So Many Pigs, So Little Time

The tail-end of the book-writing process has hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m deep into my manifesto on pork, half-submerged into my bit on charcuterie, and just beginning my entire foray into poultry. All at once. Meanwhile, this girl has 1.5 pigs to break down and fully cure, quick as she can. For those I know in the commercial world, this may seem laughable, but for a broad with a kitchen the size of a closet, another job, single-mothering two raucous boys, and a man-friend who might possibly lose it if I don’t stop talking about meat, trust me: It’s a lot of pork. Tomorrow? Playdates for the boys with our little badass neighbor girl, while mom produces porchetta, lomo, tasso, three sausages, bacon, ribs of all varieties for recipe test, and a fully rubbed and ready-to-smoke picnic. Oh, and a few cocktails if the weather is nice. Fried pig tail for lunch, pork banh mis for dinner or a midnight snack. Let me be perfectly clear: I love my life.

Here’fridges my fridge today. A welcome sight. I’ve been challenging myself recently to listen, and remain silent, throughout a handsome load of BS pyschology from some past demons. Today, I decided that’s enough of that. I’m only feeding hope, here. And if that comes in the shape of a burgeoning to-do list, written in grease pencil on the skin of a berkshire belly, so be it.

And as I come around to the to the end of this book project, I just have to say one thing: I hope you’ll read the whole thing. I hope you’ll eat the whole animal, and read the whole book. Both are worthy, and flavorful, and full of passion and purpose.

Maintain Revolution, Pain in Tow

There is pain that maybe you can never get away from. That sits, perhaps, chubby and soft on a distant limb, chirping so persistently that you forget it is there. Forget that it has a place, in a scheme that is larger than you. Forget, eventually, to hear its singing. Perhaps the biggest mistake is thinking you’ve got it figured in. Or that it’s just a birdie. Chances are, you don’t, and it isn’t.  Continue reading

Lucky. Lucky. Lucky

This paper clip is the very last thing left from anything left from the mess of this last year, which was the last year of my marriage. I took a picture of it, in the odd, filtered light of my attorney’s office, which is in an old Victorian house in the section just outside of downtown Asheville where you go to get help with things. There are attorneys to help you with your legal nightmares, accountants to help with your financial questions, and shrinks to help you with the questions you ask yourself before falling asleep at night. My attorney is a nice man. He’s a very intense guy. Continue reading