Pulled pork

I’ve always been challenged in the kitchen. I listen enviously to friends who talk about how “relaxing” it is to pour a glass of wine, turn on a little music and whip up a nifty three-course meal. Try as I may, I have never experienced this in real life.

Because I have no idea which spice tastes like what and how to blend them, I don’t dare impair myself any further by drinking while cooking. I am clueless as to how long things take to simmer – boil – broil – sauté  – flambé or bake so I am constantly checking, re-checking, stirring and poking. Cooking more than one item at a time fuels anxiety because these multiple items are never ready at the same time, but rather the chicken is scalding while the broccoli is nearly cold. My “recipe book” contains just two meals that pass the test from edible to enjoyable.

Given this rich culinary history, you can imagine how leery I was to try making one of my favorite meals: pulled pork. Though my track record screamed at me not to attempt it at all – why ruin a perfectly delicious dish by making it yourself? – I had a grand idea of using the crock pot for this scrumptious pig plate and filling the whole house with a welcoming, cozy aroma. I pictured us watching football on Sunday, enjoying our pork sandwiches and cold beer, while gracefully accepting compliments on a perfectly prepared meal.

So early to rise, I was. Following the recipe word for word, I trimmed the skin off the pork shoulder. I didn’t even gag when I realized there was still HAIR (yes, HAIR!) on the skin as I sliced. I chuckled aloud as I “rubbed the pork” with the “special seasoning.” I browned, I whisked, I measured and, at long last, threw that pig in the slow cooker and set it for eight hours.

The last time I tried to slow cook I waited, salivating at the smell of ribs for six hours, only to discover that I hadn’t put enough water in the pan and everything was bone dry and stuck to the bottom.  If this odyssey ended the same way, I would hang up my chef’s hat for good.

As the day wore on, I heeded Mama Sue’s instructions and didn’t lift the lid of the crock pot (“it interrupts the cooking!”) despite my concern that there didn’t seem to be any cozy warm smells wafting through the house.

Finally, the time arrived. Tending to the potato salad, I asked Mike to turn off the cooker and take out the pork shoulder. Upon lifting the lid, he said “Shouldn’t this have been submerged in the juice? Are you sure it’s cooked all the way?” I’m not sure which did the trick, the fork I jabbed in his arm or the burning of my evil eye in hue back of his skull, but he quickly bit his lip and pulled the meat out of the pot. With the smell of vinegar and brown sugar mixing with the stench of my own insecurities, I carefully struck the first blow to the shoulder with my carving knife. As moist meat fell from the bone I whooped with excitement.

And so there we sat, enjoying our delicious pork sandwiches and cold beers. Mike was very wise to compliment the cooking after the earlier loudly voiced concerns.  One crock pot success firmly established me in my own mind as the next Julia Child so I have decided the only natural next step is to host Thanksgiving dinner. What could go wrong?