Posted in Creations, Lessons Learned

Part of a healthy diet, or “Why reading blogs may be bad for you”

“Did you see the bacon video on List of the Day?” my dear husband asked me the other day, as he knows that it’s one of my daily reads.

“I saw the post, but I didn’t watch the video. What was it about?”

“Deep. Fried. Bacon.” He said it almost reverentially.

“Seriously?”

“Yep…there’s a café in Texas that serves it.” It’s a place called Sodolak’s, as it turns out, in Snook, Texas.

Now, we love us some bacon at Casa Cunningham. I recall one night when Scott was flipping channels and he came across Emeril’s cooking show. Emeril had just started, and he said, “Okay, now, you’re going to need a pound of butter…and a pound of bacon.” We were rapt for the next hour; with a beginning like that, there was no way that recipe wasn’t going to turn out as something practically ambrosial. However, I dismissed the concept of deep-fried bacon with a single, drawn-out syllable: “Ewwwww.”

I thought that “ewwwww” was the last of it. Having been married for a long time now, my spidey sense should’ve picked up on the fact that the bacon video was no passing fancy for Scott, but rather had taken hold of him in that sinister way fried foods have. However, I didn’t realize the truth until we were finishing up our shopping at Target Saturday afternoon.

“Did you need anything from the grocery store?”

“No, I think we have milk.”

“Well, I want to get a few things. I want some cabbage and green onions for the fried rice…and some bacon.”

And there it was.

“Bacon?”

“Yeah, I want to try that country-fried bacon.”

“Seriously?”

I suppose it’s a reasonable rule of thumb that if you feel called to test the seriousness of someone’s resolve to engage in a reckless activity, you can be pretty sure their seriousness is not in doubt. Especially if that someone is your spouse. Your bacon-loving spouse.

“Well, I guess as long as your life insurance is paid up, you can eat deep-fried bacon if you want.”

So Sunday morning, I dragged myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 9:45, because I knew that Scott wanted to make his bacon, and was waiting on me to get up, and it would be unfair of me to lie comatose for another hour or two between a man and his deep-fried bacon. (Figuratively; doing so actually would just be gross.)

He commenced to preparing the bacon (and the accompanying white gravy) and I vacuumed the house in the meantime, because our three dogs are making a concerted effort to bring in as much yard schmutz as they can possibly carry in on their twelve tiny feet to deposit on my carpets. If I were into that aesthetic, I would have to admit they’re doing an admirable job, but as it is, I’m just annoyed. I kept an eye on the progress of the project in the kitchen, trying to be encouraging while staying out of the way.

“What are you doing with the Wesson?” I said.

“I was going to put it in the Fry Daddy.”

“There’s already oil in it.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “I don’t think it’s been in there that long.”

“Okay,” he said and went back to slicing and breading the bacon.
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“Don’t start up the fryer until I have the clean laundry out of the dining room. I don’t want everything to smell like grease.”

So I got the laundry out of harm’s way and he fired up the Fry Daddy, and the chicken-fried bacon-making commenced.
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It wasn’t long before I became quietly concerned, because it wasn’t smelling terribly appetizing, but I kept my peace, because my honey wanted deep-fried bacon, and by God, he should have deep-fried bacon.

The longer he cooked, the less appetite I had for it.

He gauged the level of my anticipation for the coming meal, and I hedged by saying, “Um…I don’t know…I think it smells kind of odd.”

“Odd how?” he asked.

“You don’t want to know,” I said, because I didn’t want to tell him. If you’re having a bad food experience and the people you’re with are not, the quickest way to ruin their meal is to share your problem with your meal. The power of suggestion is irresistible, so I didn’t want to put the idea in his head.

“No, tell me…what does it smell like?”

“Livestock barn at the fair, frankly.”

But he didn’t smell that, and soon enough, it was ready. We sat down at the table with deep-fried bacon and some toast. Sunday breakfast was served.
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I took one of the crispy critters on the paper-toweled plate in front of me, and gingerly took a single bite. And promptly put it back down and began to eat my toast.

“What do you think?”

“I think it tastes like it smells. And the bacon isn’t cooked very well inside the breading.” I like my bacon crisp; this was just barely on the far side of rare. “What do you think?”

“It’s not bad. You’re not going to eat yours?”

“I’m sorry. I tried. I just can’t.” I finished my toast, and he finished his deep-fried bacon, and we started to clean up. When we went back into the kitchen, Scott said, “Now I can smell barnyard. I couldn’t smell it before.” The smell was overpowering to me; every time I walked through the kitchen for the next hour, I gagged. I immediately set about opening all nearby windows to air it out as fast as possible. I decided to leave the cleaning of the kitchen to the cook and took myself off to the bedroom to fold clothes.

When I brought the laundry baskets back, he said, “You know, I think it might’ve been the oil that was bad. When I cleaned the fryer, there was a lot of black sludge at the bottom that you couldn’t see when the oil was in there, because the pot is black, too.”

“Really? I thought I’d just put it in there recently. Well, that was probably it, then. I’m sorry.”

“So maybe we’ll try the deep-fried bacon again?”

“YOU go right ahead.”

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Author:

I've been doing some form of creative writing since 9th grade, and have been a blogger since 2003. Like most bloggers, I've quit blogging multiple times. But the words always come back, asking to be written down, and they pester me if I don't. So here we are. Thanks for reading.

11 thoughts on “Part of a healthy diet, or “Why reading blogs may be bad for you”

  1. I love your bacon-frying story as I have an inordinate fondness for this…uh…”delicacy” as well. What a shame that the results weren’t as appetizing as he hoped but I do suspect it was the old oil.

    Another thing I enjoyed about this post (okay, all your posts) is the way you write. You always make me smile, think, and enjoy the little adventure you’re sharing.

  2. June, Scott read your comment before I did. From the other room, I hear, “Ha! June agrees with me. I win, and you suck!”

    I think he’s personalizing this a bit too much, don’t you?

  3. I had a moment similar to Scott’s. Only in Pakistan, since all pork products are illegal under Islam, I’ve made various shall we say less-than-sterling attempts at deep-frying turkey or beef bacon, but it just doesn’t have that same oomph.

    I’ll leave it by telling you that the first time I tried to even fry the damn’ thing, it disintegrated. Completely. But no one tossed out the oil, so the next time we made anything, there was the tender aroma of fried meat accompanying the banana fritters.

  4. you enabled comments!! finally! i actually said “yay” out loud when i realized it.

    at least you’re lucky that scott wants to try out stuff, even if doesn’t turn out that great. pb would either just order it or beg me (or even my mom!) to make it. desi men!!

  5. omg, I laughed so hard at the barnyard smell thing. Fried bacon. Dang, you would have thought I’d seen that at the State Fair because if it can be fried (or impaled on a stick and then fried) you can find it at the Iowa State Fair.

    Great story.

  6. You can’t desecrate bacon Goddamit it’s sacrilege. Then again what you have there is streaky and it more like snack bacon rather than the real stuff, oak smoked back bacon would be served in heaven every morning if the place existed. Send himself to Scotland he’d love it, Mars bars, choc ices, haggis, they deep fry the lot up there, nutters!

    Real bacon should be grilled slowly to the point when the fat just browns along the edges but the meat is still pink. Islam is a little cruel denying you that, there are few greater pleasures than 3 rashers of that in some crusty white bread with a light smear of ketchup.

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