Untraditional

Wednesday night's dinner for Master fell on the second night of Shavuot, the Feast of Weeks, when it is customary to eat a dairy meal. If my schooling has not failed me, this is done in acknowledgment that the Israelites had not yet been given the formal laws governing the slaughter of livestock for consumption. Or some such jazz. Observant and reverent fellow that I am, I commemorated the occasion by preparing a pork tenderloin.

As I familiarize myself with the diverse and versatile (diversatile? mine.) cuts of the incredible, edible pig, I can see the tenderloin becoming a favorite. Lean, inexpensive, quick to cook, readily accepting of flavors without the need for prolonged marinating, and just plain packed with porky savor, it may just become my go-to cut during indecisive menu-making moments.

The improvised rub included cumin, cloves, two kinds of cinnamon, brown sugar, orange and lime juices, garlic, olive oil. So it seemed fitting, albeit somewhat heretical, to serve the Moroccan-spiced pork tenderloin medallions atop couscous, effectively (if inadvertently) offending yet another major world religion. I was assailed by the aromas of Tangiers each time I opened the oven door to prod the pork with the meat thermometer, battered into salivating submission until the obligatory several minutes during which the meat rested before carving and serving felt like an eternity.

To accompany, I assembled a salad of fennel, Vidalia onion, Cara Cara oranges, and sliced strawberries, bound with a light dressing of citrus juice, good olive oil, sea salt and balsamic vinegar. Next time I may have to make twice as much, as Master simply could not stop singing its praises. I agree that, to paraphrase dear Charlotte A. Cavatica and keep with the porcine theme, this was SOME SALAD. The oranges have a hint of blackberry musk that marries like a dream with balsamic, the onions were as mild as the licorice whisper of the fennel, and the berries, while still far from their seasonal peak, were like strewn sweetmeats that kept our forks straying from the main course to the side of the plate. Master noted that the fennel salad paired perfectly with the couscous, which greedily sopped up the mingling juices. And we agreed that the tenderloin held its own, with spice and sweetness that remained intriguing until the last satisfying bite.

As a concession to the holiday, I served a micro-sliver of chocolate cheesecake for dessert. Too little, too late to atone for the meal's transgressions? Perhaps. But my bothered conscience demanded the gesture. Jewish guilt, it's a powerful thing.