A big shout-out this morning to blog readers Dennis and Patrick, who I met in person (finally!) at Macado’s in Salem yesterday afternoon. What started as a quick stop for a beer and a snack (and a little football) turned into a great time chatting with Dennis and his lovely wife, Diane, about all things food — and then some. It’s always cool to put a face with a name.
And now for the less satisfying experience of this weekend — my dear husband, Howard, and the case of the missing pork.
We had a relaxing evening in on Saturday night, marinating a nice pork tenderloin in some portobello mushroom chop sauce. As usual, he was in charge of grilling the pork while I whipped up macaroni and cheese and sauteed mushrooms to go alongside our meal.
When everything was ready, Howard went out on the deck with his platter and his Barbie Boss to retrieve the main dish. From inside, I suddenly heard a series of “D’ohs!” and yelps. He came back inside with a shocked expression and an empty platter. Apparently, as he moved the pork to the platter, it rolled off, did a slow-motion balancing act on the railing of our deck and then slowly teetered off the edge into the dark abyss, leaving nothing but a splotch of sauce on the railing.
Twelve feet down in the grass below, Howard heard the sickening “thud” of flesh on ground.
We ran outside with a flashlight to search for our missing meal, finding it nestled beautifully on a bed of grass. Back inside, we inspected the entire surface of the roast, picking off a few pieces of grass.
Then, we looked at each other. Shrugged. And sliced up the beautiful meat into the succulent portions that we would eventually devour. It sure was tasty, and we were exceedingly grateful that we still have not fenced in the backyard and adopted a dog.