The Dinner at Casa de la Fiesta

I had more stories to tell when the table was filled by a dish holding an enormous pig. We went on to express astonishment at such speed, and took our oath that not even a fowl could have been properly cooked in the time, especially as the pig seemed to us to be much bigger than the boar had been a little while earlier. I looked at it more and more closely and then said, “What, what, has this pig been gutted? I swear it has not. The cook, send the cook up here to us.” Poor Michael came and stood by the table and said he had forgotten to gut it. “What? Forgotten?” I shouted. “You would think a fellow had only forgotten to season it with pepper and cumin. Off with his shirt!” In a moment Michael was stripped and stood dolefully between two executioners. But Stephanie was set to beg me off and said: “These things will happen; do let him go; if he does it again none of us will say a word for him.” Meagan was stiff and stern as could be; she could not restrain herself, leaned over and said in Stephanie’s ear: “This must be a most wretched chef; how could anyone forget to gut a pig? On my oath I would not forgive him if he had let a fish go like that.” But not I, my face softened into smiles. “Well,” I said “if your memory is so bad, clean him here in front of us.” Michael put on his shirt, seized a knife, and carved the pig’s belly in various places with a shaking hand. At once the slits widened under the pressure from within, and sausages and black puddings tumbled out. At this we burst out into spontaneous applause and Michael shouted, “Thank God!”