The next morning, it wasn’t done—when I checked the pot, I found a lot of one-third- to half-inch chunks floating in golden liquid. I set it on the stove and put the burner on low, then, half-an-hour later, on medium-low. By the time I needed to leave for the office, a couple hours later, it was almost done—I could see what I thought must be the much-vaunted “cracklins” a lot of my sources mentioned (but never saw fit to provide a photo of, thank you very much)—so I abandoned my husband, a teacher in his last days of summer, to the task.

     And, by then, the smell. Oh my, the smell. It hung inside my sinuses for the first couple hours of my workday.

     His instructions were to strain the liquid, through a coffee filter placed in a wire mesh strainer, into a couple of lidded glass bowls I’d left on the stove top, and then, when the lard had set, to refrigerate one and freeze the other.

      I didn’t know what I’d find when I got home, but the result looked like I hoped it would. Pretty, snowy. And the smell was gone. The cracklins, though—maybe we didn't let things proceed quite long enough, because what my husband left draining on paper towels for me was ... well. Not something I wanted to eat. Not even really anything I wanted to touch.

     Next time: A 225-degree oven. But first, I'd have to make use of this creamy, white goodness people get so excited about.

to be continued …