Dawn had just begun to break, and the courtyard was still shrouded in the chill before sunrise.
The enormous wild boar lay in the center of the yard, black and bulky, like a silent little mountain.
Wang Dashan had already hitched the old, worn-out cart, intending to drag the entire boar to the town to sell.
Selling the whole pig would naturally bring a lower price, but it spared them much hassle and allowed them to quickly turn it into cash and urgently needed rice and salt.
“Wait.”
Li Lanxiang emerged from the kitchen, still holding a rag, calling out to Wang Dashan just as he was about to lift the boar onto the cart.
Wang Dashan stopped and turned to look at her, his eyes questioning.
“Don’t drag it to town,” she said.
Li Lanxiang walked over to the boar and crouched beside it, patting its thick, rough hide.
“We’ll kill it ourselves and process it ourselves.”
Wang Dashan froze, and even Wang Tiezhu and Wang Shizhu, who were helping nearby, looked on in surprise.
Kill it themselves?
A boar this large would take time and strength. The blood, innards, and head and hooves—there was no way the family could consume it all at once. Town buyers would haggle even harder over these scraps, and in the end, selling it whole might actually be more profitable.
Besides, wild boar was pungent and greasy, and processing it was cumbersome.
“Kill it ourselves?”
Wang Dashan furrowed his brow.
“It’s troublesome, and we won’t get a good price. Dragging it to town is easier; though the price is lower, the cash and food come quickly.”
“I know.”
Li Lanxiang stood, calm yet resolute.
“But if we kill it ourselves, we can keep all the fat—back fat, leaf fat, even the little scraps in the stomach. Not a drop wasted. The blood can be collected—it’s good stuff. Cleaned intestines and stomachs can be used to stuff or stew; it’s worth more than just selling the meat.”
She paused, looking at Wang Dashan.
“I don’t want to live the kind of life where we only dare dip the tip of a chopstick into oil. We’ll render the fat ourselves, make a big jar, and eat it slowly.”
Wang Dashan fell silent.
In the dim morning light, her face was still pale, but her eyes shone with a fierce, almost stubborn determination he had never seen before.
It wasn’t about a few coins—it was about that jar of golden pig fat, tangible and real.
He thought of the extra oil at the table these past few days, of her willingness to use eggs, to cook soup with mountain chicken and wild mushrooms, of all the new and delicious dishes she had created.
Perhaps she really wasn’t the same Li Lanxiang who had once counted every cent and suffered along with the family.
“…You know how to do this?”
After a long pause, Wang Dashan asked in a low voice. Killing a pig required skill, let alone a wild boar.
“Roughly, yes.”
Li Lanxiang nodded, drawing on the original owner’s scattered memories of village pigs being slaughtered, combined with her previous life’s experience in the countryside.
“You have the strength—handle the main cuts, bleed it out, skin it, and portion the meat. Tiezhu and Shizhu help hold it and fetch water. I’ll tell you how to clean the intestines and stomach, how to scrape the fat.”
Her certainty eased Wang Dashan’s doubts.
He glanced at the boar, then at Li Lanxiang, and finally nodded.
“Alright.”
He moved the cart aside and fetched the gleaming skinning and bone-cutting knives from the house.
Wang Tiezhu and Shizhu, now energized, rolled up their sleeves.
The slaughter was no easy task.
The boar’s hide was tough, its muscles thick, and it struggled with astonishing strength.
Wang Dashan took the main cut, steady hands piercing under the neck to bleed it out.
Li Lanxiang had already prepared a large wooden basin with a sprinkle of salt and water, catching the gushing, still-warm blood and stirring gently to prevent coagulation.
The subsequent skinning, eviscerating, and portioning demanded both strength and skill.
Wang Dashan worked with a steady, precise hand, sweat dripping from his brow, while Tiezhu and Shizhu held the boar and passed tools, also drenched in sweat.
Li Lanxiang did not touch the bloodied work but stood nearby, calling out crucial instructions—how to angle the knife, peel the skin cleanly, remove the innards without breaking the gallbladder.
When the boar was roughly divided, revealing white back fat and the net fat around the innards, her eyes lit up.
“These, these, and these,” she said, pointing to the thick fat.
“Carefully trim them all. Nothing wasted.”
The intestines and stomach were removed intact, still carrying the strong boar scent.
Li Lanxiang directed Shizhu to heat large pots of water in the kitchen, dig some clean wood ash from behind the house, and fetch some bran.
“First, rinse the intestines and stomach with warm water. Turn them inside out, empty the contents.”
She demonstrated, running a length of intestine over a water pipe to rinse.
“Then scrub thoroughly with ash and salt, inside and out, to remove slime and odor. Finally, rub with bran and rinse clean. Wash until it smells neutral and looks pale white.”
These were old, time-tested methods from her memory—tedious, but effective.
Though Wang Dashan and the boys found it laborious, her confidence persuaded them to follow her instructions.
Soon, the courtyard was filled with steam, splashing water, flying ash, and the distinctive smell of boar.
Li Lanxiang tended the piles of white, quivering fat.
She cleaned the large iron pot, stoked the fire, and cut the fat into chunks, adding it to the pot.
At first, it sizzled quietly; as the heat rose, the fat melted into clear golden liquid.
The solids boiled, gradually shrinking into small, crisp, golden bits.
The rich, animal-fat aroma dominated the courtyard, overtaking the previous bloodiness.
It was tangible, irresistible—everyone inhaled deeply, stomachs growling in response.
Shizhu, scrubbing the intestines, couldn’t help glancing toward the kitchen, mouth watering.
“Mother, the cracklings smell amazing!”
Li Lanxiang stirred the fat with long chopsticks, watching the clear golden lard accumulate in the pot, light shimmering across its surface. A deep sense of satisfaction rose in her chest.
She carefully ladled the rendered fat into a pre-washed, dried large clay jar.
One ladle, then another, the golden liquid sliding along the spoon into the jar.
The jar gradually filled, bright yellow and glistening. Once solidified, it would resemble top-quality tallow.
This jar of lard meant that for a long time, cooking would be generous with oil; flatbreads could be crisp and fragrant; soups would shimmer with fat.
No longer would meals be meager, worry gnawing at the family as they looked at thin, watery dishes.
This was more than fat—it was confidence, a safeguard against the cold winter, the most basic security Li Lanxiang could provide for her family.
In the courtyard, Wang Dashan hung the portioned boar meat. Dark red and well-marbled, it gleamed in the morning light.
Tiezhu and Shizhu continued battling the intestines and stomachs, changing water repeatedly.
The kitchen was filled with the savory smell of rendered fat, the clay jar slowly filling with gold.
Sunlight rose, illuminating the bustling yet fulfilling farmyard.
Li Lanxiang looked at the jar, then at the busy father and sons, wiped the sweat from her brow, and let a faint, genuine smile curve her lips.