Kālua

RECIPE FOR A TRADITIONAL KĀLUA PORK DINNER (THAT BREAKS YOUR HEART)

Serves one guest named Jake, one overworked mom, one Tutu with a scar and a slipper ready to fly, and one girl who’s done being polite.

Ingredients:

– 1 pig (don’t name him—too late)

– Banana leaves (stolen from the neighbor’s yard. It’s fine. They steal our mangos)

– Lava rocks (red-hot, like my anger)

– Sea salt. All the salt.

– Garlic cloves (crushed, like my heart)

– 3 cups jasmine rice

– Taro roots (cracked repeatedly with stone, for poi—and therapy)

– 1 visitor named Jake (big-ass grin, zero clue)

– 1 Tutu (wise, blunt, a little curdled)

– 1 Mom (never asks, always offers to host)

– A bunch of aunties, local kids, and too much noise

Step 1: Prepare the sacrifice.

You had a pig named Pua. Not just a pet—a friend. He followed you to the beach, to the corner store, even tried to balance on your surfboard once. You whispered secrets into his big ears like he could hold them. He did.

But one day Mom says, “We have a guest coming. Need to give him something real. Something local.”

You say, “We can cook anything else: fish, teriyaki chicken...”

Too bad this isn't about food, but showing off. Mom says he’s someone important—her boss's son. Some guy white enough to matter.

Now you dig the imu pit. Line the bottom with lava rock. Wrap Pua in cloth and banana leaves. You whisper an apology he can’t hear. Your hands shake when they touch his ears, when you veil his face with leaves.

You watch his skin blister and curl. Smell the garlic and feel your throat close.

Step 2: Preheat resentment.

Text from Mom: Be nice. Jake has been through a lot. Good guy.

Reply: He killed Pua. So did you.

Don’t hit send. Just mute her.

Tutu sticks her head through the kitchen window. “How’s it going?”

You test Pua’s thigh with a knife and the blade slides right in, soft as butter.

“Tender,” you say.

“How you doing?” Tutu asks.

A tear slips out. You swipe it away. “Fine.”

Cook. Lie. Repeat.

Step 3: Pound taro to release stress.

In the kitchen, sunset pours through the window. The clouds are lomi salmon pink, mountains plum purple, the sea every bruised, salty shade in between. Taro root sprawls out on the granite counter. You slam stone into it, again and again, until it turns to lavender paste.

Tutu watches you smash the taro like it cussed out your mother, but doesn't stop you.

You curse under your breath about the guest.

Tutu smacks a hala leaf against your calf.

“Language,” she says.

“He doesn’t deserve special treatment,” you say. “Why does he get to come here and act like he owns the place?”

“Ask your maddah.” She shrugs. “Too late now.”

You slam the stone down again. The taro cracks, slow to give in. You like that about taro. Wish you could fight back, too.

Step 4: Greet the guest (you didn't invite).

He knocks.

You open the door to sunglasses, an aloha shirt, and blonde hair frizzed from humidity. Haole, you think. Even worse, handsome. Nothing worse than a good-looking, happy enemy.

“Jake. I'm early,” he says with a big smile like you should be impressed. He holds out a hand. You shake it. He lifts his sunglasses and blue eyes linger on yours.

You remember Pua and think about rolling Jake into the imu.

Instead, you say, “Aloha, nice to meet you,” and hope Pele doesn’t smite you for lying.

Step 5: Serve him scenery.

He wants a tour. Of course he does. You take him to the beach, the sand hot, breeze cool. He takes pictures of the water, the trees, your face.

“Beautiful,” he says.

You grit your teeth.

Then he says it:

“My favorite travel podcast swears I need to do a pig roast and luau for the full experience. Your mom said we're having one tonight. I can't wait.”

You laugh, but fight tears.

Optional: toss him into the nearest big wave.

You don’t. But damn, you think about it.

Step 6: Season with silence.

Back home, Jake naps on the lanai, blonde hair flipping in the breeze as the sun dips behind the mountains. You help Tutu mix lau lau but refuse to touch Pua’s meat. Mom comes home in her scrubs, worn-out, eyes tired.

She peeks into the kitchen. “Were you nice?”

You nod.

She looks at you too long, like she wants to ask if you’re okay but won’t risk it with a guest in the house.

You give her nothing.

You’re tired of giving.

Step 7: Simmer the tension.

Dinner begins with a prayer. White folding tables bustle with aunties, uncles, laughing kids, and cheap beer.

Pua’s laid out in trays. He's shredded and salted. Gone.

You eat only veggies, rice, and poi from the taro you beat earlier. Hunger gnaws at your ribs, but you don’t touch the pork. Jake does—loudly.

He moans, “This is amazing. So good.”

You grip your fork and imagine jabbing it into his palm, and Jake catches you glaring at him.

He walks over. “You don’t eat pork?”

Your hand slams the table, making plates jump and eyes flick to you. Even the aunties and uncles stop chewing and kids hush.

Mom shoots you a look.

Tutu smirks.

You stare at your rice.

Step 8: Boil over.

“You don’t like me, huh?” Jake says.

You look up. “You catch on quick.”

He flinches, confused. “What’d I do? Exist? Be white? Chill out.”

“You killed Pua.”

Jake blinks. “I what?”

“You wanted the ‘full experience,’ right?”

You feel your thick slipper beneath your foot and consider ripping it off, whacking Jake in the bottom, and giving him the Tutu Special.

But you stomp off, before tears or slippers fly.

Step 9: Let it rest.

Outside, palms rustle. You sit on the curb, hands in your lap, empty. You think about baby Pua in the garden, the way he’d nuzzle your ankle when you cried.

You cry now. Quiet. No use stopping it. For once, you let the grief hit.

Jake finds you.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “I didn’t ask. I’m sorry.”

You say nothing.

He says, “I don’t even like pork.”

You laugh. Barely.

He sits beside you. His hand hovers, then falls, and you let him sit in silence. You know he's sorry, but it doesn’t fix anything. Doesn't bring your friend back.

Serving suggestions:

Eat with caution.

Pork gets tough when marinated in grief.

Swallow what you can.

Chew slowly.

Forgive when you’re ready, even if you’ve forgiven them a hundred times already. Even if they never ask for it. Even if they still don’t see what they took.

Step 10: Don’t forget.

I bury his bones beneath the garden and plant plumeria above him. When someone asks who’s buried there or shrugs, “It’s just a pig,” I say:

Maybe just a pig to you. But to me? He has a name, a favorite mud puddle, and a friend who still cries for him.