(pig butt courtesy of The Collective)

Dear Vegetarian Readers,

Run.  Run now.  Save yourselves!

This is not a drill.

Yours Truly,
The Emergency Vegetarian Protection System

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OK.  If you’re still reading, you’re either an omnivore or a carnivore… or a vegetarian who’s very, very bad at following directions.  Yes?  Excellent.  Then I have something in common with each of you, and I feel super close to you right now.  Group hug!

Last week, we introduced our children to one of their food sources.

And, by food, I mean bacon.  Which is the pretty, pretty princess of food.

We live in Oregon.

Oregon is crunchy.

Now, I don’t know where I’ve been the last few decades, but I only recently became acquainted with the word “crunchy” as a lifestyle descriptor.  (Yes. I’m aware that I’m completely out of touch.  In fact, I still think the word “hip” is hip.  I am a dinosaur.)  I was all hip to the overused “granola” to describe those of us who want to be in tune with our food sources, who let our kids pee outside (even the girls), who don’t buy anything without feeling guilty about our abysmal environmental footprint, and who think that Reduce, Reuse, Recycle is the Holy Trinity.

When I first heard the word “crunchy,” I thought it must apply to me, if only because… well, I think I express it best with poetry…

Going To Bed
in 2 word phrases
by Beth Woolsey

Night time.
Bed time.
Mom’s relief.
SO thrilled.

Clothes off.
Husband ogles.
Thanks, Babe!

(Ahem.  Sorry.)

Nightgown on.
Brush teeth.
Wash face.

In bed.
What’s this?
Kid crumbs.
Kids.  Crumb!

Ah, well.
Crunchy sleep.

Yeah; poetry is SO in my future.  In my imaginary, fake future.  Which is where I also turn suddenly skinny after eating loads of bacon.  It’s my imaginary, fake, AWESOME future.

Imagine my surprise when I learned that crunchy does not, in fact, refer to the perpetual state of kid crumbs in my bed sheets.  And then my relief when I learned I still get to apply it to myself.

Whew!  That was a Crunchy Close Call. But I think I’m Crunchy Safe, ’cause we did what can only be described as something crunchy last week.

We had our friends, Bubba and Sarah, who run The Collective, dismantle a pig in our garage.

Chorus (this is your part!) :   YUM!

You might remember Sarah and Bubba from the rather blatant overtures I made to bring them into our zombie apocalypse planning with the ultimate goal of trapping them in our futuristic commune.  I mean, who better than pig farmers to force lovingly welcome into our End of Days home?  And I’m very happy to report that my less-than-subtle offers to help with pig-husbandry (“Listen up, little piggies.  When a mommy piggy and a daddy piggy love each other very much…”) didn’t harm our negotiations.  In fact, the Bubbas agreed to link their current commune with mine upon the advent of the apocalypse.  We might have to see the whites of the zombies’ eyes before the Bubbas will head on over, but we have established our commune consortium, which is a real load off my mind.

Anyway, after the Bubbas raised our precious pig and gently ushered her to Heaven, we had three choices for what to do with the carcass, and they were these:

1. Have a butcher butcher.
2. Have Sarah the Butcher butcher at the Bubbas’ abode.
3. Have Sarah the Butcher butcher at my house.

Sensing a glorious and golden opportunity to a) teach my children about food sources, b) receive a personal lesson in butchery, and c) gross my husband completely and totally out, I chose Door #3.

Now, there was some debate betwixt the spousal unit and myself about whether or not this was a good idea.  Here’s the entire transcript of our conversation:

Greg:  Don’t you think the children will be traumatized when a whole pig carcass moves into our garage to be cut up into tiny little bits?

Me:  Maybe.  Maybe they’ll decide to be vegetarians.  Which means MORE BACON FOR ME!  Win/win!

Armed with that logic, we pressed forward.  And, on my babies’ 5th birthday, Sarah and Bubba showed up with our deceased friend, whom I shall respectfully and lovingly call the Baconator, in tow.  Happy birthday, Babies!

I’ll be honest with you.  (I know.  It’s a flaw.)  This experiment was both a success and a failure.

First, it was a failure.  Because my husband, whom I publicly maligned as a pansy-bottomed, American suburbanite wasn’t, even in the least little bit, sicked out.  He actually thought it was all rather cool.  So a total disappointment for me there.

But then, it was a success.  Because our son stepped into the void Greg left and proceeded to walk around the garage all morning with expressions that combined unbridled enthusiasm with mild nausea.

Ian was awesome.

And, finally, of course, it was a success.  Because… mmmmm!  Bacon!

In conclusion,

This little piggy went to Heaven.
This little piggy stayed (at my) home.
This little piggy became bacon.
And Mommy’s gonna get me some.

The End

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You can find more information on The Collective and all things local, sustainable, and piglicious at Sarah’s blog, Currently on the Menu.

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P.S.  If you need some free, professional costume advice just in time for Halloween, it’s not too late!  Check this Halloween Help post out, and leave a comment for the talented and creative Rachel.

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It has occurred to me, rather belatedly I must say, that I write blog posts sometimes about other people’s businesses.  And that you might wonder what I get in return.  And that I should tell you that what I receive for writing thusly is a great, big sense of satisfaction.

At no time did Rachel of Fawn and Feather, whom I don’t know outside of falling in heart with her online, ask me, bribe me or pay me in anything but thanks to promote her business.

Nor, at any time, did Sarah or Bubba ask me, bribe me or pay me for the same.  Except that one time when they gave me a glass of whiskey and a scrumptious plate of pasta.  And I drank and ate them all the way gone.  So there’s that.

I write about Rachel and the Bubbas because they inspire me.  And they influence my life in ways that make raising five kids easier, cheaper, and healthier.  And then I share that with you.  Because sharing time is a happy time.

This is the section I shall title “disclosure.”  Consider me disclosed.