As a kid, my parents fed me and my brother ultra-healthy food: no sugar, low to no fat, etc. For one of my university linguistics classes, I read of some orang asli tribe in Indonesia where life consisted of the harvest cycle and warring with neighboring tribes. After any truce was declared, the two tribes would get together and celebrate by slaughtering a slew of pigs, roasting them, and enjoying salted cubes of roast pork fat.

To my low-fat mentality, that was disgusting -- I'd have to move to the Straits before I got a chance to change my mind.

As it turns out, it would also be disgusting to all the now-halal city dwellers in Indonesia and Malaysia.

So, somewhere in history there must have been the first batch of converts to Islam, who stopped eating salted pork. Yet they remember its tasty goodness.

Slightly amnesic Grandpa: I'm feeling hungry.

Granddaughter: Ok. What do you feel like eating, grandpa? I can make some mee?

Grandpa remembers something and it startles him:

GD: What is Grandpa? Is everything ok?

GP: Let's roast a pig! We've not had roast pig in a long time!

GD: We cannot! Pork is haram!

GP: It's okay, we don't have to tell anyone.

GD: That's not the point, grandpa!

GP: (whines and gesticulates) But what do you mean we can't have pork? Pork is so goooood!

GD: GRANDPA!