Bacon in the morning,
Bacon at noon.
Bacon is so good
He sends me to the moon.
*With sincere apologies to my many friends and family members who do not eat pork on moral or religious grounds. Truly.
I don’t eat bacon every day, nor every week.
Most months I do eat some bacon either on its own or as seasoning, especially in soup.
I’m not addicted to bacon; I can give him up, er, it up, any time I want!
I never eat bacon on a burger, never eat ersatz/turkey/soy bacon, never eat “bacon bits.” If these are some of your favorites, this blog is a safe place—I do not judge you.
I can’t eat more than three strips of bacon per day, or it triggers a migraine. No, really. Helps give bacon that dangerous edge, no?
Yet bacon is one of those foods I don’t want to live without.
Bacon and I go back as far as I can remember… it was a sunny spring morning, and Bacon and I were racing to each other across a meadow of daisies…
Or was it a glittering nightclub in Harlem, in 1924, when I saw him dancing in another woman’s arms, and yet I knew…
Or was it that day in the market in Barcelona, when he looked up from under the brim of his Cordobés, with a dimpled smile of destiny?
Whenever it was, Bacon and I became lovers.
Much later, after Bacon and I smoked a cigarette, I made soup.
Almost every soup in my repertory (yes, I am a soup maven) includes at the onset two strips of bacon and a diced onion, browning in the bottom of a stock pot. By the time the soup is complete, you barely know the bacon is in there.
The bacon flavor is elusive, adding a depth of flavor to the star of the soup: the mushrooms in Cream of Mushroom, the potatoes in Potato/Cheddar cheese soup, or the clams in Manhattan Clam Chowder.
The aroma of bacon cooking is why, although a confirmed animal lover and kitty foster mother, I may never be a vegetarian.
If you fry bacon in my house and I don’t come to investigate, you know I am extremely ill. Quite likely, dead.
Bacon will mourn. Comfort him any way you can.
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