capuchin colonic; coromandel, rubicon

[desperance]

Today's meaningless chanting is brought to you by the letter C (to the tune of Don McLean's Vincent, an earworm of such longstanding it has rent protection and all the privileges of a citizen).

In other news, I have decided to stop worrying and learn to love the feeling as we slide ever further down the razor blade of life.*

In pursuit of which, this is what I'm doing for Hogswatch tomorrow:

slow-roasted shoulder of pork, marinated overnight in garlic and rosemary and such;

chestnut-apple stuffing, as a loaf (because I am not boning out the shoulder, no);

warm fingerling potatoes in a mustard vinaigrette;

roasted carrots, maybe (if there's room in my supersized utterly inadequate oven; if not, tarragon butter carrots maybe);

green salad;

sesame buns for sammiches (for those who want to watch Hogfather while munching, instead of dining civilly at the clubhouse table);

pannetone if I remember to start it off tonight;

sossidges in bacon (because Americans seem not to know this panacea of all things);

persimmon bread (and this time I'll weigh everything as I go, and post a recipe);

- and the cynosure of all eyes, the piece of probable resistance, a whole roasted pig's head. I know I said I'd do soused pig's face, but I can't find the book and I'm a tad stressed and so forth (see above, under razor blade, and ask yourself when I last slept past five am) so I'm going for the easy option**.

The pig's head is currently relaxing in a nice warm bath, his snout poking out like a periscope, wreathed in steam. White Cat has already come to pay a social call, but I had to turn him away; Mr Head does not receive visitors in his bath.


*Yeah, right.

**Yeah, right.