Soaring Through Blue

a midsummer's repast on the island




It was inevitable.

We had to do it.

Pork partaaay!

I know. We just attended a pork party a couple of weeks ago. But we wanted one of our own.

On the island, of course.

Some summer parties are easy to like, with their salads and their vegetables, fresh from the garden. Cobs of sweet corn, heirloom tomatoes oozing watery juice that runs down your chin, fresh basil, soothing cucumbers. They're so obvious, like those girls whose shirts leave nothing to the imagination, their pants slung so low you can see their butt cracks, nearly. Everyone's been to a party like that.

But an island pork party? In the middle of summer? Now that's different. That's like the smart girl with the bowler hat and thrift shop suspenders who just looks weird, but then she opens her mouth and you realize she's sassy and has read thousands of books and she doesn't give a hot damn whether you like her or not. At least, not that she thinks is obvious.

I have no idea where that came from. But I'm going to leave it.

We invited all of our very best friends by email, now that Twitter is just so very public. We also invited them to bring food. Specifically, a dish with pork of some sort in it.



You see, we have to do this. We write a plog (pork blog), in which the focus is, ineffably, pork. There's just no way around it. How can we not?

The first part of the party was like a summer idyll. We gathered in the garden, conversation and funny stories tumbling from our mouths as a gaggle of little ones romped among the myriad of produce burgeoning from the garden, mouths and fingers stained with strawberries, swinging like miniature chimpanzees from the tree swing, my camera shutter clacking away, in homage to the perfection of the day.

And then? Then we could wait no longer. We moved, en masse, following our tongues, towards the house, dishes of pork beckoning with their smells, saliva welling up in the gutters of our mouths as we anticipated the chews that lay ahead.

Oh god.

Oh god god god.


There was roast pork with pan drippings.

And pork roast with pork drippings.

Ham with ham gravy flavored with bacon.

Bacon wrapped with ham.


Grilled ham and cheese sandwiches with pork belly and ham.

Pork kabobs with pork belly fat garnish.


Pork sausage and bacon on spaghetti (gluten-free, of course).

Berry pie with bacon bits and a lard crust.

Fudge made with bacon fat and crumbled bacon on top.

Bacon lemonade.


And head cheese.


Oh, the head cheese.

We had brought a whole, severed pig head back from the bucolic island pig farm we visited the week before. I was a vegetarian for ten years.


The head looked fake, grinning out the window at the Buddha on the porch. Really, almost winking at the Buddha. PapaChef was itching to get at it, like a racehorse chomping at the bit to take off, soaring through blue, but I beseeched him to wait, his fingers twitching, bouncing on the balls of his feet, while I snapped a few photos. It's my way of honoring the pig head, of knowing where it came from, before my teeth crash it against my tongue, the flavors mingling and sliding down my throat, making me ache for more.


I was a vegetarian for ten years. Even though I've eaten the equivalent of countless pigs since giving up my meatless way of life years ago, I still wasn't sure I could say YES to head cheese. After all, it is the head of a pig, cooked for hours and hours until the flesh falls away from the bone and the gelatin and fat are rendered from the skin, meat, muscle and bone. It isn't pretty, especially when the snout is sticking out of the pot, as if to sniff the aroma of its own cooking.

Yes.

However, PapaChef convinced me, it was worth a taste.

Oh my.

Oh my, again.

The succulent bits of meat nestled with the jelly that jiggled joyously as we danced, laughingly, to the table with our plates, and the pickled vegetables, flavors tumbled together, yet melded harmoniously into a whole. It slid across my tongue and down my throat, effortlessly. Oh, the flavor of it.

Yes, please.

Seconds, please.

And thirds. Please.

Even if you don't write a plog, you should have a pork party, and you should make head cheese. Everyone should have a pork party at least once, this summer. Think of eleven dishes containing pork or a pork product, in one meal! What could possibly elicit bigger grins than that. PapaChef giggled when he asked me the same thing, spontaneously.

Oh god.



If you are up for an afternoon of yes-based laughter, gluten-free cooking, and South Park banter, sign up for our $85-per-head cooking class this Sunday afternoon. It's so much better than watching Jacques Pepin show you how to cook for free on Youtube. He doesn't make South Park jokes, for one thing. Everyone should say yes to us.

Speaking of cooking classes, we are wondering if any of you would be willing to pay us money to do online cooking classes? Also, does anyone know how to get the sound synched up with the visual on a video? And if anyone out there has a spare tripod, we'd be absolutely chuffed if you would send it to us.

yes,
Shasta