Party Animals

Every year at the Brooks Barracks, Brooks Law holds a big Pig Roast and Barbeque for clients, colleagues, neighbors, friends, and family. I like to call it “The Pig Party.” The Lawyer has been hosting this shindig for upwards of ten years now and undoubtedly has it down to a science. It’s quite the show. A whole pig roasted in the La Caja China box, two beef briskets on the Green Egg, plenty of drinks and sides, and a circus tent in the front yard. Well, it doesn’t exactly have stripes or elephants, but it keeps the sun off folks. This year was the fifth year I’ve earned my participation trophy, and quite frankly, should’ve gotten a gold medal, too. It was a doozie.

A quick few bullet point points, and this story will be off to the greased pig races.

One: dead pigs are heavy.

Two: we had a pig a couple years ago that was “bad” – smelled bad, really bad. We washed it, cooked it, smelled it, buried it. That was the year we had a pig roast with no pig.

Three: dead pigs are slippery.

Four: the only “good” snake is a dead snake.

Five: I can’t think of any more bullet points right now, but when I do, I’ll bring this clown car back around the parking lot.

It’s kind of a big deal throwing a party for 55 or so people in your home. Lots and lots of prep work, lots and more lots of clean up afterwards. The Lawyer and I take a couple days off work beforehand to get everything ready and start the food prep. And by food I mean pig. Last year, after the no-pig-pigroast the year before, we switched meat markets to a sweet place, Johnston’s, in Monticello, a nearby town. Great folks who are generous and kind, and last year gave us more pig than we asked for. Just for future reference, if you ever have a Pig Party yourself, there’s a big difference in stuffing a one-hundred pound pig in a box versus a 85-92 pound pig in a box. Although, either way, “pig in a box” just sounds awkward.

This year the plan was for The Office Girl, The Son-In-Law, and me to go to Johnston’s and get the sacrificed sow and tote her home. But, I thought, that’s kind of a waste of folks’ time. I can take the truck, back up to the loading dock, the meat men throw the pig in the cooler, and I drive home. No help required. And besides, when I get home, my son will be there to help me off-load the dead weight and wash it and such.

Well…..not so much.

The trip over to Monticello is a lovely drive; crepe myrtle lined two-lane highway, perfect for a Sunday drive. Which is what most folks do everyday of the week, so don’t be in a hurry. The folks at Johnston’s are a sweet country-style bunch, eager to help. So I drove The Lawyer’s quasi-mammoth truck to the back dock and the guys threw the visqueen-wrapped soon-to-be-dinner in the cooler and off I went. But, I gotta tell ya, even when it’s just a pig, it’s unnerving to see a previously alive entity, still having it’s eyeballs, wrapped in plastic. Split second of pause.

But the pig and I had a lovely drive back down that crepe-myrtle road, sunroof open, tunes on. Got to the Brooks Barracks and what did I see? Nothing. I saw nothing. Not one single car denoting one single person. Well dang. I’m on my own. Not my first rodeo, mind you, but perhaps the first time I’ve wrangled pig alone. There’s a first time for everything, right?

Knowing I couldn’t lift the cooler alone, or let it fall all the way from the tailgate to the driveway, I proceeded to construct a step-down system. My favorite yard work dump wagon was the mid-level to where I’d push the cooler, then wheel it off the tailgate and to the ground. Perfect plan. Except I couldn’t get the cooler to slide in the bed of the truck. The sprayed bed liner had texture, and the no-wheeled rubber-covered edges of the cooler gripped that spray tan like its life depended on it. Into the bed I climb. This is NOT going to beat me. I had to get in the deepest corner of the bed, press my foot against the side wall and shove for all I was worth. Success. Got enough of the edge off the gate that I could tilt it down into the dump wagon. But well dang, apparently 92 pounds of pig, 60 pounds of ice, and 25 pounds of cooler was too much for the poor tires. Plan B. Get another hard cooler and put under the pig cooler and pull the dump trailer out. Done. Tilt the pig to the ground. Done. Say words under my breath. Done.

But, hey, I won’t need to go to the gym today.

Now the girl needs a bath. And I do mean the pig, not me. Well, me, too, but not right now. I had the cooler on the far side of the driveway so all the ewww would run off sooner than later and not run all across the drive. Using my noodle on that one, I am. Got my old lady Platex Living Gloves (if you’re over 50 you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about), a scrubby sponge, coarse kosher salt and got to work. First order, take off the visqueen. If I were a gaggy person, this is when it would’ve started. But, gaggy I’m not, so I proceeded. But still…..eewwwww.

