The Suckling Pig Debate

On Christmas Eve, my brother, his partner, their 10-month-old daughter and a plastic-wrapped suckling pig will board a flight in Sydney, destined for Queensland. My brother and his family will travel in cattle class. The poor, stiff little suckling pig will be in cargo. And its fate? To be stuffed, trussed, oiled and thrown on the family’s woefully ill-equipped barbecue for a southern-hemisphere Christmas feast.
The funny thing is that I was thinking of writing a post about food magazines and media and the impossibly chic, profligate images of Christmas they thrust under our noses. Their cornucopian, festive-season spreads are the equivalent of the pouting, couture-clad, super-styled and airbrushed waifs of fashion magazines in their capacity to induce neuroses and insecurities. Don’t have a little beach shack with a schmancy collection of mid-century Scandinavian furniture; a collection of friends who moonlight as models when they’re not trading futures; and a table groaning with specially imported Spanish jamon, recently caught lobster, artfully styled salads, and some pricey and interesting bottles you put away specially for the occasion? Well clearly you’re a failure. What if your ham isn’t from a well-raised, free-range, naturally smoked pig (female of course) with plenty of marbling through the leg? You might as well forget it. You don’t cut it. Can’t find the figs or the energy to make that luscious iced honey mascarpone and almond cake with fig salad you spotted on the cover of the December edition of Australian Gourmet Traveller? You’re pathetic.
Then I thought about my brother. Extravagant, just a little obsessive, and influenced, I’m sure, by the pre-Christmas gluttony he has witnessed in the elite restaurant where he works as a sommelier, he falls into that very trap every year. Shucking oysters for hours on Christmas morning; maxing his credit card out with his favourite new champagnes and wines; and, in the past couple of years, wrestling a dead baby pig on to a spit. Brilliant result on his barbecue-crazy father-in-law’s outdoor rotisserie in the national capital, but on the tinny little barbecue at our parents’ house up north, where he’ll be attempting it for the first time, I’m not so sure the result can be guaranteed. Nor is Dad. And, over the phone, I hear my restrained father’s stress levels rising about both the extravagance and the logistics of my brother’s suckling-pig passion. Dad is so easily stressed these days, and this year of all years, he shouldn’t be. I do get tired of being a big sister, but that suckling pig must not board that plane!
In the meantime, as a potential argument between siblings looms, I’m practising my own form of restraint. With or without the suckling pig, our festive-season spread will be substantial and, ahead of it, in between Christmas drinks, parties and catch-ups, I’m doing my best to keep things light.

Phillippa's Gazpacho
Serves 6

1-3 cloves garlic, or to taste
sea salt
1kg ripe tomatoes, roughly chopped
1 green capsicum, deseeded, cored and roughly chopped
2 cucumbers, peeled, deseeded and roughly chopped
2 round tablespoons onion, roughly chopped
2 handfuls homemade breadcrumbs (preferably from Phillippa’s Pane Toscano or Campagnard, crusts removed)
2tbsp good red wine vinegar (my friend Lucy likes to use a fine Spanish sherry vinegar in her gazpacho)
4tbsp olive oil
salt and pepper
1tsp sugar (optional)
6 slices Phillippa’s green olive bread**
150g soft goats cheese

In a mortar and pestle, crush garlic to a smooth paste with a good pinch of salt.
Blend vegetables and bread in a food processor or blender until absolutely smooth – you’ll most likely need to do it in batches. For a finer texture, put three-quarters of the mixture through a sieve or mouli.
Season the soup with garlic paste, vinegar, oil, salt and pepper. For a thinner, lighter soup, add ice cubes to each bowl.
Refrigerate for two hours, then adjust seasoning before serving.
Phillippa’s garnishing suggestions:
Croutons made with day-old Phillippa’s bread
Chopped Spanish jamon
Finely chopped hard-boiled egg
Diced cucumber
Diced tomatoes
Diced capsicum (red, yellow or green)
Drizzle of EVOO*

* Please note that, according to Chow.com, “EVOO” has been recognised as an official abbreviation for extra virgin olive oil by the Oxford American College Dictionary.
* As an alternative to Phillippa’s garnishing suggestions, I like her green olive bread smeared with goats cheese as an accompaniment. Although that’s not really light, is it?

Comments

[Carolyn]

A lot of the 'recipes', so-called, in those glossy food mags are nothing but the artful assembly of expensive ingredients; ingredients the food editors can put on the company tab, but not ingredients most people can afford to buy. And the pictures are like the equivalent of ageing Hollywood dames; everything is puffed and preened and bloody perfect looking. Yeah, everything looks perfect, but nothing looks beautiful, cos nothing looks real! Stuff boring, pretentious food fashion in mags, bullshit cookbooks and super wanky TV cookery shows (not including Jamie's ones about 15 and school dinners) and go to places where food is real, like markets and ethnic foodstores and cheap, ethnic bain-marie takeaways. And when you bypass the food mags in the newsagent, pick up something with some intelligence to match yours - like The Monthly or Australian Book Review. (And let the little bro do his suckling pig.)