Do Not Read This

Shame on you for checking this. It's Memorial Day. Go to a parade. Barbeque with friends. Visit the park.

Get off the web.

Above all, and this is for you, sister, let the laundry wash itself. Go to the ocean, lay down your towel, pull out a your latest copy of Epicurean or Food & Wine, and eat a whole bag of Smartfood. Do it for me.

Then take a moment to thank the people who have forgone these holiday celebrations in lieu of service on our behalf.

You know who you are. Thank you.

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. 

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