Stalking Old Boyfriends and Pork Loin

There are some things I refuse to look up on Google search—especially in Google images.  This includes such horrors as jumping spiders (I’m sorry, but the words ‘jumping’ and ‘spider’ just do not go together) or Madagascar hissing cockroaches or jeans with elastic waistbands.  Each is so hideous and downright scary in real life, that confronting any one of them nose to nose on my screen, would freeze me in terror as my quivering fingers struggled to find the damn key that closes the page.

I recently found that there is a far more dangerous place on the web.

No, I am not talking about stalkers or sites proffering those ads for free designer handbags (I swear, it read FREE Prada—you choose!), these wicked sites, upon being clicked, fill your computer with enough viruses that the CDC puts your apartment on their list of places where travelers must be inoculated before visiting.   True, these sites are scary, but not half as scary as that one place out there in cyberspace that contain images so horrible, which once viewed, you’ll pour a stiff Vodka tonic and go straight to bed.  The site?  Facebook.

On the surface, Facebook is a seemingly innocent social networking site where people from literally all over the world can come together and connect.  The nexus for that connection can be as arcane as the love ancient Babylonian Lit—Gilgimesh Rocks! or as charming as the love of dressing ones” cats in goofy costumes.  (I want to know, do these folk sedate their cats?  How do you do it?  Our cats are either psychic or have mini calendars tucked somewhere in their fur coats, because when the holidays come  around, our guys take to camping under the bed.  I think they know Christmas is coming, and my glue gun is ready!  Should we make elves?  Reindeer hats with pipe cleaner antlers, anyone?

Unfortunately, such convivial cuteness and sense of community belies the darker side of Facebook. I came upon this side quite innocently.  One afternoon, I was perusing the web for a recipe for pork loin that didn’t require me to butterfly it in order to stuff it, creating a pinwheel effect.  I had never pinwheeled a piece of meat before, and despite this handicap, still consider myself to be a good cook.  I wanted to be justified.

I had just watched Martha Stewart create a pecan stuffed pork loin.  Sitting in front of the TV with my mouth open, “Noooooooo…”  I was incredulous.  Had I been shortchanging DH by mishandling this cut of meat?  I swear, it never occurred to me to cut the loin to flatten it, spread any number of fillings and to roll it up like a jelly roll.  According to Dame Stewart, this method “Was how it was done.”

Really?!  I usually just bought this cut of meat because it came vacuumed packed, which meant I could toss it in the back of the fridge, pull it out whenever, unzip the bag, add salt, garlic powder, tons of black pepper and roast it for one of those, “I’m toot tired to cook” dinners.

I hit the laptop and Googled “Pork Loin.”  There are obviously entire populations of people devoted to the pork loin. I was even bombarded  with billions of pages out in cyber-land dedicated to recipes, rubs, and sauces, none of which required pinwheeling the loin.  I was somewhat vindicated, though stuffing the loin, jellyroll style is the epitome of pork loin prep, to find that there are legions of slovenly cooks like me who just pop the thing in the oven.

One thing about the internet, it’s almost too easy to wander off of the safe well-lit pathway of pork loin recipes into the dark alley ways where danger lurks behind sooty doorways.  Too easy.

From pork, I wandered over to Facebook to check my page.  I am an infrequent Facebook user.  I never could get into the friending concept.  I have hundreds of friends who I don’t know or who I have never met…they are just friends of friends of friends…you start out with one, and a week later you have 200.  Kind of like crab grass.

Still, Facebook can be interesting, especially if you’re bored.  I just didn’t know what existential trauma lurked beyond its cheery blue and white logo.  I logged in, answered an email or two from people who read my blog–I’m still amazed people actually read it!—and started to peruse for people who might be neighbors…no real interesting hits; a book club that has meetings every Monday evening looked interesting; a Thai cooking class…I bookmarked these for further exploration.

Getting ready to log off, I suddenly got the idea to type in the names of people with whom I went to high school.  I had no idea where the idea came from.  I didn’t even like high school.  I say, silly and misguided are those who deny the evil gremlins who sit on the corners of the laptop as we type.  DH was so wrong when he said he didn’t believe me  as I explained how one had forced my fingers to type in his credit card number after it had forced me to hit “buy” over at the Marc Jacobs site.  Really, it wasn’t my fault.

Typing in names of old girlfriends didn’t really yield much.  I figure many have new names through marriage, or knowing the girls with whom I hung around, multiple hyphen names from multiple marriages.  Then I typed in the names of my old boy friends.  Nothing.  Zip.  Then it hit me, they don’t have access to the internet in prison…My mother was always convinced that the guys I chose would most likely end up doing 5 to 10 for something.

I suddenly recalled a guy’s name.  How did I forget?  I was so in love with this guy.  I mean, head over heel, in love.  At 15, I knew with all the wisdom in the universe that this guy was IT.  It was also because of him that I almost ran away to join a convent.

One Saturday afternoon, he came to my house to get a homework assignment.  When he called to say he was coming, I swear it was as if Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney and Mickey Dolenz were all coming over for a party.  When this guy arrived, I dutifully gave him the assignment, explained it for him and joked around a bit.  He had to meet his dad for something and couldn’t stay.  I walked him to the door, waved and closed the door.  Thrilled beyond thrilled, I looked in the hallway mirror to check my hair, and there it was. I had a chocolate milk moustache from the glass I had before he had arrived.  Convinced my life had come to an abrupt end, I couldn’t talk my mother into driving me to the nearest convent.  Sadly, me and the hunk never really shared anything but polite pleasantries ever again.  He never knew the heart he and a glass of chocolate milk managed to break.

I slowly typed his name into Facebook’s search window.  Oh good lord, his name, and picture both came up.  My jaw hit the table as I read his bio to be sure it was the right guy.  I got to his list of schools and hometown. Yep it was him.

I squinted at the picture.  One time he was the school hunk who played hockey.  Now, he is bald and well over 250 lbs.  I’m not friending him.  Nope.  That would be too weird.  I haven’t logged onto his page since.  At first, I chuckled when I saw his girth and shiny top.  Then I thought about how I had changed over the years.  Would he chuckle too?  Probably not.  I’m roughly the same size I was in high school; and I still have all of my hair.

Best of all, DH doesn’t mind my chocolate moustache.

Easy Pork Loin

1 packaged pork loin

1/2 cup brown sugar

1 tbl salt

1 cup apple cider vinegar

1/4 cup dark rum

In a zip lock bag, place the loin and all the liquid and salt.  Seal, squeezing out all the air, massage the meat to break up and dissolve the sugar.  Store in the fridge for at least an hour–over night is best.

Pour everything into a covered baking dish, bake at 400°  for about an hour or the internal temperature reaches 140°–uncover for 10 mins to brown lightly.