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 While I can’t remember the exact lyrics – as translated by José – I can tell you with some assurance that the words of the first verses went something like this:
     
                                                  This pig was a strong one
                                                  He didn’t want to die
                                                  He kicked and he struggled
                                                  Sprayed blood in my eye
     
         Looking around the barn, the old man continued playing, throwing it out to the crowd:
     
                                                  I’m needing some help here
                                                  I can’t do it again
                                                  Will one of you bastards
                                                  Step right on in
     
         At which point, one of his helpers indeed chimed right in with:
     
                                                  This beast was a pisser
                                                  A pig with some guts
                                                  When Luis stabbed him
                                                  He kicked me right in the nuts
     
         This went on for quite a while, accompanied by much eating and drinking. I tried to eat lightly – a difficult thing to do in Portugal.
         A few hours later, we gathered around two large tables in the farmhouse for a hearty lunch of caldo verde , kale soup. Very different from the chunky soup studded with potatoes, kale, beans, and sausage that I remember from my early days on Cape Cod. ‘That’s Azores people’s food,’ said José. This was a smoother concoction of chorizo-flavored kale, potato, and stock, the potatoes cooked to the point of near emulsification with the finely chiffonaded kale. No discernible chunks and a subtler flavor.
         There must have been thirty assorted family members, friends, farmhands, and neighbors crowded into the stone-walled room. Every few minutes, as if summoned by some telepathic signal, others arrived: the family priest, the mayor of the town, children, many bearing more food – pastries, aguardente (brandy), loaves of mealy, heavy, brown, delicious Portuguese bread. We ate slices of grilled heart and liver, a gratin of potato and bacalhau , the grilled and sliced tenderloin of our victim, and sautéed grelos (a broccoli rabe-like green vegetable), all accompanied by wine, wine, and more wine, José’s father’s red joining the weaker vinho verde and a local aguardente so powerful, it was like drinking rocket fuel. This was followed by an incredibly tasty flan made with sugar, egg yolks, and rendered pork fat, and a spongy orange cake. I lurched away from the table after a few hours feeling like Elvis in Vegas – fat, drugged, and completely out of it.
         At the tables, the locals, having yet to finish this meal, were already planning the next one. The Portuguese, if you haven’t gathered this already, like to eat. They like it a lot. ‘You can see why we don’t really eat breakfast in Portugal,’ joked José. The word svelte does not come to mind a lot when in Portugal, either as a description or as a desirable goal. One is not shy about second helpings.
         A few hours later, at José’s parents’ house, I was already well into dinner, the other guests yet more members of the Meirelles’s extended family. We started off with freshly toasted almonds from the farm, pickled pearl onions, fried baby sardines, marinated olives and pickles, then moved quickly on to rojões e papas de sarrabulho – an amazing soup of bread, stock, fresh cumin, bits of pork, and blood. The blood had