You don't eat a pig like that all at once

That was the punch line to one of my dad's favorite jokes. He was a great joke-teller, and it was a pretty good joke. It went something like this:

A stranger ventures upon a farmer, who is being trailed by a large pig with a wooden peg-leg. Naturally, he expresses his curiosity to the farmer. "Tell me, what's the deal with that pig with the wooden leg?"

"Well", said the farmer, "Let me tell you about that-there pig." The farmer (my father, in his fake-farmer drawl) then proceeded to regale the stranger with the tale of this special pig, who, among other heroic deeds, had rescued the entire family from their burning home. Depending on my father's mood and audience, this part of the joke could be embellished ad infinitum, with many asides about the intelligence of pigs, and the extreme gratefulness of the farmer.

"Wow", replied the visitor, "what an amazing pig, you owe your lives to that pig. So, tell me, how did he lose his leg?"

"Well", chuckled the farmer, "you don't eat a pig like that all at once!"

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Being a bacon-lover myself, I know just how that farmer feels. As far as I'm concerned, pork-belly is my reward for landing at the top of the food chain. In fact, I am currently in possession of just such a pig. It is a Duroc-Hampshire cross, a "heritage" breed. What is left of him resides in my freezer, in the form of chops, sausage, fat back (lard!) and the most delicious home-cured, home-smoked bacon I have ever tasted.

My pork has a low carbon footprint. In fact, it was raised just down the road from our inn, fattened up on an organic/pesticide-free produce farm, grazing in the sunshine, feasting on everything from organic squash to fresh hazelnuts and local cream and milk (just past the pull-date and provided by a local dairy). Kevin Morse and Kai Otteson, two La Conner-ites who were fed up with the pork they were able to buy at the local stores, went all the way with their idea: They now operate Morse-Otteson farms (www.pasturepork.com) , an FDA-approved provider of heirloom breed pork. And I am a devoted new customer.

As I jealously dole out the last of my bacon to family, friends and honored guests at our inn, I think about my dad, that joke, and that farmer. Because, after all, you don't eat a pig like that all at once.