The Neck of the Pig

One thing that’s tricky to buy when you’re not on your home turf is cuts of meat.  Especially for me, because as much as I cook, I don’t cook much meat.  I eat it, but the cooking of it is Alec’s department.  I’m trying to learn how to poke it with my finger while it’s cooking so that I can gauge its doneness. We’re having 6 people for dinner tomorrow night, plus us, and I did the marketing this morning.  Alec is making a pork stew with spring vegetables (favas, artichokes) that calls for pork shoulder, what we call pernil in the US.  But here, pernil is the leg.  I want to see Henrik.  His wife, Isabel, waited on me, and when I told her I needed “el ombro del Puerco” she looked at me as if confused.  So I pointed to my own shoulder.  She dug around in the meat case and came out with a piece of meat.  “This is the neck,” she said.  “Pig neck?” I thought.  I don’t even know if they sell pig neck in the US.  She assured me it was the right thing, and it looked fine to me.  But, based on years of experience, I knew there was a good chance I’d get home and be told I’d gotten it all wrong.  So I called Alec, but had to leave a message.  I bought the neck, cut into cubes, and went on with my shopping.  Alec called while I was shopping for produce, so I dashed back to Henrik’s and asked if I could hand him the phone so that Alec could talk to him.  It seems like the neck is the closest thing Henrik has to what we need, so that’s what we’ve got.

As I stood in line at the various food stalls, at least 8 people commented on my shopping list—some version of “You’re buying all that!”  Their eyes opened wide as they took in the crowded sheet of paper.  “I’m having a dinner party tomorrow,” I said.  But in truth, it’s not so much different from other weeks.  Friday morning is the time of week when seniors shop, and I suppose they shop every day, or every other day. 

I almost always come home from the market with something that was not on my list.  Today it came from the nut, spice, and chocolate ladies.  I was buying the pistachios for the Aunt Sassy Cake I’m making, and the woman at the counter came over to me with a small, glass-domed dish.  She lifted the lid and passed it under my nose.  Truffles—the pig-snuffling kind, not the chocolate kind.  “We just got them in,” she said.  “It’s the season.”  Those three words are magic to me, so of course I bought one.   It remains to be seen whether I will share it with our guests, or hoard it for us.