Pigheaded

There is a frozen pig head in my refrigerator. 

In an effort to feed my family better and kinder meats, I split a hog with one of my friends whose brother is a farmer. He raises pigs the old fashioned way -- in the dirt and grass. They live in pens and do piggy things as opposed to being raised in sterile factories, where the workers must dress like lab personnel instead of farmers.

I'd done this once before and when my meat arrived in little packets of chops and roasts, I'd inquired about the pork cheeks, liver, blood, and pigs feet. I thought that if we were buying a whole hog, those things would be included as well. My friend was baffled that I would even consider asking for those parts of the pig. She said that her brother usually gives those to the farmhands. I was disappointed but knew the opportunity would probably present itself again.

This year I was prepared. I asked if her brother could collect the liver, the blood, the pig's face, and the feet. In fairness, he tried. The guy who slaughters the pigs for him put all the pig's internal organs into a huge bucket. My friend's brother looked at the bloody mess and couldn't conceive fishing around for the liver. At the suggestion that he just freeze the whole mess and send it to me that way, I was grateful he decided it wasn't worth the bother. He did his best to give me the pigs feet but they were covered in mud and stuff that surely wasn't mud. Despite scrubbing them in hot water repeatedly, he didn't feel like it was sanitary to send me those. But the head -- the head he could do. They simply lopped that off and froze it whole.

I'd asked for the face! The face! Not the skull. Those tender cheeks and the thought that I could try my hand at sisig was very exciting to me. But a whole head?!?

In theory a pig's head is not a terrible thing to have to cook. There is a long tradition of cooking pig heads in my family. My father would boil the heads before he would roast them. We'd all fight for the ears and the crackling skin. The cheeks were truly delights. There was a vinegary sweet liver sauce that went with the pig head and the next day we'd have a stew called paksiw. At my daughter's baptismal party, we ordered a suckling pig. My older brother took home the pig head as I simply could not bear to deal with the skull.

And now there is a pig's head in my freezer.

So I texted my brother the chef. "I have a frozen pig head. How do I cook it? It's the whole head, not just the face."

He was so excited, he called me right back. Told me that I could boil it then roast it like Dad did. Said that if it were him, he'd probably just roast it whole so it would be easier. But then he had to say the terrible thing. He said, "Oh, if you can, save me some brains. It's better than butter. It's rich and creamy. Some hot brains on toast is the best thing. So good!" I had him on speaker phone. My daughters and husband were in the car when David was waxing poetic on pig brains. I think every last one of us lost all the coloring in our cheeks and a collective shudder rocked the car.

Then I texted my friend Greg who is also a chef. This conversation happened after my phone call with my brother. By this point, I had googled cooking a whole head and all the pictures had me off. I was ready to simply conduct a funeral for the pig's head and have done.

Me: I have a pig head in my freezer. Your thoughts? My brother wants me to debone it. I requested the face, especially the cheeks of the hog. I got the whole head. I wanted to make sisig.
Him: Debone... Save me the brain or a piece... Stock for split pea...
Me: How the heck can I get to the brain??? And also, how do I do this while avoiding PTSD?
Him:  Use a sanitary saw.
Me: I have sanitary napkins. I do not have a sanitary saw.
Him: Do you have the sweet breads too?
Me:  I did not get the offal. You can have all the brains if you hold my hand through this process. And by hold my hand, I mean come over here and help me through it. Otherwise, I'm bringing the head to my brother's house and he can deal with it. I'm seriously out of my comfort zone. Haven't you ever wanted to make your own pancetta?
Him:  Ideally you need a bandsaw.
Me: We have a bandsaw but Rob says no. This experience has the potential of putting me off pork for a bit. 

So for now, there is a head in my freezer. It is thankfully wrapped in a white plastic bag that I cannot see through. But it sits there. Oh yes, like Poe's telltale heart, it sits there daring me to defrost it and get out the brains for the chefs in my life.

Monkeyspheres and astroturf

SockMonkeyAngel on Etsy
Seattle Seahawk Monkey

Lately I've been following football.

This isn't something that I undertake lightly. My whole city is swept up into it. My whole city is rallying behind the Seahawks in a way that I've not ever witnessed. Not even when the Seahawks were in Superbowl 40 in 2005 did the city have this fever. There is something about this iteration of guys under Carrol and Schneider that has the region buzzing. 

I like to say that I watched football with my brothers and my father most of the years of my childhood. That isn't false. But during those times, all I could really understand about the games being played is that there was a football that needed to go to one side or the other. The men in my house had little patience to explain the intricacies of the game to a little girl. Let me write that again. Not to a little girl. So while I tried to understand, all I could glean was that my father would be rooting for the guys wearing red and gold. My brothers would be rooting for other colors that went against red and gold. Sometimes my father would yell at the television a lot. For years, I didn't pay attention. I simply didn't want to invest. Did I really want to have yet another facet of my life over which I truly had no control? When people would ask me which team I supported, I told them it was the red and gold one because it was my father's team. While I could probably name the cities and appropriate team names, my knowledge of the game was limited to that.

