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We heard talking, laughing, things definitely happening as we came through the gate. We followed the sounds. They led us around the corner of the house, past the cactus and past the aloe, past the lime tree to the open area. Little did we know, it was our landlord's birthday. And little did we know, such a celebration calls for a pig. Poor pig- he gave it all for that party. His head lay on the ground just outside the bottom corner of the photo. His guts and his hooves piled up in a bucket just to the top left of corner of the photo. The men assured us that nothing would be wasted. I believed them.  They rinsed and trimmed and skinned the carcass, readying it for the oven.

The oven, you ask?
That would be the oven behind my house, an old brick kiln of sorts in a dark dusty out room. He took us over to show us the preparations. They filled the roaster box up with wood, now lit, and fire  began to warm the space, the most ancient preheat setting, I suppose. In the end, they would push the pig in on a big metal tray. The opening would be covered with a metal sheet and they would seal it with mud and walk away for hours, coming back in time to pull out the well-cooked pork. We were there when that happened, men and a neighbor boy besides, gathered for the opening. We all cheered and our landlord generously gave us a rack of ribs and a piece of chest. It was the truest of home-cooked meals.