Smoked Pork Injury

April 18, 2008

Taking a page from my sister's blog, I'll tell you about an incredibly minor -- but nevertheless irritating -- injury that I've suffered. I'm sure it's not interesting, but I've posted nothing else, and the other two ideas that I have for what to blog this week are going to take up more time than this story.

Besides, you guys would rather hear about some dumb-shit thing that I did rather than hear me make fun of others.

The true beginning of the story is Saturday, when we went to the French Quarter Festival, and then went out for a quick drink, and then grabbed a dinner reservation at Rio Mar, which has become our New Orleans go-to for dinner. We've been there three times in the last 9 months, which is more than any restaurant in Baton Rouge, excluding the ones where you pay before you get your food.

A quick and sad tangent: we used to go get a good dinner and lots of drinks a couple nights a week. Now, almost never. Sigh.

Anyway, our friend Dave had some slow cooked pork that had roasted over a barely warm fire for six hours, and came out on a plate falling to pieces.

I decided to try to replicate that pork, and shortly after noon on Sunday, I had a good fire built in the smoker, and I added a large pork shoulder to the smoke box.

I went on with my day, doing this and that, and occasionally returning to the smoker to add wood and stoke my fire. At 5:00, a girl came over to start a barter arrangement. I was going to put together a three page web site for her, and she was to provide some free babysitting, so we can eat and drink like we're accustomed to doing.

It was a nice evening, so we sat down outside, poured a drink, and I started up the laptop. While waiting for it to boot, I turned back and stoked my fire a bit. I hurried it a little, because the small talk wasn't coming that easily, and when I took my first step back to the bar, I planted the arch of my bare foot firmly onto a red-hot ember that had escaped the fire box without my notice.

I was as cool as it's possible to be in such a situation. I uttered a mild curse, took a couple of hops, and sat down at the computer. It didn't pass unnoticed, but no one got up to see if I was okay either. We went through our little meeting and parted ways before I looked down to inspect the damage.

There was a nickel-sized blister, tough as leather, and so packed with fluid that it was as firm as a pebble. I knew that walking on it would make it pop, and that it would hurt like the devil when it did.

But so far, it hasn't. It's been five days, and it's still a firm little blister. It hasn't gotten noticeably better, but it doesn't bother me either. Go figure.

By the way, the roasted pork was really good. It spurted its juice while I carved into it, and had a beautiful, well-seasoned, smokey taste.