 
A couple of years ago, I began trying to organize a regular gathering of ex-athletes on football weekends at Ole Miss. The idea gained some traction within the university, and on the weekend of the Ole Miss-LSU game this past fall we established the “Players Tent,” giving past players and their families a central place to return and gather. This inaugural event was profound and demanded something extraordinary. With two restaurants to tend to on what would surely be one of our busiest weekends of the year, the challenge was organizing something impressive yet low maintenance. The answer was simple: whole hog. The whole-hog roast is the trump card of food events. Simply stated, nothing surpasses the reaction to rolling out a whole roasted swine to a gathering of hungry folks. And since most folks will never cook a whole hog themselves, there seems to be universal reverence not only for the result but also for the care and time it takes. Thirty hours is an unfathomable chunk of time to dedicate to anything not entirely self-serving. It’s the equivalent of three-fourths of a workweek, one and a quarter revolutions of the earth, ten college football games, sixty episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm, a 400-or-so-round boxing match. And from start to finish, it’s also about how long it takes to prepare and cook a 175-pound pig. Besides being long, it’s also a grueling thirty hours, and more often than not, when it’s over you feel as if you’ve fought that 400-or-so-round boxing match. I can think of few better ways to push myself over the edge. Picking Your Team WEDNESDAY Any number of variables play into the success of a whole-hog roast, but the one essential is having a second (and, sometimes, third) person to help with whom you really see eye-to-eye. You will, after all, spend almost a day and a half sweating and toiling together over a hot fire, medicating the occasional burn with libation, and fighting mild sleep deprivation, usually with extremely off-color humor. To be frank, it isn’t the hardest work in the world — the majority of the time is spent watching a fire burn — but you have to remain focused, as one. You are in a culinary foxhole together. You are brothers-in-arms. Joe York is the guy I work the pit with this time. There is no one I would rather spend this time with, especially since we are equally fascinated with this metamorphosis from the absurd to the sublime. The lowest of farm animals becomes delicacy, and a couple of chumps become superstars (at least momentarily) for navigating the process. Joe and I come to the pit from different angles. Joe, a documentary filmmaker, has pork fat running through his veins. His interest in the hog roast was born while filming a Tennessee pork veteran several years ago, and though it was then that he dedicated himself to perfecting the process, his life has been rich in barbecue history. Cornered in a relationship quagmire years ago, he found himself carrying a pulled pork sandwich onto a plane for a girl back home. The decision, ultimately, to eat the gift rather than deliver it was his cue that the relationship was doomed. Flash forward a decade, to when he met the love of his life while cooking his first pig. For my part, a chef and twenty-year veteran and devotee of the pit, I am just masochistic enough that owning and operating a couple of restaurants isn’t enough. My college roommate has said that I’ve always courted chaos. I have intentionally created pandemonium by doing things like getting married and then immediately launching into a six-month renovation of our house. And during the renovation and new marriage, I managed to work in time around the pit because it encompasses everything I love: fire, knives, pig, drinking whiskey, telling lies, and staying up all night. Cooking a whole hog isn’t that hard. The common misconception is that because you’re dealing with the entire animal, the process is relegated to professionals or smoke-stained pit masters who have come by their knowledge as a result of Divine Providence. In reality, anyone who can take the time to execute the process and who is fascinated by what you can draw from a fire should be able to do this. The following is a basic primer for the intrepid. Do it, and you will never look back. Choose not to, and you will never know the adolescent fun you have missed. Fair warning: Cooking a pig is, unquestionably, very serious business. If any one of several things goes awry, you can end up with 175 pounds of scorched, rotted, or otherwise inedible pig. Foraging for Supplies THURSDAY, noon We