When I was a kid, there was nothing quite like the excitement of early winter when Grandpa would get ready to kill hogs. Our kinfolk would come over to lend a hand, and it was a real family affair. The men would spend all day scalding and butchering the hogs until we were left with a big pile of fat on the table.
That fat was the key ingredient in making cracklins and rendering lard, a process he took very seriously. We’d all gather around the table with our knives, cutting squares from the fat. By the time we were done, Grandpa would have a big kettle set up over an open fire, and we’d add the cut-up fat to the pot. He knew just how to regulate the heat, bringing it up slowly to avoid burning the fat. After a few hours of cooking and periodically stirring with an old long wooden paddle, some of the fat would turn into a liquid form, or what we would call “rendering the fat.” The chunks left over were the cracklins. He would scoop them out and put them in a big bowl.
Next, Grandpa would take the kettle and pour the lard or liquid fat into mason jars, straining it through cheesecloth. This was how he made lard for Grandma’s cooking, and if he didn’t get it too hot during the process, it would cool in the jars and be snow-white.
But the real treat was yet to come. Grandpa would throw the cracklins back in the pot and turn up the temperature by adding more fire. He’d stir the cracklins every so often until they got golden brown, then scoop them out and lay them on cardboard to drain. He’d strain the liquid with cheesecloth back into mason jars, and this would make a second batch of lard with a stronger taste.
Once the Cracklins were perfectly crispy and seasoned with salt, we’d all sit around the table and dig in. The warm, salty crunch of each bite was a reminder of the hard work and dedication that went into creating this treat. As we enjoyed our cracklins, the older folks would share their memories of growing up on the farm and tell us stories of their childhood when times were a lot simpler. Their voices were full of warmth and nostalgia, and I’d listen attentively, feeling grateful for the opportunity to learn from their wisdom.
For us kids, it was a chance to share in a tradition that had been passed down for generations. As the evening wore on and the fire slowly died down, we’d sit back, content and satisfied for having participated in this time-honored tradition.
Years later, whenever I think back to those winter days spent with my grandparents making cracklins and rendering lard, I’m filled with a sense of nostalgia and longing. It’s something that I’ll always cherish and hold dear in my heart.