Visqueen slips off dead pig fairly easily, and begins to draw circling fowl pretty quickly. Now I’m watching out for her eyeballs AND mine.

Started rinsing her off, little scrub here, little scrub there, till the pig was rinsed well. Time to turn her over. And now the fun begins. Let’s refer back to bullet point numbers one and three, simultaneously. Slippery, heavy, dead pigs stuffed into coolers in which they barely fit, are a challenge to flip. I mean come on, it’s not like they can help. Again, not gonna beat me. I grabbed, slipped, fussed, grabbed again, grabbed different parts, finally deciding I couldn’t be gentle or necessarily respectful any more. Time to grab her head and show her who’s boss. It was harrowing the first time, but I got used to it. Grabbed her behind the ears, torqued her head around, grabbed the front legs, and finished the twist over. Or so I thought.

The only thing that twisted was the front half of the pig. Tail end was still in the same place. Now what? Same thing, tail end. Except there’s no head to grab, no ears to latch on to, just butt. Nice butt roasts, mind you. Sister had some thick thighs. But grabbing her back legs and trying to flip just wasn’t happening. Too slippery, too crammed in the cooler, too heavy, too everything. So there was but one option remaining. Or, should I say, there was butt one option remaining. She had obviously been gutted and cleaned and the only thing left “down there” was a large whole between the hams. But still. Or, should I say, butt still. The thought of shoving my hand in there to flip this blasted pig was almost more than I could handle. I know they do this kind of stuff on the farm, but I ain’t on the farm any more. I’m in the city. Trying to wash a pig like a normal person. Good try.

Up the a$$ my hand went, grabbed hold and flipped, and blessed behold (as Reva would say) pig butt flipped. Rinsed her down, picked up the cooler from one end to drain out the drain hole, set it down to do it all over again. Gives new meaning to the gym term, “dead lifts.”

Washed, salt scrubbed, and rinsed the pig a few times. Picked up one end of the cooler to drain it good a few more times. But, hey, I won’t need to go to the gym….for a few more days.

I’m still home alone. Well, I’m home with the pig, but she doesn’t exactly count. I’m the only living one here. Or, so I thought.

In contemplating how to get 180 pounds of pig-filled cooler to the house door in the garage out of the sun, I decided I’d get one more hard wheeled cooler to shimmy the pig cooler up onto and wheel it into the garage. So I closed the pig in its ice coffin and headed to get the makeshift trailer.

Now, I’ve lived at The Barracks long enough to know you should go about maneuvering things very trepidatiously. With a nearby pond and swamp, lots of trees and brush, there’s always some creature afoot. If only they all actually had feet. I slowly pulled away the last cooler from the stack against the wall, and you guessed it, a snake. I may have said a word.

It was beautiful colors which I’d never seen up close, and hope to never see again. My only reference to snakes of these beautiful reds, browns, corals, is seeing photos of the mean snakes in books. The kind that either choke you to death, bite you and poison you to death, or eat your face off. No matter, in my book it was an anaconda-rattler-boaconstrictor-python-moccasin that was going to eat my face off. It had to die.

(Now look. If you’re the kind who’s going to scold me for killing a “good snake,” for starters, please refer to bullet point number four. Also know that this snake was far too close to my bed and I know if you move them they just come back too close to my bed. And, I didn’t know what kind it was and got conflicting reports from the folks to whom I sent a photo. So if you’ve got a big problem, just quit reading now and go about your day. You’ll be alright if you don’t read the rest of this. If you can handle the truth, then by all means, read on.)

