Pig Roast - Out of Sequence

 The annual pig roast is out of space and time, in its own way, so less a problem it's out of sequence on this blog.  What normally happens in June happened this year in August, the Peter Ireland Invitational Pig Roast in Vermont.  The beautiful field above is the tent city next to the farmhouse home, view from the hayloft where I always end up.

 Although there is occasional coming and going from the main house, mostly it's by people with young children.  This year, amazingly, this outdoor kitchen got built:

 In its entirety, out of scrap appliances and sinks and things, plus the whole wood structure:

 The first morning, I heard about the Marina Abromavich piece at MoMA from one of the performers (below).  Although all of them were on an ayurvedic diet, he said he developed a habit early on of stopping for donuts on the way there, to fortify himself for the long, strenuous days of performance.  What I took away: donuts = good performance art.

Here are Judd, Pete, and Becky, also listening to story of performance art, over more than outstanding zucchini chocolate chip loaf.

 Jorge, resting his head:

The style factor and adorableness factor for small children, huge.  For instance:

 Wardrobe level for adults, note the suit:

 Seems a bit macabre, and also glorious, the pig.  Every year, the roasting technology changes and (to my untrained eye) improves.  This year, the cinderblock pit:

 A view of the covered porch where the DJ magic and food buffet are:

 Nathan and Judd:

With the lovely Deedee and her son Henry (I am nearly certain).  I hadn't seen Deedee probably since college, so this was a super exciting run-in:

 Darby and Galen, outfitted for pig in a shark tee:

 Galen's mom, Juliette, with Nathan and Darby (outfitted for pig in a pig tee):

I didn't remember a camera battery, so my pictures are slim, apart from the long film of grass Galen took.  The arrival of the pig in the early afternoon Saturday was followed by the traditional you-must-carry-a-beer-while-running-bases game of kickball -- this includes a pink princess kickball itself, a few international guests getting up to speed on the rules, and a miraculously uncharacteristic catch by me in the outfield (where a large bottle of bourbon also seemed to circulate).  At once point, mutinous wuffle-ball players tried to steal the keg, but kickball triumphed, at least temporarily.

One of the great things about the pig roast from a culinary standpoint is that it is also home to amazing: spring rolls, homemade falafel, and vast crates of the best arugula I have ever tasted (thanks to Chris Kurth, an organic farmer, who brought some of his own).

I drove back to New York with Darby and Juliette, solid play time with Galen. . . .