begin the journey with a scavenger hunt. First stop: the Dumpster behind a mammoth discount furniture warehouse for a couple of giant boxes to cover the pit. Second stop is for about a half cord of mixed seasoned cherry and hickory. A third stop, at the grocery store for the items to make our dry rub and barbecue sauce, completes the trip. The rest of the items are at the house ready for assembly. The method we’ll be using to cook this particular hog is just about the simplest you could imagine. It also happens to be the most effective I’ve ever employed. Joe, my partner in the pit, shot a documentary a couple of years ago on Ricky Lynn Parker, who owns Scott’s Bar-B-Que in Lexington, Tennessee. Ricky, the John Daly of whole hog barbecue, runs a pit operation of such stature that I have, on more than one occasion, made the two-plus-hour ride from Oxford to glean a bit of his pork wisdom — and eat at his table. Ricky Parker’s porcine musings run deep and shallow at the same time. He loves his “pit celebrity” (and works a crowd like P. T. Barnum), cheap whiskey (usually cut with Mountain Dew), and the occasional brush with the law. But the vein that runs deepest is his passion for quality and his dedication to perfection in his pit. The list of items that our guru lines out for cooking a pig reads like the love child of Home Depot and Joy of Cooking (if only the Depot had a meat locker, or Joy of Cooking called for power tools… a man’s got to dream): Cinder Blocks (80) Metal Fence Posts (3) 4'x6' Metal Grates (2) Giant Cardboard Box 8'x12' Canvas Painter’s Tarp ½ Cord Split Cured Hickory and Cherry (18-20 inches long) Shovel Hoe Gloves Coat Hangers/Heavy Wire/Romex Pig (whole, minus head, feet, and hair) Dry Rub (½ gal.) BBQ Sauce (1½ gals.) For the sake of one’s sanity, it’s best to spend a leisurely afternoon gathering all the items on the list because, beginning at ten the following morning, and for a full twenty-four hours afterwards, all attentions will be on the pig. Of course, something will invariably be misplaced or forgotten; I just like to reduce the margin of error that I am infamous for. Cuddling with the Pig THURSDAY, 4:30 p.m. Stan’s Meat Market could be any little roadside country store in the South if it weren’t for the ten-foot pig painted on the front, wearing sunglasses and a gigantic smile. I always find the smile ironic considering all the butchered pig parts inside. Our pig hangs crucified from a giant rebar coat hanger, lonely in a walk-in cooler among a mélange of cured hams and sausages. With all the grace of Rosie O’Donnell in a production of Swan Lake, we wrestle the 175-pound pig out to the truck, where it will rest, prostrate in the bed of the pickup, ready for the penultimate leg of its journey. After moving the beast there is a moment of reverence shrouded in heavy breathing. And it never fails: Someone poses for a picture with the pig. Today, Joe cuddles with it. We return to the house. The pig is unloaded. We pull it open and split the ribs along the backbone with heavy blows from a meat cleaver until it lays open flat on its back. A dry mix of seasonings — heavy with salt, brown sugar, and red pepper flakes — is rubbed liberally around the inside cavity, and the pig is folded back in half around a couple of bags of ice to keep its chills. It is about thirty-eight degrees outside, so the consensus is that it will be okay in the basement for the night. Gentlemen, Start Your Engines FRIDAY, 8:30 a.m. The cinder blocks, which are the pit’s structure, are arranged in a rectangle, about four blocks by five, three blocks high. The fence posts are laid across the short length of the pit, evenly spaced with the smooth side facing up. The grate goes on top of the slats of post. Because the smooth side is up, we’ll be able to slide the pig around some when need be. The initial fire is started to preheat the pit walls so the pig doesn’t go into a cold pit. We get about ten pieces of hickory, each eighteen to twenty inches long, to burn down to coals. These will be the first coals to see hog. While the pit is preheating, we bring the pig out, remove the ice bags from its cavity, and roll it open onto its back before seasoning it again with our rub mixture. One of the metal grates is then covered with aluminum foil, and the hog is placed belly-down on the foil (the foil will keep the belly from scorching — we hope). Once the fire has burned down to coals, we spread the coals around the bottom of the pit, going a little heavier in the corners where the coals will be under the hind quarters and shoulders. We remove