To Roast a Pig: Reflections at 50
"All you need is love.
But a little [pork] doesn’t hurt.”
--After
Charles Shultz
Because I am a Taurus and prone
to culinary extravagance—I’ll spend my last $100 buying a free-range veal roast
for a dinner party; I pick fresh sea scallops for ceviche instead of picking up
salsa and chips—when I turned fifty this spring in Paris, it wasn’t enough to
celebrate with a handful of girlfriends, my mouth wide open to pate de maison, pastel plates of macaron, and many coups de champagne for a few days in the City of Light.
Cochinita Pibil from the pit |
No, what I required was a
production, something Cecil B. DeMille in scope. For fifty, I needed an epic
undertaking, a quest, the holy grail of culinary events.
So I roasted a whole pig.
What ensued was two weeks of
party planning and preparation, including designating and digging the pit away
from pine trees and wildflowers, searching for enough bricks to line it,
finding scrap metal to cover it, and calculating its size if I needed an 8 inch
buffer around and over pans I hadn’t yet acquired.
None of these things was
fun.
“Why do you do this to
yourself?” My keep-it-simple boyfriend
asked. I tried to explain the pleasure pain principle
of party planning.
“It’s an edge,” I said,
shrugging.
Rick Bayless-inspired pit |
But about a week into the
preparation, I was miserable. I kept
approximating different dimensions each time I measured the pit, and I had
no idea how many bricks I’d need. I hurt
my back shoveling gravel the first day and had to flesh out the rest of the pit
with a spade and a garden claw. The
roasting pans had to be collected from four different households in Boulder County. And turns out, big sheets of scrap metal are
rarities. Two days before roasting was to commence, I still hadn’t gotten
enough solid bricks and the metal I picked up might, I was told, “off gas” when
heated. I was an angry wreck. But it was too late to pull out. The pig had been ordered and paid for.
Why, indeed.
This is not the point in the
story where I tell you it all ended well (it did) and that I am glad that I did
it (I’m not), shoveling out a tale of gastronomic triumph over adversity. Instead, it’s the point where I reflect, at
fifty, on my need to do such things.
Pit roasting make the pig juicy, juicy! |
Over my life I have cultivated a
competence that is, well, intimidating. Think Sisyphus forever rolling his rock: I live alone in a cabin heated by a wood
stove at a very high altitude in a remote party of Boulder County and my
boyfriend lives a hardly-available-at-the-spur-of- the-moment 55 miles away. I have juggled jobs, an ailing pet, a parent
in hospice for 18 months and counting, and I manage to pitch in for my
professional and artistic communites and still entertain friends on a regular
basis. I’ve let everyone (including
myself) think I’m unsinkable, and apparently, I take pleasure in pulling off
the impossible. Recently, I was rejected
for a grant for a project in which I planned to install 6 poetry stations in my
mountain community’s park, coordinating artists, poets, college students, and
community members to design and implement the project over 9 months. The grant committee’s objection? I couldn’t do it all by myself. Ha.
What made this
party-cum-Sisyphean rock different has to do with the very fact of fifty. For over half my life, I have been invested
in being in charge and in proving myself both in and out of the kitchen in the
most dramatic ways. But, with over half
the water of my life under the bridge, this M.O. seems frankly tired.
I’m tired.
In choosing to roast a pig, I
wanted a symbol of the big, rich life I’ve lived—and I got it-- but I also got
a reminder that I repeatedly pick huge rocks to shove up hill. It’s not the act that was wrong; it was the
intention. Looking back, I might have
felt more “celebrated” if I gone on a yoga retreat.
I’m not the first to say that
food is love, but it took a 60 pound swine buried in my yard to get me to see
the person I’ve been trying to love all these years is me. In the most circuitous way. Contrary to what I’ve believed, I don’t have to do anything to deserve it.
The chochinita pibil falling off the bone |
A wise woman once told me, in
response to an image I’d conjured of life as a rushing river and me rooted
firmly on a rock amidst the turmoil, that I “needed to learn to surf.” That means learning to let go and breath in.
For the next half of my life, that’s
just what I’m going to do. There is a
saying that “one does not feed a swine for its own sake,” but in remembering to
put myself and the pleasure of cooking first, I plan to fatten and celebrate that pig
as a true thing of beauty.
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