By Jennifer Welch
I’m hitting my stride.
I’ve always known that I was a whiskey girl. Whiskey. Bourbon. Single-malt Scotch. Maybe a blend if you force my hand. Neat. Always neat. This I know. But my stride has nothing to do with that. No, my stride has more to do with curly tails and round snouts, curious minds and hearty grunts. My stride is pork. I take porking very seriously, as it is my business. More of an art form, really. The art of raising pigs for nourishment. This I am coming to know.
Luckily for me, these two things go hand in hand. Like pieces of a puzzle, they fit together in a way you might not expect at first. In fact, drinking and porking, as it were, go together in more ways than one. (I should know, says the mother of three.) Although, for safety’s sake, I do feel inclined to point out that we enforce a strict two-drink maximum if you plan to wander into our pigpens.