the top row of cinder blocks on one long side of the pit so we can slide the pig onto the fence post rails. Then, once the cinder blocks are replaced, we cover the top of the pit with the cardboard boxes and drape the drop cloth over the entire thing to help retain most of the pit’s smoke and heat. Now the waiting begins. Outside the pit, we start a second fire with another eight to ten pieces of wood. That fire will be rolled and massaged for the next hour or so, and once it has burned down, those coals will be spread along the floor of the pit. This routine will be performed hourly for the next eight hours, which is, arguably, the most critical part of the cooking process. The pit needs to be watched carefully during this time for a number of things: 1) FLARE-UP. It is absolutely critical that there be no flare-up in the pit. This occurs if rendered fat runs off the pig and reignites the coals in the bottom of the pit, making an extremely hot fat-fueled fire. If fat catches fire in the pit, you can end up with a scorched hog that is bitter in taste and with a texture that is dry and unpleasant. 2) EVEN HEAT. With the cinder blocks stacked three high, there are about thirty inches of clearance between the coals and the pig. Each time you pull the tarp back and spread your coals, place your hand immediately underneath each of the quarters. The temperature should be very warm but not hot enough that you can’t keep your hand near the pig for ten or fifteen seconds. 3) COOL PIT. If the pit remains too cool for too long, the pig can end up spoiling rather than cooking. This essentially equals an accelerated rot, and if you have ever smelled a bad refrigerator…well, we’ll leave it at that. But the odds of this happening with this particular process are relatively slim because you’re restoking the fire every hour or so. Flippin’ Out FRIDAY, 6:00 p.m. By this point, the pig has cooked, belly-side down, for about eight hours. Around the third or fourth time you pull the tarp and cardboard back, the aroma of the pig should have become very noticeable and the pig should have started to turn from its cadaver-esque pink to a Thanksgiving-turkey golden brown. The fat in the pigskin and muscle will have begun to render (convert from fat solid and water to pure liquid fat) and slowly make its way deep into the meat of the pig. The exterior layer of skin will have dried out and have drawn tightly up. Now we flip the pig onto its back, where it will spend the rest of its time simmering in its own personally tailored sauté pan — its own skin. To flip the pig, we remove the tarp, cardboard, and top row of cinder blocks on one long side of the pit. Then we take the second metal grate and lay it on top of the pig. On one long side, we secure the grates in three places with coat hangers. (Heavy wire or rope will do, though last time we had some scrap Romex lying around, which is the best thing I have ever used because it bends easily and it’s very heavy duty.) Once the first side is secured, we tie the second together with more wire. It takes two people to lift the pig from the rails and stand it on one long side. This is the only time I know Joe to be nervous…he is otherwise a pillar of swine confidence. (You will want to wear a pair of work gloves while doing this.) Slowly we lower the pig back to the rails and slide it back to the center. The (now) top grate and aluminum foil are removed, and the belly is exposed. The exposed meat should be caramelized and tender. At this point, bathe the entire cavity of the pig in your favorite barbecue sauce, dry rub, beer, whatever you like. From this point forward, repeat every time you uncover the hog and restoke the coals (once every hour to hour and fifteen minutes). For about the next twelve hours, the heavy work is done. Enter Whiskey, Stage Left FRIDAY, 8:00 p.m. Derek Horne is about six feet, six inches of affable, ex-Ole Miss basketball-playing good-heartedness. He’s been the driving force in the athletic department to help me organize this pre-game event. We’ve talked on the phone a dozen times and exchanged countless e-mails, but due to our schedules, in this town of fourteen thousand we’ve never crossed paths. Like so many others, though, he cannot deny his draw to the fire, so we decide to meet the night we cook the pig. Shortly after sundown we shake hands for the first time. Joe and I are into our second bourbon when Derek arrives. This puts him slightly behind the curve, but with one drink, one stoking of the fire, and a viewing of the pig, we might as well have been friends for a decade. We