Yesterday’s blog was titled Day 11 instead of Day 12. Thanks to my sister for pointing out my error. She’s such a perfectionist.
Day 13 falls on a cold Monday, but I’m looking forward to the week ahead for lots of reasons. My dad comes up tomorrow to help take care of Hugh and my sister who is still recovering. That means he’ll drop off Hugh, pick him up from school, get groceries, cook a big fish, and replace that broken screen upstairs (forgot to tell you about that one, dad).
Then on Friday, one of my best friends is coming to visit with her husband and two boys. Ellyn and I met the first of week of college in soccer training. I was a freshmen, didn’t know a soul at the school, and Ellyn was a junior who took me under her wing.
She brought home with her to Rutherfordton, NC for a weekend away and my first pig pickin’. We drove her white Nissan Sentra and played Stevie Nicks tapes all the way. I still had no clue what a pig pickin’ was, and I had yet to pronounce Rutherfordton so it came out sounding right: Ruhthfuhtn.
The pig pickin’ turned out to be the real deal. In their back yard, which was acres of country overlooking mountain views, there was a pig on a spit, purchased that day (already dead) from a neighbor. Cooking the pig meant it had to be turned over an open fire pit every fifteen minutes for 24 hours. We had the 4:00-5:45 a.m. shift. When the alarm went off, I cursed the early hour , but secretly felt the thrill of something special. We laid sleeping bags on the damp, chilled ground, and listened to the hiss and spit of the fire slowly charring pig flesh. I was a vegetarian at the time, but after turning that pig all morning, you can bet I ate some bbq that day along with Ellyn’s mom’s apple cake and freshly squeezed apple cider.
Now Elly and I have boys the same age (3) plus her older son, and I’m looking forward to our weekend which is sure to be filled with good wine, good food, and good friendship (probably in that order).