If this picture from our wedding isn’t an indicator of the pig influence in my life, here is another.
My husband loves pigs. He works at a restaurant (Ford’s Filling Station, check it out) that is decorated with pigs. They get in 3 or 4 huge pigs every week and hold pig dinners for groups who want to try everything from pig brain and eyeballs to crispy pig tails. they specialize in using every part of the animal, from snout to tail.
When Brad first started working at Fords, he started posting pictures of his every day activities on Facebook. This included a lot of dead piggy pictures. Brad cutting up piggies, all the cuts of piggies, hanging sausages…
He started getting messages from friends back east just making sure I was safe living with and being married to such a butcher. I started pushing my social media knowledge on him and asked him to censor the pictures he displayed for everyone. Case in point, he butchered an entire pig the other day and very proudly showed me a picture of a pile of cuts of pig meat with the triumphant head sitting right on top.
“I didn’t put this one on Facebook, Kels.”
Sigh. Of. Relief.
I am extremely proud of him and his piggie loving ways. They gross me out every now and then, mostly when he makes me try eyeballs or bone marrow or yet another chicken liver invention. But the man knows pork. And I reap the benefits of all of those pictures that are not posted to Facebook.
But Brad left me here in Maryland last night so he could get up to Ithaca before this afternoon, which happens to be the only appointment he could get with his favorite tattoo artist while we were home.
He is getting a pig tattooed on his arm.