The Pork Roasteths

by Marinka on February 10, 2010

For those of you who demanded photographic evidence, behold! Now I'll probably be snatched up by Bon Appetit to be their food photographer. I hope you're happy.

I was alone with the pork.
(For part one of this saga, click here)

I did what any normal person would do when facing a huge piece of meat. I called my mama.
“Mama!” I said. “I’m making a 24 hour pork.”
“24 hours?” she gasped. “Oh, you mean, marinating.”
“No, mama,” I said sadly, “I mean cooking on a low heat in the oven.”
I could hear mama say something to papa and some chuckling followed in the background. No doubt they were patting each other on the back for a job well done in raising such a culinary mastermind and laughing at their good fortune.
“Your father says that after 24 hours, all you’ll have left of the roast is shit and bones,” Mama said. This is the support that I get from my own flesh and blood.

Speaking of flesh and blood, I turned my attention to the roast.

Step one, from Nigella, more or less:

Score the skin and put some crap on it and put in the oven at the highest that it will go for 30 minutes.

What the fuck does that mean?

I assume that “score the skin” is Britspeak for “rate the skin”.
I gave it an 8, because it has a healthy pink complexion, but I didn’t want to give it a 10 because like hell will I admit that swine looks better than I do. Then I put the garlic/olive oil/vinegar mixture and put it on 425. I have no idea if the oven goes higher than that, but I didn’t want to start experimenting.

Within five minutes, the smoke alarm went off. This was not good news, because I had another 23 hours, 55 minutes of cooking to go, and about 8 of those, I planned to spend sleeping. So I did the only thing that made sense. I disabled the smoke alarm.

With the whole fire safety nonsense out of the way, I could enjoy the bliss of domesticity in peace!
After a half an hour, the duration of which I spent telling the children that we may need to call the Fire Department and evacuate on a moment’s notice, I took the roast out of the oven and turned it over, per Nigella’s instructions. Then I returned it to the oven, at a more civilized 225 degrees.

And then I waited.

During this wait, my house did indeed fill with aroma. An aroma that has penetrated my nostrils and will stay with me until I am dead and cremated.
Without going into too much detail, I understand veganism.

At 10 p.m. on Saturday, I’d had it.
“Look,” I told Husbandrinka, “I can’t leave this thing on overnight.”
“Hm,” he said.
“Because what if there’s some kind of fire hazard in overnight cooking? I mean, Young Ladrinka has a friend sleeping over and I’m pretty sure killing the guest is frowned upon.”
“Okay,” said Husbandrinka.

At 10:10 pm, I turned off the roast.
At 7 am on Sunday, I woke up with twin parodoxical fears.

Fear One: I turned off the roast before it was done cooking and now the bacteria had the whole night to breed. I’m about to kill my family and guests.

Fear Two: The recipe called for a 15 pound roast, and mine was 8 pounds. Therefore, I should cook it for 12 hour. I’ve already overcooked it and ruined everything. My family and guests will mock me, which will lead to my killing them.

As you can see, this was not good news for anyone involved.

(Editor’s note: I have decided to spare you the part where I looked at the roast mid-roasting and saw some blonde hairs on top of the skin. Of course, I called Mama. “Is this news that animals have hair? What is big deal? Nicki has hair.” Yes, but Nicki isn’t in my roasting pan. And also shouldn’t those porks get a wax job or something before going to the butcher?)

The good news is that everyone enjoyed the pork and no one got sick.
The bad news is that I was a little underwhelmed. After 24 fucking hours, plus unquantifiable time spent planning, stressing and seething, I was expecting a delicacy that some mommy bloggers like to call “an orgasm in my mouth” (but without semen).

And it was just a roast.

With hair.

And a stench that no Glade can touch.

One year ago ...

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{ 29 comments… read them below or add one }

Lisa Rae @ smacksy February 10, 2010 at 12:57 pm

Taco Night. (Fewer hairs.)
Just a suggestion.


Sorry For The Convenience
February 10, 2010 at 12:57 pm

Looks a lot like a turducken in that photo.

Also, I had pictured your pork as a brunette, so the blonde hair was a bit of a shock.


February 10, 2010 at 1:02 pm

I miss the Crock Pot.


Margaret (Nanny Goats)
February 10, 2010 at 1:02 pm

Who dreamed up the 24-hour anything? We invented microwaves for a reason. Now in today’s time-strapped society, everything can be ready in 2 minutes flat.


February 10, 2010 at 1:50 pm

And that is exactly why the fuck I don’t cook.


