Word: wild boar
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LONDON, England — Last night, my friend invited me over to his house, where he was roasting a wild boar. Such an invitation was impossible to reject, and although my images of a spit-skewered animal turning over an open flame turned out to be purely the work of my imagination, I was not in the least disappointed by the actual product. Our host’s girlfriend had recently purchased the beast in Corsica (“I carried it in an ice bag on the plane!” she claimed), and together with the olives...
...Matt Damon role in the film that was remade as The Departed). It's a little long and a lot of fun, even if it doesn't quite live up to the NYAFF blurb: "As big, meaty and satisfying as a flame-roasted leg of wild boar, Warlords is the kind of movie you tear into with relish, wiping its bloody juices off your chin with the back of your hand as you sit on a throne made of the bones of your enemies...
Anyway, some kind of royalty; it's hers by birth. Swinton was born into a clan of warrior aristocrats whose Scottish home dates back to the ninth century (they supposedly earned the family name by clearing the area of wild boar), and who served prominently in every major British military and political skirmish for a thousand years. One recent ancestor invented the tank; another helped invent television. Over the millennium the Swintons were deeded huge swatches of prime Scottish real estate; Tilda's father, Major-General Sir John Swinton, a.k.a. the Lord Lieutenant of Berwickshire, lives in the family estate...
...five feet tall and deformities in her spinal and pelvic bones give the impression that she may have walked with a limp, or dragged her feet. The presence of the hollowed-out tortoise shells, combined with intact bone pieces of leopards and other creatures - the complete forearm of a wild boar, for example, was placed under the woman's own arm - suggest that those living around her believed she had some sort of animist power...
...probably eaten it—or at least thought about eating it. I’ve gobbled my share of pigs’ trotters, chicken feet, and cow stomach, only to reach for seconds. I’ve nibbled pickled jellyfish and chomped on wild boar. Squeamishness, clearly, is not something I’ve been accused of. But John Barlow’s latest food travelogue, “Everything But the Squeal,” rarely fails to turn my stomach—and I suspect he’d take this as a compliment...