Sizzling

Okay now, we’re gonna take this slow. . . .

The aroma of house-cured bacon fills me like a drug.  As I inhale, my eyes roll back in my head and an “. . . oh, baby. . . .” escapes my lips in a husky whisper.  Oh my . . . that is a mighty hot pan . . . scorching.

Burt has been curing his own bacon for years, but never tried selling it at the shop, till I told him he could be charging upwards of $12 a pound for “Artisan” Bacon.

I’ve never had bacon this thick before.  Burt cut it by hand rather than using the deli slicer; it’s about half an inch thick.  And he gave me the “ugly” end pieces, which are even thicker.  Nobody buys them because they’re deformed, but I will take them in and love them just the same. 

Same with the two-pound face piece of sirloin I have sitting out.  It’s not the end piece, but the one just inside that, and has a bit of cartilage in the middle of it that customers don’t want, though it’s no less edible than any other steak. 

When the bacon is done I set it aside on a paper towel.  I’ll to wait till you’re ready, baby.

When I drop the steak into that rendered bacon fat, a solid sizzle goes up; just what I want to hear.

Once browned I slip the steak from the frying pan to a baking sheet, the still-crackling grease tenderly poured over it.  I can hear it hissing even behind the closed oven door.  I know, honey, I know.  That’s what I love about food:  it will let you know when it’s ready, either with a look, a sound, or a smell. 

The steak has been rested.  It’s time to cut.  I stand over the meat, chin in hand, contemplating how to go about this.  I get my big knife. 

I slice through the thickest part—probably over two inches (whoever thought two inches could be so . . . satisfying?)—the meat is dark red inside.  I stick a finger into the cut.  Room temperature . . . the finger goes in my mouth.

Maybe . . . maybe just a small taste . . . a bite from the corner . . . an exploratory nibble.  The flesh is sweet from the bacon grease.  It doesn’t need a thing, but I can’t resist just a bit of hot sauce.  Before I know it, I’ve lost control and can’t stop feeding myself.  I tear through the flesh greedily; blood and juice dribble down my chin, but I pay no heed.  Fast, rough, and messy, the steak is gone. 

 

 

Now I move on to the piggy.  The cure is made with brown sugar and salt; the meat is cold smoked at 100 degrees with blocks of ice inside the smoker.  I’m not going to be able to come back from this; this is the epitome of bacon-hood—the apex—all other bacon from here on out is inferior.  I feel like I’ve waited my whole life for this bacon.  This bacon is the meal in and of itself; it would be an insult to serve it alongside eggs, or any other lesser food.  You can’t follow this act with . . . anything.  The meat is tender, sweet, salty, and very smoky.  If I devoured the steak unrelentingly, I took my time with the bacon, holding it in my mouth, savoring it. 

I recline in a state of utter bliss, completely gratified, breathless, mind-blown . . . drifting off into a food coma.  Absolute bacon euphoria achieved.  There is nothing more a girl could want . . . nothing more to say.