The one thing that caught on my eye on the wedding invitation: a luau at the Royal Kona. The little eighth grader inside of me was jumping for joy.
We enjoyed our first sunset in Kona sipping Mai Tais, catching up with Bay Area friends and waiting for a pig, slowly roasting in the ground.
I missed the luau experience on our first family trip to Hawaii. My dad had me so excited about the fire dancers and the roast pig. As a pre-tween, I knew the hype was for tourists. It didn’t matter. I loved lechon and that made me crave the idea of succulent, fatty pork meat, falling off the bone after a day of cooking in banana leaves.
The rain thwarted our plans. A canceled luau crushed me.
In Kona, I was one of the first people out of my seat when they announced they were digging the Kalua Pua’a out of the pit.
I was also one of the first people to go after the pig skin. I think I was the only woman trying to break off a piece from the smoking hot flesh. My fingers burned. I thought it would have tasted like crispy lechon skin. I think my ninong tried to warn me that it was a little different. He was right. The skin tasted chewy and fatty. Still good, but lechon is better.
Mahalo!