COUNT US OUT, THANK YOU

At the beginning of November each year our local supermarket clears a space in a corner
and erects a temporary display stand: three shelves laden with 500 gm bags of paprika and balls of string in different colours. I remember being curious about these items when I spotted them during our first autumn here. Why did people buy such large bags of paprika? I use the spice fairly often in my own cooking, but a little jar of the stuff usually lasts ages. And the string? Something to do with the approaching festive season perhaps?

Of course, it wasn't long before I came to learn that these are essential items used in the annual event known as la matanza (or matança, in Catalan). November is the time when, traditionally, many rural folk here slaughter the portly pig that's been grazing contentedly most of the year in a field of fig trees.

It's when they invite family and friends to their homes to muck in and share the gory task of turning the deceased beast into sobrassada (a paprika-loaded pâté-type sausage), botifarró (another type of sausage) and cuts of pork for the coming winter months. And, of course, there's the obligatory feasting and fun afterwards. Not that I have personal experience of any of this, having never been to a matanza; frankly, it doesn't sound at all like my idea of a good time.

Since we moved here, kind Mallorcan neighbours have given us plants for the garden, and delicious fruit and vegetables in abundance. We've been invited to several homes for lunch or dinner and, amusingly, I was even once invited to a riotously noisy Tupperware party (of the 23 women there, I was the only foreigner).

But what we really, really don't want to receive from our generous neighbours - and it's why we keep a low profile in our valley in early November - is an invitation to a matanza . . . . no, gracias.