I t is more than obvious that bacon is hot right now…or at least it was hot the entire past year. 2008 was the year of bacon and the resurgence of the pig. Now with swine flu in the news, we cannot get enough of our hoof toed, sometimes shunned barn yard pal Wilbur. Not to bring the charming good pig into this matter of taste, I must now share with you my personal experience with bacon… before it was hot.
So here is it.
Bacon circa 2007 by none other than me. Southern to the core who did not know bacon would ever be a trend. I really like the quotes in this piece. For other food trends that come, go or I just want to dissolve, see the ClaireEats.com blog on this site as well.
Really there is no cute or catchy title for a substance so strong, so revered, and so beloved. Something so wrong, yet so right, it deserves to stand on its own as a title voicing its overwhelming presence and the showing of my utmost respect.
I have a small obsession with bacon. Lady like, it is not, but what a thing of beauty. Fat was considered attractive in the late 20th century, and I'm declaring a rebirth of that movement. So much taste can be delivered in those little slices of white marbled swine. Amazing how much health controversy has spawned from bacon, with nutrition advocates pushing turkey bacon and even fakin' bacon, a tempeh based wanna-be bacon that is vegan friendly. A few nitrates never hurt anyone, though I do find myself sourcing organic and natural versions.
Bacon permeated my life in more ways than just the smoky fat-sweet lingering smell that would waft through our house every time my mother or any one else cooked it. My mother's sole dish she prepared relied on it, and my father turned to bacon as his only fat when placed on a health based diet of restrictions. Actually, he had more than 1 fat choice, but used bacon to fill every slot. It was a proud moment for me, who silently loved bacon from every random cooking of it at home, to the mass produced white plates full at Waffle House, and many breakfast buffets of fine hotels my father would take us to while traveling. Those breakfast buffets were a nice early day smorgish-board for a young girl with nary a care of nutrition. My father liked his bacon crisp. I like mine soft, and almost undercooked or slightly chewy with that bit of toothsome bite that ironically feels like its melting while you're doing some proper chewing. One breakfast buffet sent my father to an unhappy place of oral pain as a too well done piece of bacon, overtly crispy and verging on violent, cut his tongue. A napkin dotted with blood and the wincing look on my father's face showed as my father noted the bacon must have cut his tongue! I recall sitting across from him at the table in a heavy coat, barely able to move all bundled up, and looking at the bacon left on my plate. Using one arm, and all the while hearing, "Don't eat any more bacon guys, I don't want you to cut your mouths," I ate the last few pieces. Part of me felt the sting of being naughty and eating it anyway. Much is the story of bacon for most, that feeling of it being a no-no, and yet still having it.
"Good taste is the excuse I've always given for leading such a bad life."
–Oscar Wilde
A forbidden love, if you will, of honey smoked affairs and pre sliced nuptials. The market where I do most of my food shopping these days has a fabulous crew of meat men who slice me slab bacon at my request. In fact, I think they are anxious for this chance with every little glimpse they catch of my browsing the artisan breads, or arguing the water of origin for the seafood and shrimp. Going in for lamb and hanger steaks last week, I was met with a bouncy, "You want the slab?" inquiry before I could shamefully whisper I was still working on the last cut. A girl living alone can only go through so much slab bacon at a time, my boys, for this figure is only resilient to a certain extent. The slab is good for cutting into tiny cubes and putting into braises of kale or other vegetables, building the base flavors of a soup, stew, or chili, or using in my Southern take on a classic French salad of lardoons, frisee, and a poached egg. Browning the little bits, I top the salad with them and save the fat for the dressing or in a little plastic tub for things like making cornbread or smearing on a chicken breast to roast (yes, that really is decadent, pretty greasy, and delicious.)
Strips of bacon were first cut long before my time and now come in wide selection of thicknesses though I hold true to thick cut versions. The others seem like stingy meager slices, turning me into little orphan Oliver, saying, "Please sir, may I have… some… more?" These slices went into the boiling pots of canned green beans my mother would make. No, you could not use ham hocks. No, you could not use an expensive brand. And, no, don't even think about making them without bacon. I don't recall there ever being a question of how much bacon to put in them, as you just put the entire package in, or at least I never saw left over bacon in the fridge while there were beans simmering on the stove. Maybe my mother saved a few slices for herself, perhaps making secret BLT's…heavy on the bacon, and light on the tomato. That is another dance bacon can shake to beautifully, wedging itself into culinary history as the "B" at the forefront of the sandwiches namesake, as well as the crowning crisp glory in a traditional club sandwich. I have seen people remove the hunks of ham or turkey that crowd the club, who few ever remove that quintessential bacon. Those that do usually ramble something off about "health," or that they don't eat pork.
"Good pig."
–The Motion Picture Babe
Pork. From pigs. I don't think many people want to make the connection between bacon and the actual animal from which we acquire this fat laced bounty. You love Wilbur, I know, I do, too, and that's why, even I, the "bacon goes with everything" girl for a time eschewed all meat products. Wayward vegan days, it was not. It was my way of being conscious of what I was eating, where it came from, and what is happening to get that slab of bacon I buy to me. There are times it does not matter at all, and never would I turn down my mother's green beans due to the state of animal consumption in this country. I have now found sustainable and, even, local sources of bacon and other cuts of pork. These are not the hot items like beef, or lamb which in this part of the country is raised far and wide over the Hudson Valley. In Mississippi, I had seafood and more pork than my little taste buds ever had time to taste.
I envied my grandmother who spoke to me once of the days her grandmother's farm. I asked her where she got her bacon when she was young, as I could not fathom a time without this choice of pork. "After the 1st frost, you killed a hog. A biggie. For bacon, and sausage, and ham." I could picture her face as she said "biggie" on the phone, I recall her calling pigs "hoggies" as well, which was equally as cute and endearing. I do not farm, and highly doubt my balcony would make a decent breeding ground, and I would rather leave the slaughtering to someone else as I said a prayer of gratitude for the gift of life, and the circle in which it creates. Human. Pig. Both creatures of nature, coming together to offer me and everyone else the gift of bacon.
So here we come full circle of my lifetime love of bacon. It hasn't been easy, and a relationship that has required emotional, mental and physical perseverance. When I'm lost on the road of food and eating, I know a little bacon can ease my load. The days in the north can get dark and cold during the winter months I am completely foreign to. Snuggled up with some bacon sizzling away to make a big bowl of braised kale might be the best comfort food I never knew. Satiating fat, and warming velvety greens soothe even in the worst of time. A total go-to dish I crave after long days, snow days, and oh, any day that I'd rather it just be tomorrow already. And tomorrow will definitely take a backseat to bacon.
