bacon dreams

The other day while working a breakfast shift at my friend's inn, the young cook described bacon as a "meat candy bar." How apt, for it feels like a great indulgence to grab from the plate a crispy stick of maple glazed meat and fat. Surely, I would rather have a piece of bacon over a candy bar any day.

What is it about bacon? I have been thinking about it for a while it seems, for as I write so many ideas come to mind about this most pedestrian , and elevated of breakfast foods. On first glance, shrink wrapped staggered slices of pork and fat sounds awful, and indeed an uncooked piece of bacon is much less appetizing than a candy bar. Waxy, alabaster white steaked with meat...why in the world would anyone want to eat it?

But, cooked, bacon wraps itself into a blend of smoky aroma, crunchy texture, heavenly sweet flavor, and memory. Why memory? because for me, the smell of bacon reminds me of lying in bed as Dad cooked maple bacon on Sunday. I remember once I moved away, my first day home on any college vacation, I would lie in bed, and awaken to the smell, knowing my Dad was down in the kitchen frying a whole pound for the family. This act ironically centered me, and I knew it was Dad's ritual of welcoming me back home.

As a child in Izmir, I remember my Mom's own unique take on another aspect of bacon. Our maid, a village woman, came into town each day to work for my mother and also care for my little brothers. She was great fun, and would play with us by pulling us around on a towel as she polished our marble floors. Since she was illiterate, Mom would draw pictures for her tasks, including making lunch. However, Minnie loved the American sweet butter we got at the commissary. Mom finally put a slice of bacon around the butter plate, and this devout Moslem would then not touch the butter. Effective, odd, and for me, memorable.

Bacon, Lettuce and tomato sandwiches, quiche, rumaki, the 50's appetizer chicken livers wrapped in bacon...My list goes on. If only bacon weren't so caloric! I try to tell myself that is is culinary research, that calories don't count, but of course they do. And so, I limit myself to the best, just not as often.

I go to a prime cut butcher in town, one of the last. They have been in business for over 60 years, and their bacon is to die for. OK, bad metaphor for arteries, but truly, it is a wonder. The applewood smoked bacon runs out as soon as they offer it, and so this week before Christmas I picked up some for a treat.I made some for my daughter,home from college and sleeping in,
and only now late at night writing about bacon do I get the connection to my Dad.

To heck with calories, this week we will have bacon. South Beach and all other diets start in January, but for now, I think about 7 am tomorrow I will heat up the skillet, throw some smoky slabs of fat and pork in, and let the aroma drift around the kitchen. Wish I had bought a pound.