At that very moment, the school bus deposited all three children at the end of the drive, and across the lawn they came a-runnin’ with the added burst of giddy energy that all kids have on Friday afternoons.
“Hey, guys, come and see what we got!” I shouted.
“Is it the PIG??!!!” they screamed.
“Yes!”
They scurried up the patio steps, hurled their backpacks to the ground, and looked at the pig quizzically.
“Where’s the head?” they asked.
“We had to cut it off because it didn’t fit on the barbecue.”
“Awwwww,” they moaned. “Why didn’t you wait for us!?”
Felicity and I looked at each other.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think—”
“We’ll get another pig someday and then you can watch us cut its head off,” said Felicity ever so sweetly, sounding like a Hollywood serial killer.
They were not convinced.
“Where is it?” they asked.
“Right here,” I said, taking it down from the counter for them to ogle.
“Wow!”
They began to poke and prod it with their little digits, examining its mouth and eyes like frustrated, clumsy veterinarians.
“What’re you gonna do with it?”
“Well, I was actually going to just try slow-roasting it in the pizza oven.”
“Ohhhhh, yeah. Wow…，” they said, as though they were going to eat it, which I knew they wouldn’t. They only craved the soft, juicy white meat of the carcass and the crunch of the cracklings.
After they spent a bit more time looking at the head and making preadolescent comments about the fact that the rotisserie spit is shoved unkindly up the pig’s rectum, we shooed them inside to wash their hands and made the opposite of slow-roasted pig’s head, their usual afternoon snack of Ritz crackers slathered with peanut butter.
The next day we cooked the pig as planned, but unfortunately it was too heavy for the rotisserie, which ended up breaking halfway through. My friend Oliver Platt—a great foodie—and I took turns spinning the thing by hand every few minutes. Needless to say the pig was not a great success, and neither was my attempt at slow-roasting the head. Consumed with the task of overseeing the carcass, I neglected the head completely, only remembering it later that afternoon. Opening the pizza oven, I was confronted with a sight from a horror film that I won’t describe here. Suffice it to say, I don’t like horror films.
* * *
The second time we tried to cook a whole pig—the pig redux—we were lucky enough to have a professional on hand to help us, by the name of Adam Perry Lang. Adam is a chef and restaurateur who can cook anything brilliantly but whose primary passion and expertise is meat. He was co-owner of a restaurant with Jamie Oliver called Barbecoa in London, connected to a butcher shop that sold some of the best beef, fowl, and game in the city. （Sadly both are now defunct.） Adam left London seven years ago to return to the US and now owns APL in Los Angeles with his friend the food fanatic and all-around mensch Jimmy Kimmel. It was these two fellows and their wives who sent Felicity and me a Caja China as an engagement present. I had no idea what a Caja China was, although once confronted with it I realized I had indeed seen one before.
A Caja China is basically a rectangular metal box set into an aluminum and plywood frame on wheels. The box is large enough to fit a side of beef, a huge amount of ribs, or probably about twenty chickens. But most important, an enormous pig. Adam and his then-wife, Fleur, were visiting family in New York and came up to stay for the weekend. He told us that they wanted to put the Caja China to good use by roasting a whole pig. He gave us a list of ingredients to buy and said he would procure the pig. Say the word “pig,” and Felicity and I hear the word “party.” So we threw one.
The day before the party, Adam and Fleur arrived, followed soon afterward by the pig, all seventy pounds of it. Adam and I carried it out to the patio and placed it on a picnic table covered with a vinyl tablecloth. Here, he deftly sliced the tenderloins from the carcass, as they are too delicate and lean to be cooked in this way, and set them aside, and then we headed inside to make the brine.
The Brine of Adam
In a large container, combine:
8 cups water
? cup sea or kosher salt
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 lemons, cut in half
3 bay leaves, preferably fresh
8 garlic cloves, crushed and peeled
2 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves
1 tablespoon black peppercorns
1 teaspoon red pepper flakes