Wednesday, June 28, 2017

The best word in the world? Bacon, no question about it


Bacon.

Mmm … such a beautiful word. That word does things to me, things that words like “cute blonde” used to do, sort of. And unlike cute blondes, bacon never broke into my apartment to steal back two year’s worth of birthday presents.

But that’s a story for another time. Today, we’re talking about bacon, the best argument I can think of against vegetarianism.

It’s on my mind because my neighbor, Justin, gave me a couple pounds of it the other day. It came from pigs he raised over the course of last summer.

Since I didn’t give him any grief about putting in a small pen and populating it with two oinkers, I guess he felt he owed it to me. He didn’t, but he felt he did and I sure the heck am not going to tell him any different.

The bacon was, by far, the best thing I have ever eaten. It was cut thick, each slice a work of art, a rich tapestry of fat and lean laid out in symmetrical strips and vacuum sealed. I didn’t know how good it was going to taste when he dropped by the house to give it to me. This is probably a good thing. Had I known, I might have been tempted to kiss him and Justin doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would take kindly to that sort of thing.

Mrs. Taylor (formerly Lori Frankforter) expressed an interest in trying some of the bacon herself, and initially, I intended to share. Then I tasted it. After that I was like Gollum with the One Ring; nobody was going to touch my precious bacon.

I doled it out carefully over the next few days. Bacon and eggs for Monday’s breakfast, then BLTs for lunch the following two days.

Then it was gone. I was left with nothing but the memories.

I tried not to weep openly, but was only partly successful.

I don’t know why that bacon was so special, so much better than the stuff I can buy at the grocery. But it was.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact I had witnessed the growth of the pigs themselves, from cute, little Babe-like bundles of pink all the way through to their final exit from their pen, large, fat and resigned to their fate. Theirs was a short life, but a good one, I think.

Justin, who also keeps chickens, takes very good care of his critters. They’re comfortable, warm, well-fed. Hell, my own parents didn’t treat me as well as Justin treats his animals.

Or maybe it was knowing they were raised out in the fresh air (or as fresh as the air ever gets around a pig pen) that made the bacon seem so sweet. Maybe they just got better feed. When it comes to pigs, there’s a lot I don’t know.

But it seems to me there’s something about seeing to your own food, rather than just picking it up at a store, that just makes it, well, better. I’ve got to admit, Justin (and his gift of bacon) have inspired me.

I’m too much of a citified wimp to raise an animal myself with the intent of eating it. I grew up reading “Charlotte’s Web” and other stories of anthropomorphized barnyard residents who invariably displayed more humanity than their human masters.

So, nope. No pigs for me. But, as I mentioned last week, Mrs. T (fLF) has decided we’re going to raise chickens. We won’t be eating the birds, but we will be eating the eggs. That much my city boy psyche can handle.

I’ve heard fresh eggs are better than what you can buy at the store. It’ll be a while before I know for sure. Our chicks are still pretty little; we won’t be seeing eggs from them until summer’s end, at the soonest. But by next spring, they should by laying like crazy.

And should Justin decide to give me another package of bacon from this summer’s crop of oinkers to go with those eggs? Well, let’s just say I’ll be in hog heaven.



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