On Pig Roasts

Written by Mark Grapengater

“If you feed a pig an apple, that apple will be metabolized by the pig and eventually turn into bacon. The pig is converting a tasteless piece of fruit, essentially garbage, into one of the most delicious foods known to man. The pig has to be one of the most successful recycling programs ever.”

—Jim Gaffigan

And he became hungry and wanted something to eat, but while they were preparing it, he fell into a trance and saw the heavens opened and something like a great sheet descending, being let down by its four corners upon the earth. In it were all kinds of animals and reptiles and birds of the air. And there came a voice to him: “Rise, Peter; kill and eat.” But Peter said, “By no means, Lord; for I have never eaten anything that is common or unclean.” And the voice came to him again a second time, “What God has made clean, do not call common.”

—Acts 10:10–15

When my wife asked me how I wanted to celebrate my thirtieth birthday, without missing a beat, I looked at her and said, “I want to roast a whole pig.” This was not the answer she was expecting. In fact, it was not even in the realm of answers she thought I would have.

“Um, okay,” she responded flatly, followed up by a series of practical and tangible questions. We had been married for less than a year, lived in a postage stamp city lot in St. Louis. She was concerned with with the practical and the tangible.

But I did not have the answers to her questions, I had a dream, a vision in my mind. Up to this point, either through working in restaurants, or my own gumption, I had cooked parts of the pig, I had butchered them, and I had smoked them, but I had never done a whole pig. Having watched Anthony Bourdain join in harvest festivals in Hungary and a boucherie in the Bayou of Louisiana, only served to intensify my imagination of cooking the whole hog.

Going “whole hog” by definition is a communal event. It is not a weeknight dinner for two; it is much more than a family meal. It longs to bring scores of people together, to rejoice in the bounty God has provided through such an impressive beast. It is an event in a of itself. People’s eyes and ears perk up. Their faces question the whole affair in disbelief. Usually, the follow up question is “How?” The short answer is patience and fire. The long answer is an invitation to come and join in the feast.

Pigs are one of the few animals in which all the parts are edible. While pork chops and tenderloins are primo steaks of the pork world, when time and especially smoke is added, the pig is transcendent. Traditional, Southern BBQ uses the shoulder to create “pulled pork”. The belly, when cured and smoked, transforms into the breakfast staple, bacon. Cheeks are used to make guanciale. The back legs are beloved the world over in its various interpretations of ham: prosciutto, Christmas, serrano, country. Hocks, the smoked lower legs of the animal, are a cheap cut added to stews and greens—both are elevated. The leftovers can be ground into bratwurst, saucisson, chorizo—a world of sausage. But when the whole animal is cooked together, instead of being divided, the sum is greater than the whole. In the same bite, you might experience the belly, the cheek, and the ham, leading to a bite of porcine bliss. I wanted to throw my head back in existential glory.

We sourced the pig from a small butcher across the river in Southern Illinois. We named him Gerhardt. He was about sixty pounds. I made a salt brine with the appropriate herbs and spices and let Gerhardt bathe overnight. We did not have a refrigerator or a container large enough for him, so we packed him in ice in our only bathtub, making sure we pulled the curtain shut, so Stacey did not have to face the reality of a formerly-living animal taking a soak. Hailey, our dog, on the other hand, was very interested in this reality.

I borrowed cinderblocks and rebar from Jon, both a neighbor and friend who gave me scant instructions on how he had roasted a pig before. On that fateful Saturday morning, I dug out a three foot by four foot rectangle of grass in our back yard, stacked the cinderblocks three high, and placed the rebar on top as grill grates. I laid foil down over the dirt, according to Jon’s instructions, and put charcoal in the corners of the makeshift pig pit for indirect heat. Stacey helped me lug Gerhardt outside, after we drained the brine. It felt very “Goodfellas.” Using a borrowed cleaver, I separated the rib bones from the spine, so he could lay out flat on the rebar. We placed him belly down on the rebar and covered him with foil, essentially hot boxing him. Gerhardt roasted for about eight hours. The last two hours we flipped him onto his back, so the skin could get nice and crispy—called “glass” when done right because of how it shatters in your mouth when you eat it.

Over thirty people came that day to enjoy Gerhardt wrapped in a tortilla blanket. A few extra hands gathered around to help me pull him off the pit and to separate the bones from the meat. Stacey had prepared a taco bar in our spare bedroom. I never ate a taco, but just pulled the meat from various parts of the beast. It was salty, fatty, tender, slightly smokey, and delicious. Kennedy, one little girl, was about 3 years old. She tasted every piece of meat I gave her, defying any normal pickiness of the childlike particularity. Those who were there ate and drank deeply of the bounty provided. The dream became reality.

A mere two years later, we had relocated to Atlanta, Georgia. I was serving as an Assistant Pastor at All Souls Fellowship, primarily overseeing Community Groups and Men’s Ministry. The Men’s Ministry had never had much structure to it. As a part of my role, I began to think through the various ways we could both serve the men who called All Souls their home, but also give them ways to invite their friends into the community. One of the events that had been done rather ad hoc happen to be a pig roast. I decided this would be an excellent invitational—even in the South, pig roasts do not just happen every day.

