I marinated a pork butt last night. Food for the big game today. Food to celebrate Arizona winning the Super Bowl. The first thing I did when I got up this morning was to go to the fridge in the garage and get my lovely piece of pork. Wrapped up in plastic wrap with all the good spicy goodness soaked in. It was ready for the oven.
It was going for the 45 minute, 500 degree pre-roast. Mr. Wii and I settled in our chairs, Sunday paper in hand, fresh coffee brewed, English muffins toasted. The Sunday morning ritual. Then, we heard this “sound”. We each peeked over our paper looking at each other. Neither of us could identify the sound, so we went back to the paper. It’s winter, the house creaks and snaps. We have two cats who knock things over and open closet doors. Odd noises are more the norm than the exception at this house.
About 40 minutes into the pre-roast, smoke starts billowing out of the stove. Not being a stranger to a billowing stove, I went in to check. I pulled the baking dish out and noticed something very strange…part of the baking dish was missing. My twentysomething pyrex baking dish had lost almost a quarter of itself. When the corner blew off the pan (the “sound” we heard earlier) the juices dripped to the bottom of the oven, creating yet another mess in my oven. $% &!
I shut the oven off, pulled out the racks, turned on the attic fan, turned off the furnace, opened the slider, put on a sweatshirt, and drank coffee. After the oven had cooled off, Mr. Wii and I got the oven scraped clean. We turned off the attic fan, cranked up the heat, and I proceeded on with the recipe. What really irritated me was not the broken baking dish, nor the mess. I was lamenting over the loss of the baked on goodies that give the most flavor to the sauces made from roasted meats. Those goodies are called fond and I am quite fond of fond. It could not be safely salvaged from the bottom of the dangerous pan. $%&!
The meat was transferred to a pristine seventysomething baking pan for the remainder of the cooking process. I went back to finish reading the paper. The coffee was cold, the paper was blown around the sitting room, and the house stunk. It was deja vu all over again. Sunday morning had lost its allure. $%&!
I was going to write the blog about The Cuz’s recipe and show these really great pictures. I was going to tell you about the addendum to my family cookbook which would include this great recipe. I was going to have pictures of me grinding spices, applying the dry rub, and the wrapping and the preparation of the hallowed piece of meat for the oven. It ain’t happening. My enthusiasm has been replaced by the vision of pork carbon, blasted by 500 degrees on the bottom of my oven. Enthusiasm replaced by the lingering smell of a burnt carcass permeating my home. My house is only five years old and it smells like an eightysomething smokehouse and barbecue joint. Not quite the image I was going for when I decorated my lovely home. May I curse again? Of course. $%&!
I wish I were playing football today. I have billowing smokes of anger ready to be unleashed on a football field. I could be the twelfth team mate for the Cardinals. Wait a minute, I’m a fiftysomething grandmother of four. I need to compose myself. I can’t even take a deep breath. If I do, pork carbon will burn my nostrils. As soon as it is noon somewhere, I am going to have a martini and finish the Sunday paper. I should be about as tender and yielding, as the pork butt, in three hours.