Over the previous weekend I worked alongside my brother and several of his friends in what has become an annual ritual, now in its fourth year: the "processing" of pigs. By processing, of course, I mean killing, cleaning, scalding, scraping, eviscerating, halving, butchering, wrapping, and labeling. But processing sounds oddly sanitary, doesn't it? It's a lot of work -- the kind of work once tackled by small communities, without the benefit of artificial refrigeration, with