I immediately called The Lawyer, though I knew he was in an appointment. This “emergency” would certainly trump any appointment he could possibly be in. I also knew his phone was probably on “silent.” My powers did not wain – it was on “silent” just as I suspected. My mind raced trying to think of who to call, meanwhile the snake had not even moved. Didn’t seem to care that I had uncovered it, that I was DYING on the inside, that I was going to have to, ahem, do it in. My next thought was to call my Daddy. My folks live deep in the woods and he’s seen all kinds of creatures. But, my very next thought was “by the time he fires up his cell phone so I can send him a photo, he has to stare at it, then go get a reference book, then call me back, the snake will have eaten my face off.” Daddy’s out. Next thought was, “who do I know that’s “woodsy and would know legless creatures?” HHmmmm, Steve and Steve. I sent them both a photo of the deliverer of my impending death. Alabama Steve didn’t respond till all was said and done. Remind me not to call him if the house is on fire. First Steve fired back with “poisonous copperhead,” because he really couldn’t see the shape of the head in the picture. Then he had the AUDACITY to tell me to get closer and get a better picture. I won’t tell you what I voice-to-texted back to him, other than to say I should wash my OWN mouth out with soap. Get closer?!?!?! No sir, I don’t think so. He suggested a push broom and good shove into the driveway, then a shotgun or a shovel. Meanwhile, I’ve decided to text The Sister and see what explosive she can throw into the mix. She hates snakes probably more than I do, is a kindergarten science geek, and is quick to respond. Perfect combination for snake identificationry. But, she’s teaching kindergarteners right about now, and should I interrupt class? Absodanglutely. But I ain’t taking my eyes off this devil creature. Voice-to-text it is. Without taking a breath, mostly because at this point I’m not even breathing, I rattle off, “I need you to stop what you’re doing and look up this snake for me please it’s in my garage I sent a picture to Steve he thinks it might be a poisonous copperhead but I have no idea and I don’t have the mindset to look it up.” Voice to text is hilarious when you don’t say things like “period” and “comma” and such. Run on sentences that would make any English teacher drink.

Now, I have plenty of snake ending arsenal at my disposal, but I’d have to take my eyes off the creature of the night to get one of them, and well, that just wasn’t going to happen. So I got the push broom, and started my gentle attack. Let’s not piss off the legless wonder, shall we? Sister texted back with “not poisonous,” so now I have conflicting opinions. No matter, we all know what the end is going to be. But there was a little problem. There was an extension cord coming from the plug right next to the snake that made it impossible to sweep it out. I tried to use the broom to pull the cord out of the wall, but all I successfully did was swipe the snake and cause it to slither behind a table top that I had propped against the wall. Well, at least it went that way and not the other way behind the refrigerator. I’d hate to have to destroy a perfectly good fridge to get to a snake. At this point burning the house down is still an option on the list, mind you. But this move bought me a little time. I scooted everything away from the wall until there was nothing left but the table top. I took all the yard tools off the wall hooks above the table, as they were hanging in front of it and I knew I needed to knock the table top down flat at some point. I placed myself strategically, knocked down the table top, and waited. Nothing. Snake didn’t move. At this point the little pain in the butt is acting like it’s in winter hibernation mode, or maybe ate too much, or is drunk. And, honestly, I ain’t mad at it. I’m still not breathing, however, so we gotta get this over with. There was a gap between the table top and the wall where the snake was casually resting, so I tip-toed across the table, readied my aim, and used the flat head shovel in the manner for which I am quite certain it was originally created. Mission accomplished. And we’ll just leave it at that.

Now that the entire side of the garage is empty, I suppose I should clean it a bit. Sweep, blow, re-arrange. Didn’t take long, thank goodness, because the pig is still in the driveway. THE PIG!?!?!?!??! I hadn’t actually forgotten about the pig, I just didn’t exactly remember it for a few minutes. Then the phone rang. It was The Lawyer. I still wasn’t exactly breathing at this point, but managed to blurt out the whole story in about eighteen seconds flat. He, I’m sure, was trying not to laugh. “Baby, what exactly did you want me to do? I couldn’t be there in time enough to really help you. What were you expecting?” Well, duh, I was just expecting that I would tell him there was a snake, and I was about to die, and we’d say our goodbyes and I love yous and when he got home and found me he could at least tell the medical examiner I’d been attacked by a anaconda-rattler-boaconstrictor-python-moccasin. I mean, makes sense, right? I just needed him to share in my agony. Oh, I had also texted my kid who was home from college. “What’s your ETA to the house?” “I wasn’t coming home. Was just going to meet you at the salon later.” “I’M OVER HERE WRESTLING PIG AND SNAKE ALONE.” “I’ll head that way.” Smartest text he’s ever sent.

