Last weekend, I went to my first-ever pig roast, dubbed “Swinefest 2009″ in Pine Plains, New York. The affair included four roasted pigs, 40 kegs of beer, and fireworks so close I tasted ash on my beer. It was all miraculous!
Apparently, these huge gatherings centered around a barbecue and hillbilly music — we camped at the edge of a cornfield and woke up to the lyrics, “she was rocking the beer gut” blasting from a pickup truck — are fairly common in the Midwest, and Kelly had been to more than her share of them. Yet, as a newbie and a creature of city-life, I enjoyed it. I even took part in the dance party under a white tent filled with hay to the Jock Jam beats of Sublime and Blink 182.
Nothing says, “we’re no longer in New York City” than standing on top a picturesque hill overlooking the beautiful Catskill mountains and all of Hudson Valley in full greenery with the smell of burnt flesh in the air and a bottomless plastic cup in your hand.
Jake watching fireworks.
