roasted pork belly

pork belly

I don’t even like to write the word bacon, here. I’ll have bacon nothing, please, or plain with eggs &etc. It can be made at home without difficulty, and keeps in the refrigerator for a good long time. That is about enough said about bacon. Or close enough, rhetorically.

Pork belly, however. The thing bacon is made from. That.

A friend of mine, recently visiting, inventoried my freezer, saw my pork belly. Pure fat, rhetorically, barely struck through with pink—not even struck all the way through, to be clear—the fattiest piece of pork belly I’ve ever handled—gorgeous, perfect—(raised by these friends of mine, incidentally)—how about we roast it, he said.

Roast a pork belly? Interesting, thought I. He took a pound, lacerated it, rubbed it with salt, lavender, (he is a lavender sort of fellow), let it sit. I don’t remember his roasting regimen. It’s not important.

It was exceptional. I mean, memorable. The culinary high point of a high week, culinarily. Nearly spreadable. We ate it on bread, some of it—we ate it as one of several things at a meal. I came back to it throughout the meal. I started the meal with it, and I ended with it.

It was less strange than it might sound, oh timid reader. Bacon in another form, my lamb, except tender, moist, melting.

I believe this will become an annual feast dish in this household.



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