Over the weekend, we roasted a pig. "We" is the operative word in that sentence, as this undertaking was more than I could handle alone and it certainly would have failed miserably without everyone contributing. The end result fed around 16 grown men with about 75% of the pork left over and everyone seemed to enjoy it (I understand Josh had a sandwich today which his girls weren't up for sharing). Here's the story.
I wanted a 150 pounds pig initially, but like always, I am nothing if not coachable, so I took some sage advice from Dad and bought 125 pound one that dressed out to exactly 100 pounds. As will be evidenced below, that was key. I got the pig from a local farmer who was very cooperative and a pleasure. Unfortunately, I am afraid I can't identify him (USDA rules or something), but if you truly want to know, call me. Anyway, our pig was scalded and scraped (meaning hairless from his neck to his feet) and good to go on Thursday morning. He spent Thursday on ice in my garage (as I have a very understanding wife). Thursday evening, Sam and I mixed up the brine. Sam's role was to pour 72 cans of Milwaukee's Best on his head (and in his ear) (Sam: "Dad...I'm going to smell like beer"; Me: "Only until your next bath"; Sam: "I have to take a bath?". Me: "well, yes, eventually"; Sam: "Oh..Fine").
To the beer I added the juice of 60 limes, the juice of 60 lemons (again, this was no sweat thanks to another great gift from Lacey, my industrial squeezer), 2 gallons of olive oil, 2 pounds of salt, 5 pounds of brown sugar and enough water to make the pig float (not a "pig float", as even I, Mr. Pork, think that sounds a little yucky) . On ice, he brined until Friday afternoon, then I drained it so I could muscle it into my truck (not easy).
Once at the lake, Gary and I spent a hot afternoon transporting everything we needed down the hill to the pit. Gary is fresh from a knee replacement, which I now can proclaim has been well-tested. He never complained, but I'm guessing ibuprofen kept him going. This work made me realize something about gravity - it can be your best friend for a while (no way we could have pushed this pig and a zillion pounds of ice and tools up a hill), but it demands repayment (everything we carried down had to be lugged back up, mostly on Sunday morning).
Larry suggested I start the the fire ASAP as his last pig experience ended with raw pork and no one ever eating any, so we got it burning about 5:00 PM. The pit was about 4 feet long, 2 feet wide and 2 feet deep and I built a stone ring around the top on three sides with concrete and lake rock. I would guess Ryan dug about 80% of it a few weekends back. Dad cut a steel road sign for the bottom and donated metal flashing for the sides, so it was a true hot box. Every ounce of wood was fully consumed and generated heat which was tunnelled directly up to my pig. We hung a thermometer off the spit to keep it mostly between 200 and 250 degrees, which required an amazingly scant amount of firewood (and no charcoal). The pit was the great success of this story (I'll list the lessons - meaning dumb mistakes - later).
I rubbed the pig him with Mustard and then coated him with my rib rub (brown sugar, garlic, paprika, cloves). After a "tongue-ectomy" with my pocket knife (best father's day present ever), Larry used a hammer to drive the spit through (where is best left to imagine, but lets just say the pig's dental work was not maintained). Despite an over-zealous and good intentioned neighbor literally running over my spit with his bull-dozer, the pig was over the fire at 5:40 PM Friday night (right after I dug out the spit and cleaned it with my shirt and some beer).
Every hour thereafter, with considerable assistance from whomever was awake and reasonably coherent, we turned him 90 degrees (Kevin had to stop catching fish to help, for which I am thankful; he catches fish everywhere, so he didn't seem to mind). Todd, Josh and I slept right beside him (some at least). Turning him was not easy, but leverage and resourcefulness (and Nate's inherent ability to drive a stake with a sledge hammer mostly in the dark) got it done. If Scott hadn't caught a tipping jack at one point, the pig would have been on his way to the lake, but again, we fixed it and soildered on. At 8:30 AM he was done (160 degrees in the shoulder), but I left him on another hour on low (around 150 degrees) to be absolutely sure and to work on the sides (pit-fire roasted potatoes, corn on the cob, Lacey's Baked Beans which nearly stole my thunder and Dad's Coleslaw, which Jeremiah proclaimed sufficient to sustain him for the rest of his life).
Our pork was cooked through but tender and juicy, although it was not especially seasoned. It took 6 of us 30 minutes to butcher it and my understanding of porcine anatomy is no longer theoretical only. We ate like pigs (pun intended - as Maggie has called me a cannibal all week).
Here are the lessons: First, October, not July. What was I thinking?? Eating him practically for breakfast was a necessity. Next, he was plenty big enough. Even if everyone I invited had been able to sacrifice a weekend, there would have been more than plenty. Any bigger, and the mechanics would have been much harder. Also, the rub was useless. The sugar caught on fire (glad we had a hose) and it was all gone by the time we ate. Maybe it formed a crust which maintained some moisture, but I won't rub the pig next time. I think I will stuff him with maybe garlic and fennel. Also, he could have spent more time in the brine. I was worried I would make him so soft he would fall off the spit into the fire, but I didn't get close to that. The O-rings were essential as they could be tightened as the pig contracted and without those rings ($22 bucks), I expect we would have been having pizza. I also could have used re-bar to stake my flashing inside the pit, as it moved in a little, but this was probably just cosmetic.
I think this spit roasted whole pig over just wood (that bag of charcoal in the picture was just insurance) without a rotisserie is the signature accomplishment in my decidedly amateur culinary career. Dad said there are 12 ways to cook a whole pig and I picked the hardest and I won't argue that point. I am both relieved and happy we pulled it off (again, another pun). Let me know if you would like some pork.