But then there was the 2012 season. I make no apologies about sitting up and taking notice for the first time really. My husband isn't a big watch-on-the-television sports kind of guy. Nor am I, if I'm being honest. The story of these players being from the island of misfit toys resonated with me. They were a team of late round draft picks and un-drafted players. The quarterback was shorter than most in that position and was a rookie to boot. But from that, they had progressed into a force. When they fell short to the Atlanta Falcons despite that soaring 4th quarter, despite that 2 point lead with 30 seconds left on the clock... Ah, the hubris of believing that they had it in the bag and had pulled off the greatest comeback of all time. I don't think I'll ever forget the look on Russell Wilson's face after that game. It broke my heart.

But this post isn't about that. It's more about what I've observed with being a fan. It all comes down to monkeyspheres. If that concept and the attached article are too much to take in, it is the idea that we as primates are only able to keep about 150 people within our radius of caring.  We are designed to think in terms of us & them.  It is part of being a social animal. Something primal within us makes us want to quickly categorize people. Stereotyping people is normal. Categorizing people is normal. Comparing our social group to other social groups is normal. Being part of a larger group is part of being human -- it is how we identify ourselves.

This is at the root of all conflict. All.

So I've started really paying attention to football in a way I never have before. I've been reading analysis. Learning about the different positions. Learning some history. Attempting to understand the rules. And feeling like I'm having to catch up. But that was fine. There was depth to this sport that was fascinating. Seeing the intricacies of how these teams function with each play was something I had never noticed before. It was like I had only ever watched a swarm of bees and never noticed that each bee had a job.

And here is where we get to the crazy. I've been a fool to think that this was all kind of fun. That becoming a fan of a football team was fun. That starting to watch and take part in this national obsession was like joining a huge club into which any American was gladly offered admittance! What I found was that I would not be welcomed into this monkeysphere easily.

With the recent success of the Seahawks, my friends and most notedly one of my brothers, have been scoffing at my interest. That my cheers and hopes and even clothing were not worthy of the franchise upon which I place my honor. But I'm not alone. A recent study from Nielsen Scarborough showed that NFL fandom is up by 27% in the Seattle area. While a bump is usual when there is a championship, this is interesting because NFL fandoms don't change numbers -- they remain stagnant.

There is a reason for that.

Within the monkeysphere of NFL fans, there are the monkeyspheres of the two conferences, and within that, there are the monkeyspheres of the 4 regions of the two conferences, and then within that are the individual teams. What you might not expect is the monkeyspheres within the monkeyspheres of the fans of the individual teams. That is an s-ton of monkeyspheres. How does one keep it straight?

There is a kind of boastful pride that people use to talk about how long they have been a fan. They say they've been fans since the Seahawk's inception -- nearly 40 years ago already -- they founded in 1976. There's talk of fans who have weathered the times when the Seahawks were super crappy. Fans even pride themselves on wearing the old jersies -- Hasselbeck, Largent, or other luminaries we've had on the gridiron. The old colors and old Seahawk logos are a kind of badge of honor. That if you have not been through the rough times when the Seahawks sucked, you don't belong in this monkeysphere. That's the reason NFL fandom has been stagnant. One does not take up a banner because those who were there before will not give you berth.

My friends -- Seahawk and other monkeysphere team fans -- take great pleasure on quizzing me about the Seahawks. Recently, I texted a Niner fan friend of mine to wish him a happy new year. And he came back with pictures of himself and his family in full Niner regalia. I sent him a picture of myself in my Seahawk gear. He proceeded to quiz me on Seahawk history and I predictably failed. Told me that I wasn't a "true," fan. My brother and I have had what I thought was a friendly back and forth. However, it seems that was not the case. He's a Viking fan. At every turn he reminds me about how I'm not a "true," fan most recently because I do not own a jersey. The words bandwagon and fair weather are bandied about like racial epithets. But this kind of labeling comes also from my friends who are long time Seahawks fans. A "there, there, don't worry your pretty little head," kind of mentality when I talk about the game and its dynamics.

Is this to be yet another area in which I need to guard my views; religion, politics, and feminism need to make room for NFL fandom?

I am a TRUE fan because I say I am a TRUE fan. Just like in religion, politics, and feminism, you don't get to check my bonafides, you don't get to police or decide if I'm a TRUE fan based on how long I've followed the game, cared about the game, purchased the merchandise, or even had it register on my radar. You don't get to tell me how to be a fan simply because you don't think I belong in this monkeysphere. This is not something that gets passed down from father to son anymore. I don't have to prove anything to you so stop assuming that I do. I've been wrong to engage in it myself -- I flatly do not accept the premise of your position, that there is such a thing as a true fan versus a fake one. I know this, I'm real.

And for the record, I think the pink jerseys are stupid, too. They're reductive and sexist. But whatever. Women are increasing NFL fandom and the pink jerseys are not the reason.