Wednesday, February 23, 2011
There's something about Bacon...
I decided to out myself on Facebook today. My conscience could no longer tolerate living a double life. It’s tough on the soul to keep saying one thing on the outside while suppressing feelings completely contrary on the inside. I needed to have the burden lifted from my shoulders, so today I let the world (well, 267 people of the world) know what I have always known to be true: I have a deep and abiding lust in my heart - pork lust, that is. Judge me if you will, but the Pig love is strong with this one, and I'm not going to hide it any more.
It is well-known that I regularly stand on my soapbox and denounce the Pig as a clogger of arteries and a producer of love handles, but just like a TV preacher who advocates the sanctity of marriage while covertly arranging midnight dalliances with a male prostitute, I, too, have been known to discreetly scarf down a slice or two of bacon while professing my lightly toasted, whole wheat bagel to be just enough for me. I knew it would come out sooner or later that I secretly have a nibble or four of the country sausage I make for Sunday breakfast on occasion. The mere fact that I continued to allow the Pig into my home after declaring my diet to be free of all meat should have been a dead give away. I kept inviting the fox into the hen house so to speak, yet I still played along like tofu was making me happy.
How can I not love the Pig? Bacon is so irresistible when it’s dancing that juicy little dance in the frying pan, teasing me with each of its pops and crackles. Who among us can deny the attraction of the glamorous spiral-sliced ham when it’s decked out in exquisite capers and rings of pineapple, making us feel like we came underdressed for the party? It’s scored in such a way that we only get a glimpse of the salty delight beneath the decoration, enough to make us want to rip off the sweet accessories and dig in with reckless abandon. There are nights when I bite my lip and gently close my eyes to sleep only to be tortured with images of the Pig slowly turning over an open fire, begging me to pull him apart and cram that piggy goodness between two slices of soft, white bread. The Pig is the stuff of fantasies - luscious, greasy food fantasies where the mention of bad cholesterol and blood pressure medicine is strictly forbidden. It’s a place where spicy pork rinds are smiled upon, and the only health food allowed is the kind that has been seasoned with fatback.
I have tried the imitators. I had to know if they could quench that desire in me that screams for pork barbecue and lovingly-prepared sausage balls. I won’t pretend to be impressed with their lackluster performance. They were just posers and never measured up to the high standard that my beloved Pig has set for my discriminating taste buds. The intentions were good, but the texture was an epic failure. Such is the way of the Pig, often imitated but never duplicated.
I’ll go on now helplessly loving the Pig from afar. I’ll keep playing the game, ignoring the fact that the mere scent of the Pig wafting up my stairs in the morning makes me drool on my pillow. He’s the bad boy of the meat world, and I have a thing for bad boys who go great with eggs…and melted cheese…and potato salad...and hash browns...