Start with the pig. Skin split, arms and legs tied together. Butchered body, Glad-wrapped, carried home in the back of the ute. Normally, Nonno carries the carcass up over a shoulder in a way that screams accident waiting to happen. Say nothing because it’s a man’s job. “This pig,” Nonno will say, “Best pig.” This year, his bones creak uneasy from the load. Your father steps up instead, enduring critique from the man leaning heavy on his cane. The women have been in the shed at the end of the yard for hours now. Its windows are netted over against the bugs; if someone opens the door it’s compulsory to shout, “Shut the door!” Because flies are waiting. Great aunts, aunts, cousins, each take their positions. Start early, peeling, mashing tomatoes. History in motion. Well-loved, until the meat arrives. And with the meat comes the men, opening beers by the fence. The more things change, the more they stay the same. The table is laid with plastic, a blue-checked surface set with buckets, knives and the grail itself: the mincer. Herbs linger crisp in the air, mixed with some metallic death. Your littlest cousin peels garlic, waving her fingers before you so that you can take a deep inhale. “This is sacred,” your aunt says. “It’s salami week again.”