One of our favorite meals at my house is Pioneer Woman's Shredded Pulled Pork. There's nothing simpler than dumping some Dr. Pepper and Adobo Peppers (or BBQ sauce, which is what we use) on a pork butt and letting it cook all day. Easy and delicious. It's especially handy when company is coming because it produces quite a few servings and everyone likes it. Win-win!
On Thursday evenings, we've started a tradition of eating with some friends of ours. The kids play while we chat and it's great. I had decided to make the Pulled Pork of Awesomeness for the meal, but when I checked our pantry, I couldn't find any Dr. Pepper.
I scoured the cupboards for any sort of soda-pop-ish beverage that could serve as a sweet meat tenderizer, but, alas, the only drinks I keep stocked in our house are milk and water. Oh, and pink lemonade. I stood in the kitchen, fretting, until I remembered that we had a bottle of whiskey in our top cabinet.
Now, before you start thinking that my husband and I survive our wonderfully chaotic little life by being closet alcoholics, let me clarify that the whiskey was only in my possession because of another PW recipe that called for it. I cocked my head and pondered whether or not whiskey could serve the same purpose as DP. Surely. Right?
So, I unscrewed the lid, shuddered at the stench, and poured a little on top of the roast. I peeked into the pot and thought that the liquid content seemed a little low, so I poured a little more. It still didn't seem like enough, so I drenched the roast, screwed the lid back on the (significantly lighter) bottle and stashed it back in the top cabinet. I then dumped BBQ sauce on top of it, turned on the heat, and walked away to let the roast cook. Or brew. Whichever.
After a few hours, the house began to smell a little sour, but I ignored it because you really can't judge the idiocy of a decision until that decision has come to complete fruition, which, in this case, required a fully cooked roast. So I waited until the allotted cooking time had passed and only a few minutes before our friends were to arrive, I tested the roast.
I lifted the lid and despite the intolerably rancid and bitter smell, I held my breath, grabbed a fork, and proceeded to attempt to shred my shredded pulled pork.
Only it didn't shred. In fact, it didn't move. That dang roast was as solid as though it were still in the fridge.
Not one to give up so easily, I grabbed my butcher knife, shoved it down into the roast, and scraped a piece of meat onto my fork. I steeled my nerves, opened my mouth, and placed the Roast Fail on my tongue.
As quickly as the roast entered my mouth it also exited it, as I gagged and threw up in the kitchen sink.
The taste of the whiskey was so undeniably prominent that I might as well have left the pork and BBQ sauce out of the pot and written "Hot Liquor" under the Thursday slot on our menu board. It was so sour, SO sour, and I hung my head in shame as I mentally added this to the long list of domesticity fails that have occurred in my married life. Poor husband. Poor friends that were on their way over. Poor pork roast. Poor trash can that would have to endure the wretchedness of the poor pork roast.
Thankfully, Pizza Hut delivers to my house.
Have a lovely day.