PRUNES

I almost forgot a lonely chop soaking up savory goodness from a brine bucket in the fridge. Amidst the evening rummaging, there it was sloshing around and crying out for a proper fry. Solo dancing is fine, but the hammy pork calls out for a sophisticated partner. I finally cut myself off from those troll boogers SunSweet calls prunes and ponied up online for some Agen prunes. Who would've known dried plums could taste this way? Not many, I'm sure. Soaked in two hot cups of Earl Grey and a glug of brandy, the Agen prunes bloat and swell with anticipation.

The drippings jar, an old earthenware crock K brought back from Germany is finally depleted. I spooned some fat into a smoking hot cast iron pan. The cat was enraptured. Well-seasoned flour on both sides of the brined chop and into the pan. Give it time. Don't look. Don't even think about turning until you're absolutely sure the chop is burning. It's not; it's just wonderfully browned. Flip and then finish in a medium oven for about 15 minutes depending on thickness.

Like all fired meats, the chop needs its rest. Crack another beer. Now's the time for sauce! Remover the chop to a plate and deglaze with chicken stock. Reduce. Some butter. Toss the prunes in. Ahhh. Bubble, bubble, bubble. The cat is screaming. To the plate. Porc aux pruneaux? Sorta. More ale, please.