Hope Smells Like Smoked Meat

There’s hope for us, and we found it in an old bank.

C and I drive about an hour for church on Sundays, to another small town on another lake after another car ride littered with enough moose, deer, bear and small animals to both raise your blood pressure to an unhealthy level and draw out a very real fear of an automobile-accident related death.  The drive is usually followed by either attending church or going grocery shopping.  Fear of death, followed by God or food.  Huh.

Well, yesterday after said drive and said church service, we stuck around to have lunch with the church pastor.  He chose the restaurant, and I can tell you now, in hindsight, that it was undeniably the right choice.  You know the quote from Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken that says it was the decision of taking the less trodden path “that made all the difference”?  Well, we followed a new friend down an unknown trail, and when our path ended, there was pork.  Frost is a genius.

Meet Bacon, Ham Steak and Brisket.  Cute now, but extra yummy later.

They have a meat smoker at this particular establishment, and the juicy brisket to prove it.  To me, pig products are a crucial component of successful dining, so to understand my excitement, just imagine me rolling around on the hardwood restaurant floor, kicking my legs in the air and laughing hysterically, with dark barbeque sauce dripping from the corner of my mouth.   Or if you want to sleep tonight, go ahead and skip that.

I, of course, refrained from the above actions yesterday, due to the fact that we were in the company of someone who didn’t really know us yet, and well… I was wearing a skirt.  I’m not about to embarrass myself by giving the other diners a peek at my panties – I've got more class than that.

Here are some other signs that we found a promising restaurant:

• Liberal use of fresh jalapenos and a nice pico de gallo
• Cracked pepper on freshly fried kettle chips
• A Cuban sandwich, which is startling, because Dorothy, we're not in Miami anymore
• I can’t recall any that item on the menu had a moose theme
• Coleslaw served in the pulled pork sandwich, which means that someone did their homework 

In a world of meatloaf (albeit, good meatloaf) and baked chicken breasts, eating yesterday’s meal left me feeling like I was watching a new morning sun rise over the horizon.  In a land of snow and ice, it compares to catching a glimpse of the North Pole workshop.  In a lifeboat, it would be a white sand beach.  In our case, it’s just a little thing called hope, wrapped in prosciutto and drizzled with honey. 

Down the hatch, Hope.

I Hope They Serve Pork Shanks In Heaven

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. 

source

But I'll get through it somehow, as we all should: one crispy bite at a time.