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.
9 comments:
I'm with ya on the cast iron skillet, less so on "crispy." I've had my skillet since about... forever. I tried to recollect just now, but the dang thing has always been around. It might be a hand-me-down from Mom.
Bacon ain't simple to cook, methinks. I like mine done to the point where each piece sags when held by the end, but not so much that it just folds in half. I don't like bacon that shatters into teeny-tiny pieces when you bite it (overcooked). And yeah: Thick Cut Über Alles!
"breathe the coffee, and do what my instincts insist, which is to make bacon."
Hell no, what I do is go down to the Fisherman's wharf in interbay, make them cook me breakfast, then -- seeing that the sky has settled in for a fortnight -- I go back up to Queen Anne, make the coffee, pour in a huge shot of dark rum and inhale that mug. Then... seconds.
As for the hog-farming, git yerself a copy of David Lee's The Porcine Chronicles and larn ya the poe-tree of hit.
Wrong on the high heat. Correct on the turn frequently. Medium heat only.
Funny how things things write different than they practice. I note that I only have the burner set to 4 when I cook it. Was kind of necessary for the Steinbeck reference, though.
And yeah, Buck, I should have been more clear. I don't like the brittle, too-crispy bacon, either. But I do liek a little crunch to it, as long as I leave some of the fat nearly raw.
Well thar son, if'en yr gunna refarranch, refarrach with the quote and not the damned guessin.
"A frying pan of grease sputtered over the fire, and it splashed and hissed when Ma dropped the pone in with a spoon." - Grapes
Or you could really obscure and quote from Steinbeck's To A God Unknown, 1933
"When the lumber lay on the ground and the horses, haltered heard-inward about the wagons, munched barley from their nose-bags, the drivers unrolled their blankets in the wagon-beds. Joseph had already built a fire and started the supper. He held his frying pan high above the flame and turned the bacon constantly. "
That's the one I was looking for! Haven't read that one in a good, long time. But I seem to remember, maybe inaccurately, that there was some discussion between Joseph and one of his companions about the best way to go about cooking it.
The thread of bacon men..............
Interesting to note that my two biggest comment-drivers so far are prescription meds and bacon. Prozac fried in lard, anyone?
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