Smoke and Cold Smoke

Desiree and I smoked an 11-pound pork shoulder roast. The strategy for smoking meat is to cook at low temperatures while infusing smoke flavor. Smoking meat is less cooking than persuasion, a quiet agreement between low heat and drifting smoke. I generally try to operate at 225°F, which can lead to extended cooking times, especially when targeting an internal temperature of 195°F to ensure maximum tenderness.

In this instance, I slipped the roast into the smoker (with an internal temperature of 40°F) at 5:00 in the morning and didn’t pull it out until 9:00 in the evening.

Sixteen hours is a long vigil for a piece of meat, but that is the bargain we struck.

One of the things that extends the cooking time is “the stall.” The stall is the pork roast’s way of hitting the pause button around 150–170°F, when moisture rises to the surface and evaporates, cooling it like a built-in air conditioner while your smoker keeps trying to heat it up. From the outside, it looks like nothing’s happening, but inside, collagen is slowly melting into gelatin and the meat is quietly becoming tender. Eventually, the moisture runs low, the cooling effect fades, and the roast wakes up from its little spa day and starts climbing in temperature again. The temperature of our roast held stubbornly steady for several hours before it began to rise again.

When it was finished, the pork was tender enough to fall apart at a suggestion, wrapped in a dark, lovely bark formed from little more than salt, pepper, and time. I’m sharing photographs of the roast with the requisite Cold Smoke beer alongside.

Before Smoking

Pulling the Roast at 9:00

After Smoking

—Mitchell Hegman

Plants Growing Naked and Sideways

Given the title of this blog, I owe a bit of explanation.

We are, in fact, discussing a houseplant. A five-finger plant, to be precise. It recently endured an overwatering incident of some consequence and, in what feels like a small act of protest, shed its final two leaves. What remains is a living thing, certainly, but also a bare stalk with aspirations.

In an effort to spare it from drowning and suffering the slow creep of root rot, Desiree tipped the entire operation sideways on the floor, allowing the excess water to seep away.

Practical, yes.

Still, there is something faintly unsettling about coming across a plant lying on its side, as if it has simply decided it has had enough of vertical life.

I’m hoping it rallies, finds its footing, and produces a leaf or two in defiance of recent events. I feel a little sorry for it. For now, though, I can live with naked and sideways.

Naked and Sideways

 —Mitchell Hegman

The Sky Is My Garden (2026 Version)

The sky is my garden, though it refuses all fences. By day, the wind tends it, herding clouds and scattering birds across an open blue field.

By night, it blooms righteous. Stars press outward, electrified above the dark strokes of the mountains, steady and unhurried.

They call this Montana, “Big Sky Country,” but the phrase feels far too small. In summer, the air shimmers and bends, sending ravens warping across the prairie. In winter, at twenty below, the sky sharpens to crystal while the frozen lake below groans in reply.

Clouds rise. Clouds scurry. Clouds roil. Clouds pause. Clouds drift away.

It is a garden that grows in motion and color and gesture, and we are only ever passing through.

Fiery Garden

Stormy Garden

Soft Garden

—Mitchell Hegman

One Hour

Flying from Manila to Seattle is a strange proposition. On paper, our most recent flight between the two points, with an aircraft transfer in Tokyo, required only one hour. That’s pretty astonishing for traveling 6,650 miles.

There are a few dynamics involved here. For one thing, you are flying against the sun, passing backward through various time zones. Also, somewhere near the midpoint, you cross the international date line and encounter the very beginning of the same day you just left behind.

In our case (see the photograph of our itinerary posted below), we departed Manila at 10:05 a.m. on Tuesday, April 2. After 16 hours in the air and in transit, we arrived in Seattle at 11:05 a.m. on Tuesday, April 2. One hour later, by the clock.

I can assure you, it did not feel like merely an hour had passed by the time we landed. Even now, two days on, things remain slightly out of joint. My Rocky Mountain days are still trying, stubbornly, to be Manila nights.

Our Itinerary

—Mitchell Hegman

Parting Shots

Desiree and I have returned from over a month in the Philippines. I have settled back into my place in the Rocky Mountains, reclaiming my sofa and my own peculiar brew of coffee.

Montana, being Montana, saw fit to greet me properly. I woke early this morning to a skiff of fresh snow and a clean-edged chill in the air.

This is why I love you, Montana. No one tells you how to behave when it comes to springtime weather. You do as you please. Thank you for the welcome home.

Today, I’m sharing a few final photographs. Two are courtesy of Desiree’s daughter, Bea. The last features Desiree with a spread of dry goods and other treasures she gathered in the Philippines and we dragged home in our luggage.

Lunch with Desiree’s Family Under Sister May’s Avocado Tree

Ladders Are Us (Bea)

More Post Overload (Bea)

Me and a Glass of Wine on the Tower Balcony

Desiree and Her Freshly Unpacked Goodies

—Mitchell Hegman

Things I love About the Philippines

I love the ringing voices of the half-feral children in provincial Malabugas.

I love the families that bind parent to child, brother to sister, cousin to cousin.

I love the elders receiving the respect they deserve.

I love the soft weight of freshly picked Philippine mangoes.

I love the sting of flavor delivered by a thumb-sized calamansi lime.

I love the city street cats and the curly-tailed dogs commanding the province.

I love the muscular fish, metallic and fresh from the sea.

I love the hum and crawl of the city forty stories below me in my tower.

I love riding tricycles in Bayawan.

I love the sea grasping at, but never claiming, the white sands on the beach.

I love the palm trees.

I love my island wife,

         and her girls

               and

everyone they hold near.

Rain in Malabugas (2024)

Fish at the Market

Catching a Tricycle in Bayawan

—Mitchell Hegman

Venice Grand Canal Mall

The American singer-songwriter Roger Miller famously proposed, in the form of lyrics, “you can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd.” As someone who has seen my share of buffalo herds, I would suggest this is sage advice. Along similar lines, you would not travel to the Philippines to see Venice, Italy, but it’s actually more plausible than the skating thing.

As a point of fact, you can find a small chunk of Venice in Metro Manila.

If you happen to land in the bustle of Taguig’s McKinley Hill, you might bump into the Venice Grand Canal Mall. The mall is a playful, pastel-tinted echo of its Italian namesake. Inside, you’ll find cobblestone paths, arched bridges, and Italian-styled architecture gathered around a winding, aquamarine canal. Here, gondolas drift beneath striped mooring posts while gondoliers occasionally break into song. It is part theme park, part shopping haven, part daydream, where cafés spill out onto the water’s edge and your mind can drift untethered.

It’s Venice.

The day before yesterday, Desiree, I, and her girls spent an afternoon in the mall. We wandered along the canal, nibbled goodies from a few small eateries, stopped in a few shops, and, of all things, Desiree had her feet checked for possible orthotics. I enjoyed the time there. We interacted with several street performers, including one of the stilt walkers, who graced us with a selfie for a modest tip. All enjoyable.

The Canal

Heart, Desiree, and Bea, at a Crane Drop Game

A Stilt-Walker

Selfie (With the Lot of Us Below)

—Mitchell Hegman