pulled pork (on growing up no sabo)

Pulled Pork (On growing up No Sabo)

Once, when I was a kid visiting PR, my tití Hilda offered to make me up a platito of pulled pork con arroz.

Easily agreeing to her offer (sounds yummy as hell), I remember the audible wheezing sound I made when she placed it in front of me. In the bowl, three or four long spiral tendrils sat atop a bed of rice. They were deep purple tentacles, crispy at their suckers and larger than my fingers.

“I thought you said pulled pork!” I choked out without thinking, feeling really really stupid.

She smiled, “¡Si, es pulpo!”