I found a local farm who supplied restaurants in the area and would deliver a heritage-breed pig to a cooler within a mile of my house. In the back of my yard, hidden behind some azalea bushes, I reconstructed the cinderblock pig pit and began a perennial porcine ritual of roasting. One year, I had to transport the pig through downtown Decatur to the host’s house. With windows down, the still sizzling flesh let off its aroma beckoning the masses to follow me to the feast. Volunteers would vie to be the host each year. Like in St. Louis, without recruiting, men would gather around to remove the bones and pull the meat off the skull. I developed a method of seasoning it after cooking, so I did not have to brine it in our bathtub any more. Alternating Kosher salt and an apple cider vinegar-red pepper flake mixture, I would season the meat as it was tossed—the irony of Kosher salt on a pig was not lost on me. The vinegar and spice would just cut the extra fattiness of these heritage-breed animals. Men ate and drank deeply once again.

We spent nearly five years in Atlanta before relocating to Denver to start a church in August 2018. There are very few good BBQ places in Denver, so I began to perfect the craft at a mile high, but had yet to do a whole hog. The onslaught of COVID-19 slowed everything down for us, as it did most people. We went from throwing parties with 75 or 80 people to having a few families over at a time. I remember mowing the lawn feeling very angry about the whole situation. I thought to myself, “What would I normally do to cheer myself up? Throw a party! I cannot even do that!” It just made me angrier. Then the restrictions began to lift. In August 2021, I was turning 40. Stacey knew I wanted to roast a whole pig. Things had come full circle.

I rented a smoker and parked it on my driveway. I ordered a hundred pound pig, now named Gerhardt von Grapengater VII. We invited everyone we knew! We had 96 show up the day of the party. We had both people who had known me my whole life—my parents, siblings, and some close friends—and people who we had just met in the past few years of living in Denver, including a new friend who I met during my party. We rented tables and chairs, setting them up as long, communal tables in the backyard. We had kids running rampant all around us—this is a new stage of life we are in. Again, men gathered round to help separate the meat from the bones and mix the meats together. Again, I seasoned it with vinegar, red pepper flake, and kosher salt. It was, again, salty, fatty, and delicious.

The celebratory nature of the party—both for me and for the COVID-19 restrictions being lifted—seemed to require a blessing and thanksgiving being offered. I mustered my outside voice to garner everyone’s attention so that we could pray and make hallowed this feast. As I thanked people there, I was reminded of Peter’s dream in Acts 10, how God let down a blanket of unclean animals and called Peter to eat. The point was not the violation of the purity laws of the flesh set before him, but the sharing of a meal with Gentiles with whom he would soon be called to eat. I recounted this story not being able to hold out against my preaching proclivities and then prayed. I ended, without thinking, with the line, “And all God’s people said...” A resounding chorus descended upon me, with a loud, “Amen!” People dug in and ate and drank deeply once again.

The next day, as we cleaned up, I was trying to think of what I had said. I had been so lost in the ecstacy of having my house and heart full once again. And suddenly I was aghast that I ended my prayer with “And all God’s people...” The truth was the majority of people there were not Christians. I have always prided myself in being sensitive, even in prayer, to people’s faith journeys and not placing a label on them that would not stick. That’s when it hit me like a sheet dropping from heaven, whether they know it or not, no matter where they are on their faith journey, they are all God’s people. I was now overwhelmed with another kind of gratitude. See, the invitational nature of the pig roast is a reminder that in our humanity, the sum is greater than the whole. God’s hospitality knows no bounds.

Keep the feast.

How to Roast a Whole Pig

1. The Pit: You will need about 24 cinderblocks, 11 4-foot sections of rebar, and some metal wire. It is amazing, if you ask around how many people just might have them laying around their house. But if not, any home supply store will have them. Prepare the pit area by leveling the ground as best as possible and removing any material that may burn, including grass or other flora. This can give an off-flavor to the meat. I have laid foil over the ground, or some heat resistant rocks. Lay out two cinderblocks the short way and turn a third block 90o to begin the long side of the pit. The long side will have a total of 4 blocks running down the side, including the initial block. Then with the blocks overlapping each other, as in a brick building, place the second layer on top. Lay out nine of the pieces of rebar the short way across your “pit.” Lay the other two long ways on the edges; you’re making a grill grate. Wrap the wire around each of the rebar sections to secure them to the two pieces that lay longways. You now have your pit.

2. The Fire: Buy hardwood charcoal, which can be found at any major home store, not briquettes. You will likely need about four 20-pound bags of this charcoal. To initially start the fire, a chimney starter is useful to start the fire, but also to transport the burning coals to the pit! You can either have a very low bed of coals across the entire bottom of the pit, or you can place your piles of charcoal in the corners. The key is a low heat that slowly cooks the pig without burning it. A lot of this process is heat management. You want the temp at the grate level to average about 250°F. A good rake to move the coals around and a laser thermometer is a good investment for this.

