Where I get all snobby about my bacon

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In our house, bacon is serious stuff.

We have extended conversations about bacon. We discuss the merits of different styles & different brands the way OC families might discuss fashion. We consider, savor and discuss a new pack of bacon like teenagers might talk about a new song, or that guy that what's-her-name was seen with last week in the mall. 

We are judgmental and picky. Though truth be told, it's hard to find a bacon that we we won't let back into the house, even after a less than stellar review. (There are notable exceptions: the house brand at Whole Foods. It's just sadly unflavorful. And do not utter the words "turkey" and "bacon" in the same sentence in my daughter's presence).

Bacon in our house is divided into three distinct categories:

- American bacon. This is the streaky stuff made from the belly of the pig with a dry rub of salt and potentially a few other flavors (e.g. maple, smoked, etc.)

American bacon is only good when put on top of other things. A salad. A good burger. Candied and crumbled on top of oatmeal. (trust me on this) 

American bacon is the co-king of "makes things better when put on top". It shares this glory with a fried egg. (Trust me on this one as well. If you see something on a menu topped with a fried egg, I guarantee you it will be one of the best dishes on the menu. I would not lie to you about this. Other things, ok maybe. But not about a fried egg. We're friends like that.)

- Italian bacon. Also known as pancetta. It's made from the same cut of pork belly as American bacon, but with a different cure approach. It's indispensible in a good pasta carbonara, risotto, or diced and fried with a mess of shredded brussel sprouts. (Ok. You can switch out for guanciale - made from the streaky pork cheek - but the effect is nearly the same.) 

I have a great recipe for pancetta. It takes about 6-8 weeks to cure, and considering that I can get a decent Oscar Meyer bacon for a few bucks, but good pancetta costs me more than $20 a pound, all the bellies of my annual autumn pigs are cut & reserved for pancetta, instead of more typical bacon. 

- and best of all: English bacon. Which is the only kind of bacon meaty enough to stand up on its own as a breakfast main in our house. 

So sayeth the Critter. And so it must be true.

 

 

British bacon comes from the loin of the pig, not the belly. Where you get pork chops (without the bone). It's also called 'back bacon', because of where this is located along the pig - It's along the upper side - usually cut (as ours is above) to extend down and include a little of the upper belly (along the left hand side of the picture above).  This is the same cut used for Canadian bacon - usually found on pizza here in the lower part of the continent. (Canadian bacon is cured with more sugar, typically smoked, and is just as often treated as ham here in the U.S. and doesn't rightly belong in the "bacon" category at all, at least in our household). 

I took a picture of this cut above after curing it for about 8 or 9 days. Most American bacon is cured with a 'dry' cure - essentially rubbing it with salt, probably sugar and a few other spices, and maybe smoking it. 

The best traditional British bacon is cured in a wet 'Wiltshire cure' - a brine that the cut is submerged in to soak in all of the delicious flavors.  About half of British bacon sold in stores there is smoked after curing. The rest is sold 'green' or unsmoked. I prefer the unsmoked - both because of the simpler taste, and because it's easier to make. 

The cure is pretty straightforward - I've listed my basic recipe below. 

Wiltshire cure: 

  • 1 gallon of water
  • 1 lb kosher salt
  • 1/2 lb brown sugar
  • 1 heaping tsp pink salt
  • A few crushed juniper berries
  • 1 bay leaf
  • Anything else I happen to grab out of my spice drawer: 10-12 Black peppercorns. A hefty pinch of dried thyme. Nothing if I'm feeling lazy.

Add the salt, sugar & spices to the water in a large stock pot and heat until the salt & sugar are dissolved. Let cool to room temp (I often cover the pot and stick it out on the porch or in the fridge to accelerate things). Add the meat and ensure it is fully submerged (with a plate on top or some other weight) and put into a cool place (basement or garage). Don't bother it again for 5-8 days. I tend to leave mine for 8 or 9. 

 

 

 

At this point, your bacon is ready to slice, cook and eat.

A couple of years ago, I called my Bride a few days before Father's day and told her I knew what I wanted to celerbate my father-ness. A meat slicer.

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and then, "I'm not getting you a meat sli- .... You already have one picked out, don't you?"  

"I'm one click away from having one on our doorstep, baby."

