Pulled Pork (the real thing)
We’re lucky to have a friend who smokes. They are fortunately the very same friends who throw great parties, in a killer outdoor veranda – if you can call a mini-house in the back yard with a roof but no walls and lots of antique furniture and gauzy curtains and reclaimed stained glass and teeny white lightbulbs and a built-in stereo a mere veranda – if I lived there I’d have to have a party every single night of the summer, just to get maximum use out of it. And in the winter, I’d make people wear their parkas and argue that at least their mojitos are going to stay nice and icy cold.
There were 8 large dogs (among them Lou plus a Rhodesian ridgeback in our charge – Comox the ultra-buff supermodel dog, who it turns out tries to charm people into giving up their meat – a bit of a pulled-pork whore, but I can’t say I blame her) and at least twice as many kids, who comandeered the face paints to apply themselves.
W followed Tasha around, hoping she might break into song. And we came across a posted sign, imploring the safe return of a lost Webkin.
We ate pulled pork – the real stuff, from the smoker. And Taber corn, and salads. And fruit with whipped cream and two-bite brownies. And – are you ready for this? – I didn’t bring anything. (Save for a cold bottle of Prosecco.) As we were getting ready to leave, Mike presented himself at the fridge, arms extended, ready to be loaded up. Nothing.
“Nothing? For real?”
“Nothing.”
“Why not?”
“She told me not to!”
Silence.
“Wow, this is weird. Is everything OK? You didn’t make anything?”
“I didn’t make anything.”
But I ate. A lot.
One Year Ago: Food at Globalfest, and Roasted Blueberries over Lavender Ice Cream
August 21 2009 | eating out | 14 Comments »
