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been simmered earlier at the farm, until it formed a congealed cake, somewhat like boudin , grainy and pudding-textured. Whisked into the soup, it was fabulous. I knew now why José had always insisted on thickening coq au vin with fresh pork blood. We had pork confit with potatoes. We ate alheiras (a lightly smoked pork sausage) followed by bucho recheado . I was loving this, although hoping for the assistance of a gurney to get me back to my bed when it was all over.
         We got together again the next day for lunch back at the farm. But first, there was work to be done. The pig was cut down, the legs put aside for cured hams. We rubbed them with sea salt, pepper, and garlic, then packed them into a crate in the larder, buried in more salt. The center-cut poitrine was laid on top of the salt for a lighter cure. The hams would be removed in a month, then hung, smoked, and dried. Meat was cut large for one kind of chorizo, small for another, then left to hang in the smokehouse. As we broke down the pig, José’s mother hovered, selecting the cuts she’d need for lunch.
         Lunch was cozido , a sort of Portuguese version of pot-au-feu: boiled cabbage, carrots, turnips, and confited head, snout, and feet. José made sure I got a hefty portion of each part – and I’ve got to say, pork fat never tasted so good. As is customary, the double-starch rule was disregarded. Both rice and potatoes appeared as sides. Dessert was something called ‘bacon from heaven,’ made, unsurprisingly, of yet more egg yolks, along with sugar and ground almonds. I felt as if I were going to explode. When I was invited to kick around the old bladder ball by the farmhand’s kids, they scored off me at will. I could barely move.
         Dinner was a casserole of tripe and beans. Ordinarily, I don’t like tripe much. I think it smells like wet sheepdog. But José’s mother’s version, spicy, heavily jacked with fresh cumin, was delicious. I mopped up every bite, José demonstrating the Portuguese way to crumble that thick country bread onto the plate, add a little olive oil, and smash every vestige of remaining sauce and scrap into a tasty, greasy, wonderful paste before shoveling it into your mouth.
         I learned a lot about my boss in Portugal, and I had some really good meals. I learned, for the first time, that I could indeed look my food in the eyes before eating it – and I came away from the experience, I hope, with considerably more respect for what we call ‘the ingredient.’ I am more confirmed than ever in my love for pork, pork fat, and cured pork. And I am less likely to waste it. That’s something I owe the pig for. I know now what a pork chop costs in terms of the living, breathing thing that was killed to supply it. I learned to really enjoy tripe – and that there is no part of the animal’s anatomy with which I’m uncomfortable – though I don’t think I’ll be kicking bladder around Riverside Park anytime in the near future. I learned that in José’s Portugal, they never stray far from what they’ve always known to be good. It’s been over a century since anyone needed to cure codfish in salt, for instance, but they still love it. Because it’s good. If you joke with José, and say, ‘José! It’s all pork, bacalhau , pork, bacalhau , egg yolks, pork – and more bacalhau ,’ he’ll probably raise an eyebrow, smile, and say, ‘Yes? So? What’s wrong with that?’
         Portugal was the beginning, where I began to notice the things that were missing from the average American dining experience. The large groups of people who ate together. The family element. The seemingly casual cruelty that comes with living close to your food. The fierce resistance to change – if change comes at the expense of traditionally valued dishes. I’d see this again and again, in other countries far from Portugal.
         And I’d seen an animal die. It changed me. I didn’t feel good about it. It was, in