"Mmmmm, smells good. What's in there?" My father-in-law, Guy, cranes his neck over my right shoulder and peers into the crock pot as I stir. "Pulled pork," I say. "Oh, wonderful," and he wheels around through the backdoor, to the deck, cowboy boots on wood, Bushmills—neat, of course—in hand.
There was a time when he didn't talk to me. For the first six months Corrine and I were together, I wasn't even allowed into her parents' house. I know that it wasn't actually me they had banned from the house. It was the idea of me, this crazy thing their daughter was doing, giving up everything for a life that for them was scary, unexpected, and, from their perspectives, undesirable.
It was a shock for them, I imagine. Their daughter had been married for eight years—to a doctor, no less—had two kids, and lived in a subdivision. Why would she give all that up? Why would she change her life on a dime?
But that was 15 years ago now. For 15 years ( 14 and a half, technically speaking ) Corrine has been with me, I have been with her, and I have become a member of her family. Over time, I have been welcomed into their homes, allowed to be a part of their lives. Guy talks to me about golf, about skiing, about motorcycles. Corrine's sisters have honored me with the role of godfather for their children. I am consulted on all dates, all family vacation planning. I am a part of the couple that is CorrineandAmes, and our children and we make five in any meal count.
But what I have learned is that being welcomed into the family was never enough. It isn't a place at the table that matters, but a role in the continued life of the family that has enduring significance. And this isn't a role that isn't granted by our legal system; it isn't automatic or understandable.
It certainly wasn't conscious, but I now realize that I created a role for myself through food—by organizing, cooking and serving meals to the 12-20 people or so that, by mechanism of blood or bond, are understood as members of the Guy Haremski clan. Planning meals is the way I keep myself sane as I prepare for the family functions, thinking about what everyone will want, what they will enjoy. Making food is the way that I show love for them, my appreciation, and my desire to be with them, to be thought of as one of them. Cooking is how I managed to remove—or at least make a significant dent in—the chip on my shoulder that seems to grow, or more accurately, land whenever I perceive differences between how I and the other brothers-in-law are treated, the ones that come with marriage certificates.
What I have learned in the past decade or so, and will tell any queer person complaining about the difference in treatment and the lack of respect, is that becoming an in-law isn't just about acceptance or tolerance. And, it isn't automatic with a marriage certificate, either. Brother-in-law number two eloped with daughter number two. "It was three months before Guy would even look at me, and three more months before he spoke to me, though he did have me come over and clean his gutters," he'll say with a grin. Two years later, we are each other's sous-chefs, and though exile isn't the same as the cold shoulder, the point is the same: he and I were not "us" until we all figured out how to be together as one.
Large pieces of meat, grilled or slow-cooked, framed by All-American sides, served around a table, in the light of plenteous libation. This is how I accept their offer of family-member status, a family that wasn't initially mine, one I wasn't exactly sure I wanted: with the gift of myself, with what I am, and what I have to offer. "You might want to try the cole slaw right on the pork," I suggest, "It's really good that way." Guy will give it a try, nod and agree, "Delicious."
I use the food to say, "I am here"—here to stay, as predictable as the holidays themselves. I am here, and I am glad that I am here. I am here because this isn't about having rights, though I do hope that every human is granted the right to be legally married, to one day be understood to be equal citizens. In the family, it isn't about rights, but about privilege. Around the dinner table it is about the privilege of belonging, of trust, of respect, of love; the privilege to honor their daughter and sister, to parent our children.
I take seriously each and every one of these privileges, each one that leads me to understand that with each privilege comes a responsibility. It is my pleasure to accept the responsibility to redefine family. And, I do it with pride, one delicious meat sandwich at a time.
Pulled Pork
—One 5-6 lb. pork butt
—1-2 tbs. vegetable oil
—2 tbs. paprika
—1 tbs. chili powder
—1 tbs. brown sugar
—2 tsps. salt
—½ tsp. cracked pepper
—½ tsp. red pepper flakes
—½ tsp. garlic powder
—One jar/bottle of your choice of BBQ sauce—Bone Suckin' is our favorite and usually available at Whole Foods
1. Set oven to 450 degrees.
2. Rinse pork butt in cold water; pat dry.
3. Mix together all dry ingredients to make a rub.
4. Rub the meat with the oil and then generously cover the meat with the rub—coat evenly one side at a time, knocking off the excess as you turn the meat. Place onto a rack inside a baking pan.
5. Place into the 450-degree oven for 20 minutes.
6. Turn down to 280 degrees and slow-roast the meat for two to three hours, until fork easily slides in and meat is nearly falling off the bone.
7. Remove from oven and cool meat until you can separate the fat from the meat with ease.
8. Shred meat to the best of your ability and then place it into a crock pot with a jar/bottle of BBQ sauce. If you don't own a crock pot, you can place the meat and sauce into a glass baking dish, cover it with foil, and replace it into the 280-degree oven for one to two more hours.
9. Cook for another two to three hours until meat is very tender.
10. Serve on bun of your choice, with cole slaw and/or other traditional picnic sides
