Yesterday I talked to a friend about our two families going in on a pig together. Not sneaking up on one, but as in buying a nice, happy, grass-fed, free-range pig now… with the intention that it will become crispy deliciousness later. The question is not whether or not doing this a good idea.
It’s undoubtedly a great idea.
I love me some bacon, and C is a monster when it comes to pulled pork, ribs, sausage, and even pork fried rice.
Have I told you about the time I had an applewood-smoked bacon chocolate bar? Raved over my brother-in-laws barbequed pork butt? Mentioned the pork shanks that they sell at a restaurant here in town?
You city folk can keep your Starbucks and even your sushi, as long as you don’t lay a hand on my pork shanks. They are spicy, messy, and perfectly unbecoming (especially when the check is paid and you are still gnawing on the bones).
Anyway, like I said, the question is not whether buying the pig is a good idea. The question is…
Do I name it?
Or more realistically, how do I not name it?
Ever since I can remember, I have formed intense, irrational bonds with inanimate objects. I used to wrap up my toothbrush in clean toilet paper (mummy-style) before throwing it in the garbage, all so that it didn’t have to touch any of that dirty stuff. I once dug through our outgoing trash to recover the old salt and pepper shakers my mom tried to sneak out of the house. I waded through multiple bags and emerged from the mess victorious, shakers in hand (Mom must have bleached them for hours before returning them to the dinner table, which I insisted she do). I was unreasonably infantile when it came to stuffed animals.
So since my relationships with kitchen utensils went so well, how do you think I’ll fair with a live, pink, curly-tailed pig?
Yeah, I agree. It’s going to be a disaster.
But I'll get through it somehow, as we all should: one crispy bite at a time.
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