Last week on Thanksgiving we were at a wedding. My dear co-worker A married his sweet lady, Miss Mouse, and we ate scrumptious food and drank wine at a bistro downtown. Me and SA, that is. My parents and our children stayed at our house and had peanut butter sandwiches.
Having already established today as BeerMakingSaturday, and having fallen madly in love with the idea of pulled pork sandwiches thanks to a comment from mereseydotes yesterday morning, we did an impromptu family holiday today. My dad and SA spent the morning making beer. My mom and Trombone left her house and took many levels of public transit to arrive at our house at noon. I cooked 2.5 kg of pork butt at 300C for 6 hours. And took Fresco to Superstore, just the two of us.
Yesterday’s pulled pork recipe reminded me of one I’d heard about months ago. Friends of my parents (who are also parents of my friends) swore by a pulled pork recipe by Karen Barnaby, a local chef. It’s the same basic idea as Martha’s, with an extra saucing step and some slightly different ingredients. Since it was Saturday and we were staying in all day, I did it the Chef Barnaby way for this first go-round, with delicious results and lots of leftovers.
It was a very busy, very good day. Through it all I thought, oh, how sweet this life is. How I love it. I took Fresco up to bed, listening as I climbed the stairs to my family playing with Trombone’s toy train, washing dishes and chatting. During our nightly bedtime ritual, Fresco tried to scale me like a mountain, sucked vigorously on my chin, pinched my arm enough to leave a bruise and squealed his terrible squeals. I knew something had righted itself because tonight when I sat in the rocking chair and closed my eyes, I saw everywhere blessing instead of burden.
Was it the waning moon? The trip to Superstore? 10 minutes with my head above water? Magic pork? Or all things shall pass?