warm in the biting cold, breathing in the delicious smell of the freshest meat I have ever eaten, and listening to a language I didn't understand, I realized that nothing--no pictures, video, or words--could ever capture the feeling of a 杀猪饭. For now, I am left with my memories...at least until next December rolls around.
Perhaps my favorite 杀猪饭, though, was on New Year's day, when our local music teacher invited us to his aunt's home. We drove about an hour away from campus, then hiked for 15 minutes up a mountain until we reached the traditional Yi village that he used to call home. The music teacher, Mr. Yang, is considered by our school to be the "Resident Yi Culture Expert," as he grew up in a very traditional Yi family and his gift for singing has given him the ability to capture all aspects of the very music-and-dance-heavy culture. For dinner, tiny wooden stools formed a circle around the pine leaves that had been laid on the dirt floor as a table. We sat with the teacher, his wife, his high school aged son, and five of his son's friends, half of whom were Yi themselves and were quick to begin drinking with the elder villagers and chatting in the local dialect. Though the food was simpler than most 杀猪饭, it was absolutely delicious. At a 杀猪饭, you can always tell how traditional a family is by whether or not they serve raw pork. (It is considered a delicacy in Yi culture, as is the blood from a freshly killed pig) This dinner had 3 different raw pork dishes and 4 different blood dishes. Surprisingly, raw pork and pig blood are both delicious, and, perhaps more surprisingly, I have yet to get sick from either.
Though the food is the main event at any 杀猪饭, the atmosphere is always what makes the dinners special in my eyes. At this dinner, elder women with wrinkled faces and scarves around their hair chatted in the local dialect, laughing with big, toothless grins as they stirred large vats of boiling pig. Men, in traditional "Mao jackets" and caps sat around a table, barely able to see the cards in their hands through the smoke from their cigarettes. Behind them, stairs led up to the family's room, a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminating a larger-than-life portrait of Mao that hung above a small TV and next to the family's only bed. Small fires dotted the courtyard, with people of all ages bundled in winter coats warming their hands and singing songs that had been passed down for generations. As I looked around, I longed for my broken camera, framing hundreds of shots in my mind. Yet, as I stood in the center of the courtyard, rubbing my hands together in an attempt to stay warm in the biting cold, breathing in the delicious smell of the freshest meat I have ever eaten, and listening to a language I didn't understand, I realized that nothing--no pictures, video, or words--could ever capture the feeling of a 杀猪饭. For now, I am left with my memories...at least until next December rolls around.