Day 6- That Superbowl Pig

I walked into the house and there it was. My deepest, darkest fantasy. My hidden desire. My shameful impulse.

The Pig.

It had been smoked with Jack Daniel's Hickory Woodchips for hours, and was now in the oven finishing off the last few hours of the cooking process. I drooled, gazing through the opaque glass of the oven, eyeing the smokey 15 lbs shoulder of the beast.

God's greatest animal in all its smoked glory was taunting me, post-mortem, on the most sacred of feast days. In a Shadrach, Meshack, and Abednego moment I saw someone else standing in the heat of the oven. Except this time, it was el Diablo. It snarled past the smokey goodness at me, "Come on! It's the Superbowl. You deserve this. You've gone a week! Just this one bite. Everyone will understand."

I quickly brushed the words off and pretended to quote some scripture as I walked away from the oven.

I watched each person at the Superbowl party prepare their sandwiches in wonderfully different delicious ways- dripping with sauce, topped with creamy coleslaw, overflowing with chunks of juicy, succulent pork. The individuality of each sandwich had a strangely patriotic feel and I settled back into my seat with my carrots.

Before I knew it, the Superbowl was over. The pork was gobbled up mostly. My stomach was somewhat satiated, and I was walking out the door. "I did it. I withstood The Test." I left a Superbowl party feeling generally healthy for the first time in my life. I fell asleep with a rewarded feeling.

When I woke up this morning and got ready for work, I threw my jacket on running out the door and was hit with that familiar smokey smell from last night.

That'll do pig. That'll do.