My husband is a trooper. Accepting his long-established role as "Amy's Eye Candy," Brad knows that he is in for a long day of knowing barely anyone given my hyper-vigilance in keeping my world's from colliding. For fifteen years, I have successfully convinced Brad that I stay after school to productively plan lessons and NOT watch hours of Youtube videos while my friends and colleagues have never been able to actually corroborate whether or not I'm kidding when I've admitted to feeding my family cereal for supper five days a week. It is, obviously, a delicate balancing act.
This past Saturday, Brad and I had successfully worked our way through fresh-cut french fries, cherry Dr. Pepper cupcakes, fruit salads, and slivers of seedless watermelon. Moderation is key on the graduation party circuit. I was holding forth about how, in my esteemed opinion, the only good wine is Welch's grape juice, when I noticed Brad had disappeared. Granted...he had heard this speech several times but being as he was a stranger in a strange land, I worried about what he was up to (and with whom he might be speaking).
The party we were currently at had been sharing the time-lapse evolution of their roasted pig on Facebook since Friday so I had committed myself to a meat mutiny. I like my pork pre-packaged, s'il vous plait. But I had forgotten that I had married Iowa, born and bred. He runs around disguised as a Western New Yorker so as to fit in with the natives. But today, Brad had found his people. That seasoned swine sang directly to the soul of my spouse and, like Odysseus, Brad was lured by its siren's song. With feet flying, he was carried to the carcass and joined the fray of men admiring a mountain of meat.
Meanwhile, while Brad was worshiping at the altar of oinks and loins, my friend Cindy approached with a wine offering. Obviously, she had missed my spiel about grape juice. "It's homemade cranberry wine," she told me quietly. I was in a tough spot. Cindy is quiet and kind and considerate. All characteristics of which I aspire and constantly fall short. In the spirit of friendship, I was going to have to sip her sample. And wouldn't you know! It was a "Mikey Moment!" If you don't remember Mikey...you are too young for this blog. Go watch a podcast, you little whippersnapper! I loved Cindy's cranberry wine so much, I offered to buy a bottle.
I know what you're thinking. Well, Amy, you didn't think you liked wine but you enjoyed Cindy's product. Perhaps you should try the pig. Ah...NO.
Back to Brad at the pile of pork...like the new kid standing on the sidelines of a game of kickball, my hungry husband watched as men, up to their elbows, ripped meat from the bone. Oh, how he longed to be among them. By unspoken agreement, one veteran decided to put Brad to the test to see if he was worthy of their carcass club. "Betcha don't know the tastiest part of the pig," the swine-master sneered. Everyone held their breath (except me...I was chugging cranberry wine). Brad brightened...he was, after-all, an Iowa boy, born and bred. Not knowing they had a ringer in their midst, the men gasped as Brad, without hesitating, plucked a plump pig cheek and popped it in his mouth. "Ooohhhhh!" they exclaimed with admiration. "Ewwwww!" I groaned, grossed out.
So Brad was elected into swine society and, thanks to Cindy's wine, I just elected to swoon. Brad took me gently by the elbow to lead me back to the car. "Don't forget that I want a bottle of your cranberry swine," I slurred at Cindy. "See ya later, Brad," his new friends shouted, "Until we meat again!"
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