The Texas Wild Boar
I looked up without moving my head. A tall woman in khaki shorts was pushing a pink invoice in my direction.
At that moment I was balancing on my left leg, body horizontal to the floor, right leg propping the refrigerator door open behind me. The pose was something akin to a figure skater’s pre-jump wind-up, and the only way I could get heavy pans in the fridge when there was no one else to open the door.
With a quick switch of the right leg for the right shoulder I pushed the door open, stepped back, and hoisted the chocolate pot de creme to the top shelf, little ramekins clattering.
I shut the door, brushed my hands on my apron, and looked up.
YOU WANTED MY SIGNATURE?
She looked at me skeptically.
YES, PLEASE. RIGHT HERE, handing me the pink paper a bit sheepishly, as if she had caught me in the middle of an intensely private act.
WHAT AM I SIGNING FOR?
ITS YOUR MEAT ORDER.
She was wearing a white polo with “Fine Meats” embroidered on the right shoulder.
I felt a embarrassed.
WHAT KIND OF MEAT?
She took the pink slip out of my hand and brought it close to her face, studying the small type.
TODAY… ITS WILD BOAR, she said, handing me the slip again.
And I was hooked. REALLY…WHERE WAS IT CAUGHT? WHO HUNTS IT? DO YOU CONTRACT HUNTERS….but she cut me off with a wry smile.
ITS NOT THAT KIND OF WILD–I THING IT’S FROM A RANCH DOWN IN TEXAS.
And then after a moment: BUT ITS KINDA WILD DOWN THERE.
YOU MEAN ITS “FARMED” WILD BOAR.
I GUESS YOU COULD SAY THAT. She handed me a pen.
I signed. She left. The next day we served Texas Wild Boar with Roasted Fresno Chillies, extra Wild on the side.