Just in case you were starting to get the idea that Seattle is all handcrafted, orange and blue sunrises streaked with rays of optimism, I bring you Saturday, November 29, 2008:
Playing handmaiden to the ashen sky this morning is my head, slung low by the same leaden congestion that has made its way alternately through HH6 and my RTO over the past two weeks. It is my turn, it would seem. And an even greater misfortune than usual is this sickness, because on an openly gray (ha, ha) Saturday like this, when the coffee is suddenly less social ornament than buffered raiment, the melancholy of the pallid sky can be warmly comfortable in the absence of anything else to be upset about. Alas, things could be much, much worse, so I kiss the girls, breathe the coffee, and do what my instincts insist, which is to make bacon.
My people have been bacon people since long before I came along, stringing an intangible umbilicus between my belly and the pig's own. Surely, having a hog farming uncle in Indiana is pedigree enough, if any were needed. And I insist that I never made bacon right until I made it in a cast iron skillet, cooking it high and turning it often, as someone in a Steinbeck novel insisted was best for crispness (was it some Mexican ranch hand in the early part of East of Eden?). I adhere to the sentiment - and the technique - but cheat with a little impatience to be sure that the end fat will remain chewy and carry the glistening lubricant of my indulgence. My father shouts across the Rockies at me to leave off the fancy peppered crap and stay the course with stern, solid, thick cut slats of the fatty stuff. Center cut, be damned. I abide, I do abide.