All Hail Lemon Pig

I'm not completely sure how I got into making lemon pigs on New Year's Eve.

As best as I can recall, it was probably a combination of seeing images from mid-century cookbooks and a post some Instagram person made (if I scroll back far enough, I could probably confirm it was Nicole Georges).

But it is SUCH a nice practice.

Christmas is a children's holiday that's been consumed by capitalism. Other widespread winter holidays have their charms from an outsider's perspective, but I'm not near enough to their orbit to offer commentary. The Winter Solstice is a magical day, and one I look forward to as soon as summer begins and the days gradually get shorter.

New Year's Eve, though, has really become important these past few years.

Mostly for reasons I can't articulate but are related to the inevitable passage of time. Also the beginning of a calendar is one of our few truly fresh starts. And "Auld Lang Syne" just really hits me in the feels.

But it's the lemon pigs that make the holiday so special.

Social humans might make a party out of carving up citrus into cute animals. Myself, I take a half hour to myself to gather the parts (one lemon, four toothpicks, two cloves, one penny, a twist of aluminum foil, and a paring knife), then quietly assemble a new porcine friend.

When I first began the ritual a few years ago, I think I just happened to have a lemon on hand. With no cloves in the house, I dug out two peppercorns from the fancy grinder my aunt gifted me.

One year I forgot to procure lemons and had to use a clementine instead. It was only last year that I purchased a store brand spice tin of cloves, in which I've barely made a dent. I've inserted American and foreign coins into the pigs' mouth slits.

This year, instead of regular aluminum foil, I used a Dove dark chocolate candy wrapper that is red on the outside; the inside bears the message, "It's never too late to begin your journey."

Oh, clever and helpful tools!

It was only this year that I learned some people keep their lemon pigs in the house all year. The idea, I read, was to introduce the new year's pigs to the ones from the previous celebration before pitching the elder citrus swine. I also saw that a friend from high school kept theirs for a year before burying them in the front yard. Symbolic. I like it.

What I do is wait until Imbolc, then make an event of conferring my one little pig to the warm confines of my compost bin, penny and all. Feels right. And after four and a half weeks (why does it seem longer?), the pigs are scary, decrepit little gremlins that look like they should not be in the house at all.

In writing this, I remember past years when winter would deteriorate my mental health over the course of January, and watching fruit with a face rot in real time was of no help at all. Hopefully that's not the case this year (I feel okay), even though other situations outside my own meat suit are increasingly dire (loved ones' health and rapid acceleration toward dictatorship and all that).

So, may the deterioration of our collective lemon pigs summon in longer, brighter days, freedom from fascism, and better times for all who deserve them. So mote it be.