Jeff’s birthday has been looming and causing me considerable anxiety, given the little “situation” we had with the last gift I gave him. If you missed that snapshot of our marital bliss, lucky you that I captured it in my previous blog:
In any case, I kept asking Jeff to give me some direction on what he would like for his birthday. I would list all the suggestions he gave me, but it might shut down the Internet, what, with the volume and all. Oh wait, he never gave me any suggestions.
But I took up my cross and prayed for inspiration or at least something that would give him bragging rights. And me. It is, after all, all about me. Jeff’s birthday is not a holiday from that. Anyway, as Paul Simon so eloquently sings, my idea bank was “empty as a pocket” and March 5 was coming to get me.
Then, it happened. I was sitting on a bike waiting for a spin class, and the teacher said, “can you believe that there is a place in Wicker Park where you can butcher a pig?” She was horrified and aghast, as a vegan should be.
I, however, knew I had struck birthday gold, because I went home that night and googled “butcher pig Wicker Park” and found the entry for the Butcher and the Larder on Milwaukee Avenue. Yes, you can indeed go to a pig butchering demonstration there and Jeff and I will be on the front row a few Sundays from now getting our butcher on.
So, on this his 37th birthday, Jeff opened a box from me with the pig and the knife in it– his clues to the gift. Watching the demonstration may be the grossest thing I ever witness, but I am not going to worry about that tonight. Tonight, I will sleep the sleep of the proud and the victorious, the sleep of a woman who redeemed her brass shoes with a promise of hand-butchered swiney items and porcine by-products.
Oh, sweet, sweet pork-infused dreams.