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.
(616) 745-9530
No comments:
Post a Comment