FOR YEARS, I've said that pork is the meat of my people and the words "swine" and "butter" will be engraved on my tombstone. I collect pigsceramic ones, painted ones, stuffed animals, and fridge magnets and have been known to travel the back roads of Louisiana in search of cracklings. Nowhere, though, does pork come to the forefront of my life as much as it does on my fall and winter tables. Then, I serve it up proudly as a roast with a crackling crust and a condiment of my choosing.
My Virginia-born Grandma Jones could put a hurtin' on a roast. In my family, that talent seems to have been matrilineal, with my grandmother passing her skills to my mother. They both delighted in creating rubs, inserting slivers of garlic, basting, and generally making sure the meat emerged from the oven ready to command its place as the centerpiece of the meal.
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