This weekend, in between shoving stuff into bags and boxes (and I know I’ve mentioned we’re moving 500 bazillion times but I have to keep bringing up because even though we’re only moving a studio apartment, I can’t believe how much stuff (ie. clothes) we have. Where did it all come from? And why aren’t my outfits a whole lot cuter?) LB and I ran around San Francisco, trying to jam as much of it into our brains and bellies as we could. It’s like Saturday morning we realized we’re moving to the mountains for a month and won’t have ready access to Volcanic Beef or bridges or Victorians or trolleys.
Or pork cracklin. Well, we might have pork cracklin. I don’t actually know if Winter Park has pork cracklin because before Saturday morning, I’d never tasted pork cracklin. Now, though, I totally understand why there is an entire Network dedicated to Food and I firmly believe pork cracklin should have its own show. I can’t say pork cracklin enough. It’s like I’m trying to resurrect those few, brief moments I had with pork craklin before it was gone. Pork cracklin, pork cracklin, pork cracklin. It’s not working.
Here’s LB’s sandwich. Notice his hand. If you had a sandwich with pork cracklin on it, you would feel possessive as well.
Here are our potatoes. They were also ridiculously good. Although they were not pork cracklin.
Here’s the truck where we bought our pork cracklin. Although it was a lot more full when we bought our pork cracklin. This is several hours later when I went back to visit.
Pork cracklin.
Our entire weekend wasn’t completely consumed by pork cracklin (officially). We also went to Mount Davidson and looked at some of the most amazing views I’ve seen of the city, we tooled around the Mission, we visited the ocean that I completely forgot we lived by (LB: That makes sense that you’d forget the entire Pacific Ocean.) and took a bunch of pictures, which I’d planned on posting here until I found this website and realized my photos of San Francisco are like overcooked bacon to Caliber’s pork cracklin.
