Um, hey, Reader, do you have a minute? Because there's something I need to talk to you about. I'm leaving you. Don't cry! No, it's nothing you did, really. You've been great! You've sent me tons of e-mails about awesome new restaurants, you've let me in on juicy tidbits of gossip, you've fed me fantastic meals and you've given me lots to write about. Seriously, it's not you, it's me.
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Lately I've been thinking a lot about…well…stuff, and I don't know exactly how to say this, but I'm just not getting enough pork out of this relationship. I know pork's not important to everybody, and maybe it's not tops on your list of relationship requirements, but it's all I can think about. Maybe I need professional help; maybe I should join a 12-step program. (Do they have a Porkaholics Anonymous?) I don't know.
All I can say is that for a while now I've felt us growing apart. You're trying to work out, eat healthy, get more fiber and leafy greens. And I love that about you! More than that, I respect you for it. But when I close my eyes at night I see ribs. Pork ribs. Long, thick ribs glistening with tangy sauce. And when I bite into them the flesh-rimmed red from the smoke-pulls away just so. The aroma of smoke wafts up to my nose and my tongue flicks around to lap at the residue of sauce lingering at the corners of my mouth. It's a beautiful thing.
So I'm leaving you to join a cult. No, not really. Well, you might think it is, but it's not a cult! It's just a bunch of people who share interests and activities and we like to get together and do that thing we love so much. Yes, I've decided to indulge my fantasies full time at Fiery Foods & BBQ Magazine. For reals. It might be hard for you to understand at first, but in time I know you'll come to see things the way I do. Believe me, this is going to be the best thing for both of us.
We have so much in common and we've had so many good times together: getting
carnitas
at the cart on the Plaza, sharing breakfast burritos at Tia Sophia's, blowing a paycheck at Geronimo, searching madly for that place on Cerrillos Road with the bacon-wrapped hot dog (It's Pepe's, remember?).
But that whole kombucha thing? I just can't get into it. And wheatgrass? It tastes like the smell of mowing the lawn: not good. I love the way you're willing to try new things and I think it's amazing that you can make something that looks just like pumpkin pie but actually isn't baked and doesn't have any butter or eggs or milk in it. That's truly incredible. But you know what makes pumpkin pie taste so good? Butter and eggs and milk.
It was really nothing specific that brought this whole thing on, I swear. I was just sitting there, licking the last morsels from the inside of a carton of pulled pork, when it struck me: I've been waiting since birth to find a love that would look and sound like a salami.
Shit, you're right, I stole that line from the Postal Service. But you know what I'm getting at here. I'm getting older now and I've been doing a lot of soul searching and I think I'm closer to figuring out who I am. I think I might be a big, fat white guy who drives a Ford F-450 Power Stroke diesel and sells propane and propane accessories. I think I might be Hank Hill. With boobs.
No, no, I'm not questioning my sexual identity or anything like that. Remember last summer when I went to the World Pork Expo in Des Moines? And I saw them make the world's largest pork burger (74 pounds!) and Dr. BBQ showed me how to smoke a whole hog? Well that's pretty much when all this started. I think I found my people. They may not look like me or talk like me, and I'm pretty sure they don't vote like me, but when we're all sitting around at 4 am, watching a thin column of smoke rise from the cooker, and the bottle of Jack Daniels that was supposed to be for the meat brine has actually been brining us pretty well, and we know that in nine hours we're going to turn in the most beautiful piece of pork butt any of us has ever seen, well I feel like I might get me a ride-on mower and start buying my underwear at Sears.
Now, when I say I want us to stay friends I'm not just saying that to make you feel better. I really do want the best for you and I hope you'll wish me luck, too. Maybe we can get together sometime soon? We could have lunch at Josh's or Whole Hog and talk about old times. And if you miss me you can always see what I'm up to at
. We're overhauling the site right now, so come back later this summer to see my new blog. And you can read the story I just assigned, the one about a chili cookoff at a Nevada brothel. Seriously, guys, e-mail me anytime. I want to hear from you. You can find me at
.