Of course, he got home WELL after the fact. By the time he arrived, I had already cleaned up the garage, and had so much adrenaline coursing through my veins, I picked up one end of the cooler by the handle and drug the 180 lb. no-wheeled pig party all the way across the driveway and half-way in to the garage. When he walked in he wasn’t quite sure what had, or was going to happen, but he was definitely not a fan of the dead snake in the driveway. Oh, I left it there – everybody in this household is gonna have to see that and suffer in my misery with me. The kid picked up one end of the cooler so we could bring it in the house. He sat it down and looked at me. “Mom, um, how’d this cooler get in here?” “Same way it got off the back of the truck – your mom did it.” The look on his face was priceless. “This is heavy, Mom.” (well duh.) “Haven’t I told you before to never question or doubt your mom?” He is, once again, a believer. So we picked up the monstrosity and brought it in the house. I was done. I was very done.

Except I really wasn’t.

When The Lawyer got home, it was time to assess the sow and begin prep. Except it had a tinge of an odor. And after what happened two years ago, we’re a little gun shy. We smelled. We smelled again. It didn’t smell “bad,” it just didn’t smell “good.” Well, it’s not so much that it didn’t smell “good,” it’s that it shouldn’t really have any odor at all. This old gal smelled like the Winn Dixie meat market. Some of you know what I’m talking about. But it’s end of the day, nothing to be done about it now but to ice it down and check it in the morning. And pray for no snake dreams in the night.

The sun came up just as planned on that lovely Friday morning, and the pig still smelled not as planned on that lovely Friday morning. Dang. It. We called the meat market and they explained that because the pig had been frozen, as it thawed it would have a slight smell. All is well. But, we didn’t trust it. We didn’t trust our noses. We wanted THEIR noses to be in on it. The kid and I loaded that big white dang heavy pig toter back in the truck bed and off I went on another Sunday drive to Monticello. When I got there, the folks, as always, were delightful. “Pull the truck around to the side and we’ll take a look.” The two oldest, certainly wisest, and most experienced noses met me at the truck, and I got a lesson in “meat market 101.” And now you will, too.

Come to find out that as a frozen whole pig thaws, the normal bacteria on the skin emits an odor. Not a bacteria to make you ill, just normal biology stuff. The nice man demonstrated to me by rubbing the skin and smelling his hand, and then smelling the inside of the sow and noting no odor. Well, I’ll be danged. He said I could wash it again in a bleach bath and it would be fine. A little bleach would do the trick and we’d be good to go. I said, “huh. Ok, so define a “little bleach” because I’m about to pour half a bottle on it.” In unison both men blurted out, “NO Ma’am!!! NNOooooo!” Ha ha ha, I think I startled them. “Please ma’am, just a cap full in the cooler full of water. You don’t want to disintegrate it.” Oh. Glad I asked. A “little bleach” was a literal term. Got it.

I said my ton of “thanks yous,” “sorry to have bothered yous,” and back down the myrtle lined two-laned highway we went. One. More. Time. It’s a dang good thing it’s such a pretty drive. Got back to The Barracks, and what did I see? Nothing. I saw nothing. Not one single car denoting one single person. Well dang. I’m on my own. Again. Not my first rodeo, but there better not be a legless slitherer under the other cooler this time. Set up my step-down system to get the pig hauler off the back of the truck. Again with the crawling up in there, shoving to the edge, tipping it off, dragging it. I. Am. Done. Except I’m not. Now comes the bleach bath. As tempted as I was to dump the entire gallon of bleach in the cooler now filled with water, I behaved and only poured my cap-full. She took a short dive, did some synchronized swimming, got a good scrub, and drained the tub. All she really needed was a tutu. Salt scrub again for good measure, lots of rinsing, lots of twisting and shouting (she was twisting, I was shouting. duh) lots of my hand up her a……never mind. It worked. I’m sorry Ms. Pig. It was painful for us both. A fresh ice bath and a dead-lift-drag-and-drop exercise session for me, and I think I am finally, for reals, done.

The kid came home and helped me get the, what now feels like a gazillion pound, cooler back into the house so we can start the cooking prep. She got a hydrating citrus shower, a salt, pepper, and garlic powder makeup session, and some whole garlic cloves shoved into her hams. She’s ready for her close-up. Tomorrow morning she’ll go in the La Caja China box and get roasted for about six hours, and be the perfect dinnertime party favor. It’s been a stressful, comical, physical, mental, somebody just shoot me now, couple of days, but oh, so worth it. Thanks, Ms. Pig, for being a chunky girl. We all appreciated it!