The March of the Porchetta

It’s a process. And it takes almost as long as producing one new penguin.

My oven was on for hours and hours and hours. Filled the house with a cozy, herbalicious scent. It was worth it. And the house didn’t burn down.

The last stove…well, porchetta probably would not have cut the mustard. The fire department guys had been by at least twice with their caution tape and slathered it liberally across the front of the oven door. As they rode off happily in the hook-n-ladder I peeled and crumpled the tape and turned the gas back on at the wall. Long as a burner was flaming, the leak would be absorbed. That’s how I figured it. Very, very childproof, seeing as you needed a bit of muscle power to twist that gas cut-off valve.

Read all about how to do it up here:

Put A Little Italy in Your Pork Roast

You wouldn’t think that bbq sauce would be part of the manifesto, but it is. Interesting.

I took this picture and it’s not too bad, actually. The light in my kitchen is so nice – surroundsound light. 

When I ascend to the throne, Virgin Proclamation: Get Rid of Those Stupid Plastic Boxes for Herbs! Long, graceful stalks contorted to fit a teensy, see-through case. All busted up and cracked in pieces. Don’t like it and it seems unnecessarily cruel.

Renee Comet took this beautiful picture and the one below, too. She has the huge advantage of not depending on luck (like me).

This is what you do to embed the pork shoulder with deep and abiding fla-vah. Score it. More surface for enhancement, embellishment, taste-adornment. Then cook it. Slowly. For ages.

And whaddya get? A sandwich. It’s a journey.