Once the brine was made, Adam took out a comically large syringe, filled it with the brine, and began the painstaking process of injecting the carcass wherever bone met flesh. This took a while but he assured me it was worth it. We stuffed the animal into a huge plastic cooler bought specifically for this occasion; weighed down the top with heavy rocks to deter any marauding raccoons, of which there were many; and headed inside for drinks and dinner. I remember sipping glasses of a new liquor that Adam had just brought to market, called Moonshine, which was a refined version of, well… moonshine. And that’s about all I remember of that night.
The next morning we wheeled the Caja China onto the patio, and as it was beginning to rain, I drove to the hardware store to buy a pop-up shelter to shield the coals, which would sit exposed in the tray on top of the pig, cooking it from the top down. The shelter would also cover the paella I planned on making on my outdoor paella maker. In Westchester then, and now in London, there are two outdoor cooking options that I’ve convinced myself I can’t live without. One is a pizza oven and the other is a paella maker, because I adore pizza and I’m in love with paella. The pizza oven is self-explanatory, but the paella maker consists of a huge iron pan that rests atop a round stand in which sit two perforated rings that are connected to a propane gas tank. Making paella outdoors—particularly on this contraption—for guests is one of my greatest joys. It takes a long time and can be a bit tricky, but in the end, no matter what the result, it is worth it if only for the conversation it engenders. The great thing about this Spanish contrivance is that, if one has the time and inclination, one can dispense with the rings of flame and make a wood fire in the stand, place the pan on top, and cook away. Ultimately this is the way it should be made, because the smoke from the fire works its way into the paella, bringing to it new depth. The best paella I’ve ever made was in a roasting pan over a small outdoor fireplace at my in-laws’ house in Portugal, proving that I don’t really need to be outfitted with my favorite piece of cooking kit, but I prefer to believe it had more to do with the seafood, wood, and ocean breezes of the Algarve than the roasting pan.
I returned from the hardware store to find Adam and my son Nicolo tying long branches of rosemary, thyme, and parsley onto the end of a broken broom handle. Adam planned to use this to baste the beast. We left Nicolo to finish the rustic baster while Adam and I erected the pop-up shelter, which ruined the aesthetics of the whole patio for me. I like my surroundings, even at a pig roast, to have a suggestion of elegance, and blue nylon pop-up shelters suggest anything but. However, I let it go. This time. We secured the pig tightly between two racks provided with the Caja China, hauled it into the box, put the top on, scattered the coals, and lit it up. It would now cook from the top down for about four hours. This method of cooking ensures that not only will the meat be incredibly moist and its fat almost melted throughout, but a crusty “crackling” will be created. This method of cooking is ancient but the invention of the box is recent.
A Cuban immigrant to Florida remembered pig being cooked in a box in this manner by descendants of Chinese immigrants in Cuba, and he and his son built a prototype in 1985. Having achieved the desired result as described above when cooking the pig, they began to manufacture them and still have a very successful business to this day. I had to abandon my Caja China in the US when I moved to London, but I am tempted to buy another, because the pork that emerged from that odd, hot box was extraordinary. However, given the lack of storage space in my house, I may just have to employ it as a cot for our youngest when it’s not in use.
Anyway, once the pig was in, I set up the paella maker, Adam returned to the kitchen to prepare the largest batch of chimichurri sauce ever made on the New York–Connecticut border, Fee and Fleur set the table, and the kids shucked acres of corn. Were it not for the cheap and tawdry nylon pop-up shelter, I would have been in heaven.
The Chimichurri of Perry Lang
— MAKES ENOUGH FOR ONE 16-OUNCE PIECE OF MEAT —
（FOR MORE, INCREASE THE QUANTITIES OF THE INGREDIENTS ACCORDINGLY）
2 garlic cloves
1 jalape?o （or spicier pepper; optional）
10 sprigs oregano
10 sprigs parsley
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
3 tablespoons olive oil
? teaspoon salt
? teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Peel the garlic cloves. Smash on a cutting board with the broad side of a chef’s knife. Mince.
Top and deseed the jalape?o pepper, if using. Dice on the same cutting board and pile on top of the garlic.