3. The Pig: The best way to secure a heritage-breed pig is to find a farmer who raises them. In certain parts of the country, this can be a challenge. Farmer’s Markets and Google are your best friends for this. If you cannot find a farmer, call a local butcher shop. They should be able to source a whole pig for you. They will charge you by the pound called “hanging weight.” This price can largely vary and will decrease with an increased weight of the pig. Under five dollars a pound is reasonable; under four is great. On average, I have found that an estimate of one pound hanging weight per person is a good place to start. A little more, if you are serving all adults. It never hurts to have leftovers! They will need about 10 days lead time, so call ahead. You will need to pick the pig up the day before your event, so plan accordingly. Bathtubs or large coolers are great places to store the animal. Use plenty of ice to keep it at an appropriate temperature. If using a bathtub, place some towels over the top to insulate it.

4. The Cook: Pull the pig out of its storage container before you build your fire, so that it can come up to temperature before you place it on the pit. Use a sharp knife or a heavy cleaver to separate the ribs from the spinal column. It will take a bit of effort, but once you begun the cut, you may be able to push down on the front legs to get them to splay out completely. You want to lay the pig out flat to maximize cooking efficiency. You will also need a second set of hands to help in placing the pig on the rebar grill grates — dead animals are heavy.

Tent the pig with foil and use some weights to hold the ends down. This keeps the heat in and hotboxes the pig. About two hours before you are done cooking it, as best as you can flip the pig, so the skin is down. This will help cook and crisp up the skin and create the “glass.” Use dry towels to hold each leg, count to three with your friend, and carefully flip it. Often this is more of a roll than a “flip!” Re-tent it with foil and keep the fire low.

Depending on the size of the animal, I have cooked them in seven hours, but larger ones have also taken about twelve hours. They will hold their heat and it is best to have extra hours incase your fire dies, or some other emergency arises, which it will! Plus you will need a little bit of time let the meat rest, so the juices redistribute themselves in the meat. You are looking for a final temperature around 203o F. With an instant read thermometer check the temperature in the hams and the shoulders to judge the doneness most accurately.

5. The Feast: With helpers, pull the pig off the pig onto a table, preferably skin side down. Begin by remove all the bones. They should pull out easily with a twist. (Don’t throw them away! They make great stock for soups.) Pull the meat into bite size pieces, or chop up any sections that are not pulling. There is good meat on the head, particularly the cheeks. The only real piece of offal you will have is the tongue — it is your choice if you want to mix it in or not!

Prepare a half gallon of apple cider vinegar by pouring in a 3 oz jar of red pepper flakes; shake well. Begin seasoning with Kosher salt, preferably Diamond Crystal. Season, toss, season, toss. Add some vinegar and do the same. Taste. Is it seasoned enough? Do you get some twang from the vinegar, some bite from the red-pepper flake, some saltiness from the, well, salt? Keep adding until you have the flavor you desire. Praise God and feast in your hearts by faith!

Sides

CFA Coleslaw

Green Cabbage Head, finely sliced
Red Cabbage Head, finely sliced
3 Large Carrots, shredded
1 Red Onion, finely sliced 
1-2 Jalapeños, halved and sliced into half rounds
1 bunch Cilantro, chopped
2 TB Mustard Seeds
1/4 Cup Apple Cider Vinegar 
16 oz. Bottle Chick-fil-a Sauce
3 TB Kosher Salt

Mix all ingredients in a large bowl. Let flavors meld in the fridge for about 30 minutes before serving.

Hatch Chile Baked Beans

1/2 pound smoky bacon, preferably Benton’s
1 Yellow Onion, finely diced
2 22oz Cans of Bush’s Best Grillin’ Beans Bourbon and Brown Sugar
1/2 pound Roasted Hatch Green Chiles, preferably fresh roasted, but Hatch Valley 505 Southwestern works in a pinch.

Cut the strips of bacon into quarter inch pieces and brown in a large stockpot on medium heat. Once crispy, remove the bacon and drain on a paper towel. Leaving about two tablespoons of the bacon fat in the pot, add the onion and cook over medium-low heat to caramelize, stirring regularly. This should take about 10 minutes. Be careful not to burn your onions. Once onions are caramelized, add the beans, chiles, and bacon. Stir everything to combine them evenly.

Bring to a simmer and serve.

Cornbread and Honey-Butter

For the Cornbread:

4 ounces vegetable oil or lard, divided
4 cups fine white cornmeal, preferably J.T. Pollard brand 1 cup all-purpose flour
3 teaspoons salt
5 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 tablespoon sugar
41⁄2 cups buttermilk, plus extra for serving
2 eggs, beaten
5 ounces butter, melted

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees and place two (10-inch) cast-iron pans into oven, each filled with 2 ounces vegetable oil or lard. Allow pans to preheat along with oven.

2. Combine all dry ingredients together in a large mixing bowl. In a separate bowl, whisk together buttermilk and eggs. Combine wet ingredients with dry, and add melted butter. Adjust consistency of batter with additional buttermilk until the mixture resembles thick pancake batter.

3. Pour mixture into preheated cast-iron pans and bake until golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, 45 to 55 minutes. Remove from pan and set aside to cool.

Recipe from: Kevin Gillespie

For the Honey-Butter:
1/2 pound Butter, room-temperature

4oz. Honey

Mix until smooth