As I prepare a flavored brine for pork loin, as I crush fennel seeds and toss sprigs of thyme into the boiling salt water, I think about this mixture and how it perfectly mirrors my mood tonight. Numbed by half a bottle of red wine, I am partially pickled myself. And my lips still taste the saltiness of the tears that have been coursing down my cheeks. I want not just to marinade this pork loin, not just to use the sand-paper salting to tenderize this flesh. More that that I wish I could tenderize my heart. It feels hollow and hard and mean inside my chest. But some ingredients can’t be brined; some relationships resist preservation.
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