Pork: A Cautionary Tale

by Marinka on February 24, 2009

So I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I’m considering becoming a born again televangelist, but Jewish. Because God spoke to me very clearly recently and reminded me that the laws of kashrut (you know, only eat cud chewing animals with split hooves) exist for a reason and the reason is that my life will be a fucking hell if I don’t obey.

And it makes sense. Read your Bible, people. I mean, it says “Thou shalt not kill” (What’s with that typo in “shall”, btw? You’d think they’d correct it before the Second Coming) and if you happen to kill someone, the police are going to show up and now you’re in a heap of trouble. If you’d just followed the Bible, this wouldn’t have happened.

Same with pork. It’s right there, page whatever, but I had to take matters into my own hands. I made a pork loin.

Last week, as I was returning from a glamorous fashion event at Vivienne Tam‘s, papa called me. He had babysat my kids that night and he had alarming news. “I saw the leftover pork roast in your fridge,” he said. “I wanted to take pork home, but I forgot. I’ll come on Saturday to get pork. Your kids need more discipline. Good night.”

I was still on a champagne-sponsored high, so I thought nothing of it. Pork, shmork.

The next morning, I woke up in a state of alarm. My father is going to drive to my apartment for leftover pork? Isn’t that like a warning sign of insanity? Because mama and I work a few blocks from each other, I called her.

“Listen,” I told her. “Papa wants the pork.”

“What does he want with the pork?”

“I do not know what he wants with the pork, but with the pork he wants. I will bring it to your office.”

It was now Mama’s turn to become alarmed: “Do not bring the pork to my office. Just put it in the freezer, it’ll keep.”

At that very moment, papa called me on the other line.

(Ok, I know that it seems very suspicious that papa called just as I was talking to mama, but that’s because you understand absolutely nothing. First of all, my family calls each other nonstop all the time, so the chances of getting a call at the same time from each of my parents is high. Second of all, if I’m going to lie about anything on this blog, it’s not going to be about something lameass like my parents calling me at the same time because (sub-a) it does not advance the story at all and (sub-b) it’s so boring, who the hell cares? And third of all, you have some nerve accusing me of lying. If I had any energy at all, I’d be totally offended.)

So papa calls and says, “I’m not going to pick up the pork roast on Saturday, put it in the freezer and I’ll get it next Wednesday.”

By now I’ve had more conversations about the pork roast in the last 12 hours than anyone else, except some kind of a pork fetishist, and I don’t want to have any more for a while. So of course I totally forget to put the pork in the freezer, because, hell0, that’s something that I can next week, a day before he is supposed to come over.

So, Thursday passes and so does Friday, and I’m enjoying a pork-free life and on Saturday morning, I get up with plans to get bagels for breakfast and freeze the pork. The bagel acquisition goes well, as Husbandrinka is dispatched to pick them up and I go to commence the pork freezerization and see that it is missing. I am in full-fledged panic. Because either Husbandrinka ate the pork or the woman who cleans the refrigerator cleaned the refrigerator and threw out the pork.

I breathe into an emotional paper bag and quiz Husbandrinka, “Did you eat the pork?” And he says, “What pork?” Because in the last few days he’s been spared any and all pork discussions, but that is about to change dramatically.
“The leftover pork in the fridge,” I tell him, helpfully distinguishing it from the pork tartare in the conservatory.
“Why would I eat that pork? It’s like two weeks old and rancid.”
“Look,” I go into speed talking mode. “Papa wanted that pork and I was supposed to freeze it for him but Lydia threw it out, so our official story is that you ate it, ok?”
I know that he thinks that we are all out of our minds, just like the time he found a pot of mashed potatoes under his pillow because my mother put it there one day to keep it warm. The mashed potatoes, not the pillow. How was she supposed to know that he’d want to take a nap that afternoon?

“Why does your father want the rancid pork?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s rancid.”
“Why do I have to say that I ate it?”
“Because otherwise he’ll know that I didn’t put it in the freezer and it got thrown out and I don’t want to ring the alarm or anything, but he seems a little obsessed with it. Just play along, ok?”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“So, how was it?” I test him.
“How was what?”
“No, say ‘a little tough but pretty good’. That’ll sound natural.”
“This isn’t normal behavior,” he says.
“Ok, then just say ‘fine’.”
Why did you eat my pork? I am speaking as papa now, you understand.”
“Your father will not ask me that.”
“We must go over all scenarios.”

You see what I’m working with here? I don’t understand how I could have married someone who is such a lousy liar/is unwilling to reherse in order to make the lies sound more natural. What kind of person doesn’t want that kind of personal growth?

So I did what any normal person would do. I made another pork roast. And tonight, I will be freezing the leftovers.

Thank goodness that sanity has prevailed.

One year ago ...

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