Adventures with Pork

I've never bought one of these things before, but I was feeling cocky. . .It's a bone-in picnic roast.  Cooking it was not a picnic.

If I hadn't consulted Julia, it probably would have been fine.  First off she told me, "The flavors of a marinade will penetrate pork more thoroughly if the meat is boned."

"Oh, great," I muttered.  I could foresee trouble as my butcher skills are practically non-existent.  I would have to find a recipe that didn't require marinating.

I pushed onward.  Julia described the different pork cuts.  Mine was next to last in the long list.  I read,

 "Picnic Shoulder or Shoulder Arm--No French equivalent."

  Ouch!  What an insult!

She went on to explain "part of it is palette; part is jambonneau."

I don't know what those words mean, but apparently my pork shoulder is some kind of half-breed, not worthy of a French equivalent.  My heart was sinking.  Then Julia moved in for the kill:

"This is lean meat and should be boned," 

How did she know I was looking for ways to get out of shoulder surgery? Drat and double drat!   Heaving a sigh, I resigned myself to the grisly ordeal.

Slowly, I inserted my knife into the meat alongside the bone and started working my way around it.  I pushed and sawed and hacked my way through until I conquered it at last.  It took me about ten minutes.

  

My poor roast certainly wasn't going to be featured in Bon Appetit.

Why butchers wear aprons.

Oh, well.  I proceeded to make up the marinade that Julia said was her favorite.  It was really a dry rub.  I tried grinding it with a mortar and pestle.  After three minutes of totally wasted effort, I got out the little electric spice mill.  Did you know that if you get in a hurry and take the lid off before the blade is completely done spinning,  you will be enveloped in a spice cloud, which will make you sneeze. (Yes, peppercorns.) Then the cloud rains on your countertop, appliances, and floor.

   Once I had the spice mixture rubbed in, I went to get my favorite huge yellow Tupperware bowl with the plastic lid.  I was going to put the roast in there and leave it in the refrigerator overnight.  I peered into the cabinet and found the bowl but no lid.  I got down on my hands and knees and rifled through the contents of the cabinet.  Still no lid.  

All of a sudden, I remembered where I had seen it last.  It was not the kitchen.

I went out to the garage and peered into the cat food can.

No lid.

I lifted out the bag of cat food.

No lid.

I poked all around the vicinity.

No lid.

Baffled, I went back to the kitchen.  While at the sink washing my hands, I spotted something out of the corner of my left eye.  No, it wasn't.  It couldn't be.  

It was. 

I must have brought it in recently to wash?  I don't remember.

At last I got the roast installed in the refrigerator.  Oh, the relief!  It was like I used to feel when Nathaniel was a toddler and I finally got him to bed for the night.

Thankfully, the rest of the preparation went smoothly, and I was pleased with the final result.