February 10, 2010 at 2:36 pm

I had to take an Amb1en the time I made pulled pork overnight in my crockpot.


anna see February 10, 2010 at 2:40 pm

I am not willing to do anything for 24 hours…no thank you!

I understand about the smell. I am a bad sleeper. A couple times we have crock-potted something overnight and I am in misery.


joeinvegas February 10, 2010 at 2:49 pm

Next time use a crock pot. Comes out much nicer.


February 10, 2010 at 2:53 pm


A couple of weeks ago I put a pork shoulder in the smoker (don’t ask) for hours and hours. Everyone sat down with utensils in hand for the Procession of the Pulled Pork. It wasn’t cooked. Couldn’t be pulled. One, two, three hours later–still not cooked. Everyone enjoyed the cole slaw, though.

And why do they call it Pork Butt when it’s really a shoulder? Is it because of that smell that is never going to leave your house?


February 10, 2010 at 3:04 pm

I’m reminded now of why I leave the cooking to Mr. Blognut. I get hairless roast that way, and no smoke.


February 10, 2010 at 3:24 pm

ugh. i think you need to send Miss Nigella links to all your posts on Porkcalypse ’10.


February 10, 2010 at 4:14 pm

oops. should’ve written “Porkpocalypse.” i look forward to reading about your next culinary masterpiece.


Sophie February 10, 2010 at 4:06 pm

I’m laughing so hard I just blew a bubble from my sick nose. And that’s still not as TMI as knowing there was blond hair on your pork.


February 10, 2010 at 5:14 pm

“And it makes your house smell like it should” = “A stench that no Glade can touch”
nigella v. marinka


Sophie, Inzaburbs February 10, 2010 at 6:59 pm

Husband (specifically, mine):
“What’s that? Oh? It looks great! You never make me 24 Hour Pork. Whoever cooked that must be a goddess. And an angel”.
And then he carried on to his rightful place – in the kitchen.


Beth February 10, 2010 at 8:24 pm

Strangely, I’m seeing you as giving in to the urge to wear Birkenstocks and tie dye.


the mama bird diaries
February 10, 2010 at 8:50 pm

My husband loves that Nigella biatch. And he loves pork too.


February 10, 2010 at 9:09 pm

Oh, god, don’t you hate it when you spend 24 hours cooking and it turns out to be “just a roast. with hair.”? The worst. I’m sorry, my friend.


Gretchen February 10, 2010 at 10:06 pm

See, I read “score the skin” and thought “write an accompanying musical piece for the skin”. As in a film score. I realize this is weird.

You are an extremely brave person to serve pork that had been sitting out all night. But clearly, bravery pays off.


Kirsten February 10, 2010 at 11:42 pm

Pioneer Woman better be on notice. Marinka is now a food blogger.


February 11, 2010 at 2:01 am

You’ve got to keep on cookin’ because … there’s good fun in posting with that!!! Your pork did look divinely nummers though!


February 11, 2010 at 8:57 am

I should not have read this post until I had the day’s three meals safely behind me.


February 11, 2010 at 8:58 am

FINALLY! A picture! If this had happened in my place, my gas bill would be thru the roof. I used to turn on my stove for heat after I turned off my pilot light for the summer and even that small infraction would boost my bill 10 dollars. GOOD LUCK WITH THAT. And oh yes.

Me likey the Porky.


Heather, Queen of Shake Shake February 11, 2010 at 9:36 am

Okay, you have struck my cord of pity, which is no small feat since it is buried deep beneath my cold, dead heart. If you would like to know my culinary secret, I will tell you. Just email me and let me know.


Crys February 11, 2010 at 11:01 am

You know, the blonde pork isn’t as tasty as the red-head pork…the blonde pork tastes airy…yeah, I’m SO not a comedian.


Ann's Rants February 12, 2010 at 8:39 pm

Now I know it is possible to gag and laugh at the same time.

The hairs. THE HAIRS.


Kate Coveny Hood
February 13, 2010 at 3:12 am

I would think that anything that took that look to make would be some what of a let down in the end. Especially with the hairs so fresh in your memory. And this is exactly why I prefer to let others do the cooking. My expectations are fairly low and I can be blissfully ignorant when it comes to details like blong hairs in my food.


Karen at French Skinny November 12, 2010 at 9:09 pm

Can I have some Cherpumple with that please? And a Lady Bic?



November 13, 2010 at 1:32 am

I cannot believe you were brave enough to serve this pork. It just doesn’t fit with the mental image I had of you: cautious, and neurotic, and overanalytical, and just not someone who serves pork to their friends and family after having it sit for 12 hours.

Pork. After 12 hours.

Is everything alright?


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