Have you eaten pork since they arrived?” The question comes as I stare at my two 12-week-old piglets. I don’t know. Did I have a sneaky bite of the supermarket chipolatas I gave the children for tea yesterday? When was that bacon sandwich?
Vegan psychologist Melanie Joy would describe me as a “carnist”. It’s a neologism that means I’m conditioned to accept meat-eating is natural and that animals are categorised into edible, inedible, pets and predators, rather than equals. Certainly, when I was a child, my mum – who viewed the kitchen as a domestic jail – reared me mostly on crispy pancakes and chicken kiev balls piled with salt, sugar and various meat-scraps of dubious origins. Since then, I’ve moved on to veggie falafels and consume meat more carefully. Of course, I’m not alone. Thanks to better education about the industry – films such as Food Inc changed a generation – our dietary habits are evolving. Although I don’t believe we’re anywhere near to hitting “peak vegan”, plant-matter is now as cherished as flesh. It’s not just evident in the posh restaurants: Tesco’s latest report reveals demand for vegan ready-meals is up 40% this year.
So, here I am, with my two new Berkshire sows, shocked I can’t remember when I last ate ham; it’s a realisation of how I unblinkingly stuff comestibles into my gob. And it makes my mission to eat more ethically more pertinent. The plan is to butcher these two sows around November and spend the year living off them.
I left London three years ago, seeking a gentler life and a garden. Like many, I’ve dreamt of growing and rearing the food I eat, of reconnecting with nature, for sometime. We moved to Hampshire and built a pigsty. We didn’t act upon it immediately though – instead, I got chickens, which generously lay eggs.
When a friend mentioned their smallholding neighbour had piglets for sale (£40 each), I decided to face the thorny issue that had been niggling me for a long time: the morals of eating meat. The time had come to try killing animals.
The benefits of raising these two myself are threefold: I choose their feed, I administer their medication, if necessary, and I ensure they’re free to scamper. I love watching them, enshrouded in the verdant woods by our crumbling cottage, galloping figures of eight and snuffling through the terra firma. I even make them mud baths.
The question is, how do I feel about eating an animal I’ve raised, cherished and enjoyed? At the moment, I feel a little tormented. For work as a food journalist, often waxing on about provenance, I’ve visited a Portuguese family’s visceral pig killing, I’ve been scuba diving for scallops in the Hebrides and I’ve fly-fished trout in Cornwall’s river Tamar, but I’ve never felt the blood on my hands as personally as this.
British philosopher Jeremy Bentham, a founder of utilitarianism, wrote in 1780: “The question is not: Can they reason? Nor:, Can they talk? But:, Can they suffer?” Can my girls suffer? Undoubtedly. I’m convinced these two talk, too. Through pig language, grunts, pricked ears and high-octane tail wiggling, I understand happy, hungry, irritated.
Of course, I’ve followed the farmer’s “no naming” mantra when rearing your own – they’ve no pet monikers – although, occasionally I call them “Bacon” and “Paté.” Nevertheless, I feel uneasy – guilty even – when I learn that well-cared-for pigs naturally live 15-20 years: I’ve been advised these ladies should be slaughtered at around six to nine months old. Wouldn’t they want to live longer? Who doesn’t?
The final part of their life is beyond my control and that also bothers me. “Bacon” and “Paté” will go to a local abattoir. They will be killed, disembowelled, split in half from rear to nape, then the still-warm carcasses will be placed in a cooler. Eventually they will be delivered back to me. I want to visit several of the nearest abattoirs to decide which one seems most compassionate. Note: I’m not seeking a “humane” abattoir. Humane – a word evoking a sense of qualities befitting the best of human behaviour – is counterintuitive to me. We’re talking about slaughtering beasts, who I’m convinced would choose life if given the chance – not be killed en masse in factory conditions.
While I watch these gregarious hogs racing to greet me, kissing and nibbling each other, or sleeping (they sleep a lot!) in their muddy oasis, I’m slowly coming to a conclusion. Ethical carnism can’t exist.
Apart from supporting British farmers – another enormous issue – morally, I can’t see there is much justification for eating meat in this day and age, in this country. It’s cognitive dissonance in all its finery. My atavistic urge to turn my pigs into bacon, to make the most delicious charcuterie, is at odds with the morality. I am conflicted. And that is only heightened by the obvious environmental impact that raising livestock has. Space to keep them on, the food (which they devour) ... I’m pouring sacks and sacks of pellets into my pigs’ wooden trough, which they turn upside down once empty.
A typical meat-eater’s diet requires up to 2.5 times the amount of land than that of a vegetarian (and 5 times a vegan’s): eating meat is causing mass deforestation, generating the same levels of greenhouse emissions as all cars, planes and trains combined.
For now though, I’ll keep chewing over these thoughts. Although my eyes have been opened, I don’t feel finished as a carnivore (yet). I knew these complex feelings would arise – I’m not overwhelmed by them. The serious decision-making will start in autumn. November is a while off.
Chloe Scott-Moncrieff is a food journalist and co-founder of The YBF awards, celebrating new food and drink talent across the UK.