FoodSexLit

I’ve been thinking a lot about pork, mostly because I just finished Julie Powell’s new book Cleaving: A Story of Marriage, Meat, and Obsession. 

Reactions to the memoir, Powell’s second book, have been mostly negative.  Critics talk about Powell’s unrelenting narcissism, her solipsism, her unreliability as a narrator, and her all-too-frequent references to Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I agree with all of the above, particularly about the Buffy references.  I found one, an indirect quotation from Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, particularly irksome because it was such a tease.  I thought, upon first glance, Thank God!  A real literary reference! Come to find, however, that the characters on Buffy apparently ask each other, “What’s the news on the Rialto?”; therefore, Powell and her husband ask each other that too.  ARGH.  For God’s sake, quote the PLAY, if only for variety.

More importantly, the book has an almost complete lack of structure and, towards the end, the manuscript appears to be unedited.  Read the reviews on GoodReads for more on that, because I digress.  Because all of this is not to say Cleaving isn’t worth reading: there’s some good stuff in this book.

I mean first of all, the stuff other reviewers didn’t like, like the gritty sex descriptions, are right up my alley.  Note that not all of them are effective: I think Powell wrote most of them with a lot of shame and self-judgment, which makes reading those kind of painful.  But there are some sex moments that are joyous, where she thrills to her own naughtiness, and those end up being rather fun.

There’s a chilling description of the pig slaughter (put on every fall by the CIA for its students) that manages to be both graphic and poignant— although not enough to put me off pork, as you’ll find if you read on.  And there are some great moments at Fleisher‘s, where Powell’s prose starts to get lyrical and turns to almost turns to poetry.

But my favorite part of the book is undoubtedly Powell’s descriptions of butchering obscure cuts of meat and then providing recipes for them: blood sausage, liverwurst, matambre, pig cheeks.

Yes, pig cheeks.  “Turns out,” Powell writes, that pig cheeks “are some of the most luscious things imaginable.”

As soon as I saw the recipe for pig cheeks, I knew I had to make them as soon as possible.

I don’t really know why I had such a visceral, vital reaction, but I have a suspicion.  I mean, I went through a braising phase when I had a big crush on osso bucco, but that was nothing like this feeling of absolute desire that I had to make pig cheeks as soon as possible— like, yesterday.  I don’t know anyone who makes pig cheeks— anyone who’s ever eaten them— anyone who even sells them.  I was too late for the short ribs craze, and oxtail is a British classic, but pork cheeks?  I could do it before anyone else does!  When Powell hinted that they might be hard to get (“if you can ever get your hands on them,” she writes, “you can prepare them just so) it was so on.

I mean, pig cheeks.  Motherfucker.  It was like I was BORN to braise pig cheeks.  Now I just needed to figure out where I was going to get them.

And then I knew.  I called George at Seabreeze Farm.

This post really should be called “Love Song to George of Seabreeze Farm.”  Seriously, my life has been better, culinarily speaking, since I met George at the West Seattle Farmer’s Market a few years ago.  It started when I wandered by his stall and bought some chicken stock.  If you read my first-ever blog post to this site, you already know all about my trials and tribulations when it comes to stock.  Suffice to say that stock is my nemesis.  I just can’t get it right.

George’s stock is like chicken jello.  It is seriously the most beautiful thing in the world.  And after I read Real Food: What to Eat and Why, by Nina Planck, and decided that I would henceforth drink raw milk whenever possible, I realized that George sells raw milk, raw milk cheese, and recently, to my utmost delight, raw milk butter.  It’s like I know now what heaven will be like.

George also makes wine, and I got to stomp grapes in his barn twice.  But that’s another blog entry of felonious-ness.  Or two.

And his chickens are really free-range.  I know because I walked through their paddock to get to his barn for a candle-lit wine-tasting.  Did I say that I know what heaven will be like?  It will be like one big long candle-lit wine-tasting in the barn at Seabreeze Farm on Vashon Island where I can eat the nine or so different kinds of pate they make and then go get some home-made chicken stock out of the little serve-yourself store to take home for risotto.

And of course, it’s thanks to George I have a little jar of pig lard in my fridge.

Anyway . . . I called George and he told me to e-mail his butcher, which made me feel important.  I e-mailed the butcher who e-mailed me back confirming he could and would indeed save me the pig cheeks, which doubly swelled my sense of self-importance.  (My self-importance, as you might be able to tell from other blog entries, has the ability to grow exponentially.)

So on Sunday, I picked up my pig cheeks at the Farmer’s Market.  As well as a few other items.  Most  notable is the package wrapped in brown– the one with no writing and wrapped with tape.  You want to know what’s in there?  The most decadent pork chops you’ve ever had in your life.

I bought two last week and cooked them for lunch.  (Incidentally I used the recipe for pork chops in Cleaving, knowing I had pork of a quality that would hold up to the elegant, simple recipe.)  I browned them first in raw-milk butter and olive oil, then finished them off in a 375 degree oven.

So.  Fucking.  Decadent.

I also bought a tub of ricotta fresca (made with raw milk, of course!) for midnight snacks, I plan to slather it thickly on slabs of a baguette from Bakery Nouveau, toast them, then crack fresh pepper over it.

Life is good when you have good food.

As I write this, the pork cheeks are now out of my refrigerator and simmering in my oven.  I will bring them to a Winter Solstice party at my friend Lori’s house, because if anyone will appreciate pig cheeks, it’s my friend Lori.

This blog also might be titled “Love Song to My Friend and Colleague Lori,” because Lori lives in a farmhouse in Columbia City with her partner, Becca, that is both beautiful AND completely remodeled using all salvaged material.  Lori has an herb garden that rivals the one I had when I was married AND a vegetable garden (which I’ve never been able to swing.)

Plus, Lori makes her own cheese (chevre, feta, and fromage blanc) with raw milk from her goats.  When I had dinner at her house this summer, I got to feed one of the goat babies with a bottle.  Lori also raises and butchers her own rabbits, from which she makes a gorgeous rabbit liver pate and rabbit confit.

Did I say I know what Heaven will be like?  Heaven will be sitting on Lori’s deck overlooking her garden, a glass of wine in my hand, eating a dish of strawberries she grew in her garden sprinkled with balsamic vinaigrette.

It’s dark now, and my kitchen smells like meaty red wine deliciousness.  I’m about to make polenta to serve with it.  Although if I had to do it again, I’d serve it with a risotto, because that’s the only dish sensuous enough to match the red unctuous silkiness of what is simmering in my oven.

Did I say life is good when you have good food?

Life is good when you have good friends to share your food with.