Star of the show
Puerto Rican pernil is a standout Thanksgiving roast — just guard that crispy skin
In fall 1985, with Thanksgiving looming, my mother prepared for her 20 guests as if Jesus and his disciples were coming over. After thumbing through every cookbook and food magazine in her extensive library, she decided to serve a dozen traditional dishes mixed in with holiday favorites from Puerto Rico. Instead of turkey, the star of the show would be pernil, a Puerto Rican slow-roasted pork shoulder crowned with cuerito, its coveted blistered skin.
There was no bigger fan of that crispy rind than my mother. Her face transformed as soon as her fingers wrapped around the heavenly crust. The thunderous crunch of it shattering couldn’t drown out her moans over the perfect marriage of salt, pork fat and crackling.
She went to three Mexican markets until she found a monstrous pork shoulder the size of a toddler. Its skin was pasty white, with a layer of lard at least two inches thick. She placed it in the front seat, wrapped the seat belt around it, and crooned along to “Pedro Navaja” as she drove us back to the suburbs.
My brother and I removed the middle shelf from the chilly interior of our fridge while my mother prepped the pork. She scrubbed the shoulder with water, then with lemon halves. She gingerly sliced under the layer of fat, separating skin from meat. She stopped just short of the small end of the roast and flipped the skin over.
She stabbed the pink flesh dozens of times with a steak knife, so swiftly and deeply, and I made a note never to argue with her while she worked in her kitchen. She broke open two heads of garlic, smashed the cloves in a mortar and pestle then dumped in spoonfuls of salt mixed with dried oregano and a Puerto Rican spice mix called adobo. She worked in a few spoonfuls of vinegar to transform the spices into an aromatic paste. Then she filled the gashes one by one with her garlic concoction.
She heaved the pork into a 13-gallon trash bag and poured in a marinade of lemon, lime and orange juices. Then she hoisted it into the fridge. For the next two days, whenever my brother or I opened the refrigerator door, she hissed at us to be careful.
The beast emerged from its resting place the night before Thanksgiving. My mother put it in a roasting pan big enough for my 1-year-old sister to play in and turned the oven to 200 degrees. She was going to slow-roast it overnight and baste it every hour. .
We woke up the next day to an intoxicating smell.
As guests arrived, each one closed their eyes, inhaled deeply and purred, “Oooh, it smells so good in here!” When the head count reached 20, my mother began handing me dishes to place on the table. Finally, all the dishes rested on the laden table except for one.
As everyone gathered around the lavish feast, the women murmured at how beautiful the meal looked. The men licked their lips. The big moment had finally arrived. My mother put on her new red oven mitts and opened the oven door. As she pulled the rack out in jerky inch-by-inch increments, she gasped so loud the room fell silent. She glared over at her two sisters, who stood at the dining room table, and spat out, “How could you?!” in a tone of disgust usually reserved for dog kickers.
And then I saw it. Someone had plucked a massive chunk of prized cuerito off the leviathan my mother had spent three days preparing. Instinctively, I walked back toward the living room, my eyes never once leaving my mother, whose face now matched her oven mitts as the insults snowballed between sisters. When my mother called one of my aunts the most offensive word you could hurl at a woman, all the men marched out to the backyard to smoke. I sat on our couch, wide-eyed, waiting for someone to throw a punch.
And then the miracle happened. The punches never came, the shouting died down, and the men returned to the table. As my stepfather quickly said grace, my mother looked forlornly at the pernil, pale where its prized, crispy skin had once been. She transformed her scowl into a tight smile and began serving dinner. My Tío Alvaro kept muttering “Ay Dios mio,” between bites, his eyes lifting to the ceiling as if we were hiding Jesus in the rafters.
I understood his cries of pure joy as soon as I took my first taste of that tender pernil, which held a piece of cuerito barely the size of a quarter. The meat melted on my tongue. The crackling was so unctuous it made me salivate and left my lips stained with a spiced, fatty gloss. I looked up at my mother, finally realizing the depth of our loss, and swallowed the urge to yell at my aunts too.