The Magician

It wasn't until we peeled the first flaps of charred fat off the pig that we knew those five hours of grilling were actually a magic act. The heart racing grease, the burned-black sugar and spices, the pink and brown threads of meat, the woody smokiness lacing through everything -- it was pig as candy. For a group of Northwest boys who confuse grilling for barbecue, the alchemy of charcoal, wood, fire, meat, and, most important, time had never been so clear.

Grilling a seven-pound bone-in pork shoulder for an afternoon fails to qualify as proper barbecue, but I'd never cooked a piece of meat that long and my grill skills still sit somewhere between determining doneness with my index finger and freaking out at flare ups. This was also the first use of a new grill, my first grill, so I'll take even a bastardized version of barbecue. I'll take it especially for that moment when my friend, Dan Torres, and I pulled the shoulder apart with forks and the strands of meat became strings soaked with liquefied collagen and the fat and rub and meat pulled their last trick of the day.

Now I do believe that pig is a magical animal. I was just its assistant.