St. Valentine's Day Massacre

It was left at a friend's doorstep with a note. It was too heavy and cumbersome for one person to move it, requiring it to be opened where it lay. A chill caught the air as its contents were revealed. A blood bath of liquescent ice surrounded the intact but mortally wounded victim. Boar. The other other white meat.

Meat that would need to be refrigerated. But first would have to be hacked into pieces that could fit into a refrigerator. So they took it to the only place in town they could think of well equipped to handle the job. A place where it not being halal was not a problem. The pork lady. Though she had the tool, apparently there are health codes that restrict her from cutting up a wild boar of unknown origins. But yet there aren't health codes that prevent one from selling and eating a fly ridden goat head that hangs outside all day in the August heat.

It's been on ice for two days. Something must be done. And fast. But who? Who would have the tools to do such a job? The gardener. I didn't ask how it was done. Although I imagine a hoe was involved. But I dare not ask. All I know is I wasn't an accessory in the killing. Or the hacking. But, I got my piece.



I took the ribs out of the lightly scented lavender-vanilla garbage bag that I smuggled it in. And froze it in. And thawed it in. I'm sure its subtle infusion will add a complex bouquet to the palette. But first, I have to fit the ribs in the two huge pots of boiling water. Except, I couldn't bring myself to fissure the ribs apart. It was too brutal. I had to wait for the big fella to come home to finish the job.



Then we were cooking with gas. Until we weren't. The propane had run dry and the oven and stove weren't working. It was already late and the stores were closed. The whole gang was coming over the next day. And they had expectations. I didn't want to disappoint. I wasn't sure what the consequences would be. I needed the oven to make the pulled pork, because all the grills would be taken with the ribs, potatoes and caramelized onions. The guys said they'd come the next morning with the canisters. I've been in this racket far too long to assume they would arrive on time and that I wouldn't need bribe money.

But I was wrong on both accounts. I must be jaded from doing two years hard time in Morocco.

The propane guys hooked us up and were on the straight and narrow. The next day went off without a hitch. The Greens, our partners in crime, came over with more meat of unknown origins ready for the grill. The outfit was clean and streamlined. We cooked and brutally pulled the pork. We thought of everything. Like we had chicken for the faint of heart who may be disgusted by eating free boar meat left at someone's doorstep, mercilessly hacked up with a garden hoe and stored in a vanilla-lavender garbage bag.

With everything going according to plan, all that was left to do was disgrace the chicken by inserting beer cans up it's cavity. But first, someone must drink the beer. It was a bitter English beer. If you don't like the beer, mister, you don't have to pay for it.



And someone must do the dirty work and desecrate the chicken with butter, paprika, garlic salt and their own two hands.



Before throwing it on the flames.



And then it was time to finish off the ribs.



The haunting legacy of that body bag size cooler we won't soon forget. Even though all that's left of the carnage is the skeletal remains, it's deliciousness lives on in infamy.




You can read about the first time we pigged out on boar here