On Pork

I have been required to write an essay on the subject of pork in order to gain entry to the mysterious and exclusive Pork Club presided over by the eminent Bartek. Should my essay be deemed acceptable, I will be charged the very reasonable membership fee of one key lime pie.

I am a relative newcomer to the altar of pork. This isn’t to say I haven’t always liked pork—bacon was the last meat I enjoyed before commiting to eight years of vegetarianism, during which I often tried to emulate my enjoyment with dishes like vegetarian sweet and sour “pork,” and since my return to the world of meats I have oft enjoyed various parts of the pig. However, I hadn’t become a worshipper until the past few years, perhaps just because I hadn’t been exposed to any truly transcendental pork.

I can’t say what is was in particular that first caused my conversion, but in all likelihood it was applewood smoked bacon. Supermarket bacon has absolutely nothing on this stuff. It is thicker, far more flavourful, sweet and smoky, and leaves your house smelling deliciously of applewood all day long. Unfortunately, this delicacy is not (yet) available in Canada, but it is of such a quality that I would gladly drive the two and a half hours to Burlington, VT, to procure a pound or two. At first I liked the idea of making a BLT out of it, but have found that, since my supply tends to be so limited, I prefer to enjoy it unadulterated, perhaps with a side of pancakes, but alone will do just fine, too. Im fact, I have become such a champion of one Vermont brand in particular that recently a friend brought me his last three slices, raw and wrapped in tinfoil, to a book reading we were both attending.

My conversion to ham-lover occured much more recently. I had always been averse to the insipid pink slabs offered on Easter Sunday and tried to avoid it at all costs. Now, though, I can’t tell you what lengths I wouldn’t go to for Col. Bill Newsom’s Aged Kentucky Country Ham. It is salty-sweet-smoky-tender and absolutely perfect. Unfortunately, the only place I know to get it is at egg, the fantastic Williamsburg breakfast joint, where one is always faced with the dilemma of whether to order the ham or the candied Dines’ Farm bacon. Fortunately, both can be had as sides.

But how often can I make trips to Vermont or New York City? Not often enough, to be sure. And though I love to cook, I am much more a baker, and my years of vegetarianism left me rather clueless when it comes to cooking meat. I have never roasted a chicken or broiled a steak. But as of this summer, I do make a killer rack of barbeque ribs. It took an experiment or two and the melding of a few recipes to perfect, but success was eventually mine. There was most notably one blunder, that being my purchase of six lbs. of smoked pork ribs resulting from a combination of my meat-purchasing ignorance and the inability of me and my Hungarian butcher to properly communicate. Thankfully, my father conceded to take the smoked ribs off my hands and taught me to transform them into a delicious baked bean dish, and in the meantime I elsewhere bought my proper fresh ribs in time for my dinner party. But ribs are not to be confined to special occasions or even the summertime—a barbeque is not even a strict requirement and these could (and likely should) be enjoyed even in the depths of winter. (And if one had happened to can some peach pie filling earlier in the year, a real feast might be had—if one had happened to do so.)

Since my rib-induced confidence boost, I have made a few more forays into pork cookery, poking around Porc Meilleur looking for chunks that appear manageable. They provide me with the lardons necessary for the transcedental penne with lardons and crème fraîche I was introduced to in Paris.

My weakness for novelty tends to work very well with my love of pork. I recently purchased Mo’s Bacon Bar from Vosges Haut-Chocolat in Manhattan. The bar, composed of bits of applewood-smoked bacon and Alder-smoked salt in milk chocolate, was better than my attempt at bacon-peanut butter truffles a few years ago, but I ultimately believe chocolate and pork are best enjoyed, if not seperately, at least alongside one another.

And so I stand, a worshipper but still a neophyte, doubtless in need of initiation into the deeper depths of pork that only membership to an exclusive club could possibly afford me. Besides which, I miss when I lived with Bartek and he would occasionally make grilled pork chops covered in melted cheese.

As final criteria for my candidacy, I would like to mention that I have also been up to my elbows in ground pork shoulder learning to make homemade sausages, but that is a story for another day…