will remain here telling stories and laughing for the next several hours. Whether the elixir is in the smoke, the whiskey, or the unfettered understanding of what the pig commitment implies, I am not sure. It is, however, undeniable. Bank On It SATURDAY, 2:00a.m. Eight hours later, after the pig has been flipped, the cavity should be a simmering cauldron of fat and barbecue sauce. The rib bones should lift easily out, and the meat should pull away like angel food cake. For all intents and purposes, the pig is actually finished cooking, but the last few hours will completely tenderize the hams. At this point we will cut the size of the hot-coal load slightly every time we stoke the fire and “bank” the coals to the side of the pit. Again, this concentrates the little direct heat onto the hams and keeps the pit warm. This is continued for the next four or five hours until the hog is completely finished. Joe is the stalwart at this point. I’ve gone from blabbering insults against the current administration to debating the merits of New Orleans jazz and Memphis rap. In the wee hours, I’ll give in to a couple of hours of sleep — but Joe never does. The Unveiling SATURDAY, 8:00 a.m. As the last fire burns down, I put together a stout pot of coffee (something in the ice from last night has given me a headache…). We pull back the tarp one last time and remove the top row of cinder blocks. The bed of my truck is lined with heavy plastic. We slide the pig in and head for campus. The Players Tent is on the edge of the Grove, a fourteen-acre green space, home to Ole Miss’ behemoth tailgate party in the center of campus. The place is teeming with thousands of Ole Miss and LSU fans girding for battle with Bloody Marys and fried chicken. It is a spectacle difficult to upstage, but one from which our hog will momentarily steal the thunder. We arrive with the pig shortly before the guests are scheduled to arrive. It’s one of those moments like at the end of a college all-nighter, when sunrise evokes feelings of both elation and shame. Everything is ridiculously funny, but our pig is serious business. Derek is grinning ear-to-ear at our arrival, while the Grove crowd stops dead to witness the ascension. There is a momentary hush that gives way to interested whispers. Everyone is curious. We place the pig on the table, but can’t walk away without glancing back several times at our prize. The stage is set: A hundred and fifty former Ole Miss athletes and their families will be fed like kings. We disappear into the crowd, anonymously. As we retreat, the crowd has begun to gather. It is like the first viewing of a child. Everyone oohs and aahs until that uncle finally breaks the ice and pinches a cheek. We glance back one last time to see a glorious feeding frenzy begin. The Breakup SATURDAY, 10:00 a.m. Parting company after thirty hours roasting a pig can be a most awkward good-bye — part hangover, part sleep deprivation, part delirium. It’s painfully similar to dropping off the best first date you ever had: You don’t want it to end, but nothing good can come of dragging it out any further, and the likelihood of doing or saying something stupid increases proportionally with each passing moment. Joe and I return to the pit to clean up. We shovel out the ashes and debris and return the tools to my shed, laughing at any number of things we have talked about in the last day and a quarter… This much awake time makes everything funnier. I drive Joe back to his house, and his girlfriend listens to our stories with slightly feigned delight. It is not the same pig roast during which she remembers falling for Joe, but she more than understands our connection. Every pig roast is, in its own way, sacred, never to be duplicated. Our experiences with friends are dispensed episodically these days, usually with metered sterility: a round of golf, a morning duck hunt, a long dinner — often the best we can do in our quest to connect. But a whole hog surpasses them all. Only during the wee hours of the night stoking hot coals can you learn how intensely a friend is tortured by the characters in the book he is writing, or how deeply a friend’s pride runs in his family’s steel-working roots, or how meaningful a friend found his father’s parting words the day he was dropped off at his freshman college dorm. These aren’t things friends share around the card table. And that’s why, no matter how hard it may be, I will find those thirty hours if the excuse arises to cook a hog. Forget the pudding — the proof is in the pig. |
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