I picked up the one above off of eBay for a two or three hundred bucks, and it's more than adequate for most things. This little deli slicer makes quick work of the bacon. But you could just as well do it with a sharp knife, slicing what you need. (and I have)

I could write a whole other post about what I've learned about meat slicers since buying this one. But as a good, home-use level slicer, it's perfectly adequate. If a pain in the ass to break down and clean afterwards. But hey. Good bacon demands some sacrifice. And I'm ok with that.

 

 

I lay out the bacon on easily sorted sheets of wax paper. You can pick them up in a decent grocery for next to nothing. It keeps things tidy for breakfast, when I have kids clamoring for the stuff. 

The only thing I'll point out about this particular batch of bacon is the extra-thick layer of fat. This pig was beautifully fatted, and I hated to lose too much of it. It could have been sliced off and used to make lardo, but I kept most of it. I sometimes end up trimming that fat off before I cook a slice, or throw it to the dog. But just as often, I end up eating it. Don't say 'ew. gross.' Think of what percentage fat your Oscar Meyer bacon is. That's just flavor. 

Note: If you cut it thicker, you end up with gammon. One of my first lunches with the team in the Liverpool office, I was trying to decipher the menu, and asked someone what this 'gammon' thing was. 

'It's like a bacon steak,' one of the guys said. 

Bacon steak. Holy shit. You just combined two of my favorite concepts in one fantastic meal. And they serve it with a fried egg on top. 

A half inch slice of Wiltshire cured pork loin (bacon), griddled with an egg and served with good pub chips and taken with a pint of beer, and you're in heaven, my friend. It is not to be missed.

 

 

However, this is how I like my bacon best. Griddled in a pan, and put between two pieces of good toast, buttered and hot. A good, traditional 'bacon buttie'. 

Lots of Brits top it with a bit of brown sauce (the HP stuff behind it - we keep it around because my Bride likes it). But I'm a simple man. 

This right here - this is good bacon. And is one more example that the Brits - despite the rumors - do know what they're doing in the kitchen. 

I would write more. But my bacon buttie is getting cold. 

Remind me of all of this when she turns 16 and returns my car two hours past curfew with an empty gas tank

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Just before the new year, we took the kids up into New Hampshire to celebrate a little snowfall with some downhill skiing.

Skiing in New England isn't like skiing in Tahoe or many other destinations. The mountains are smaller, and the snow (so say the experts) is different. I don't know. I'm from Georgia. Most of our snow comes in cones. I grew up skiing occasionally, and I can sort of remember how to get from the top of the hill to the bottom in more or less one piece, but that's about it. 

The Critter has been skiing every season since we moved here, however, and she's both confident and comfortable. 
 

 

She and I stuck my Bride and the Boy into their respective classes, and went up our first chair lift of the morning.  I asked her if we could take one of the "green" slopes to start out with - this was at Crotched Mountain, which has nice long, windy slopes with plenty of room to practice your skills. 

The Critter gave me a thumbs up and headed down the slope. I zig zagged and tacked back and forth across the hill, giving my body a chance to calm down after being strapped to two long, rigid sticks with the unreasonable purpose of making my downhill descent faster and less deliberate. I would zoom, swish. Zoom, swish to a somewhat controlled stop. And check back up the hill to watch the Critter steadily descend. She has remarkable control. She points her skiis downhill, and goes at a nice, even clip, apparently exactly as fast as she wants. No more, no less. 

The Critter has several friends that are on the local racing teams. They figure out tricks to go faster. They seek speed, and get frustrated when they don't win, and show up the next week to do it again.  I asked her if she wanted to race or join one of the teams. She said, "No thanks." And we got back in the chair lift and headed up the hill again. 

A few more runs and I was feeling comfortable enough to let her choose the next slope. She chose a blue slope, where some of the teams were practicing slaloms. It had a steep drop off, coming from a black diamond above it, where the racers would weave in and out around poles. The Critter just smiled, and headed off at her steady pace. About halfway down, I lost control, and tumbled to a wretched stop. I sat in the snow and contemplated how the hell I was going to get off the hill.

An older guy stopped me and asked me if I needed any help. 

"No. Just remind me that I don't have to try and keep up with my 10 year old next time." 

He laughed, and said he had been right where I was and helped me me up. I swallowed my pride, took my skiis off, and walked the rest of the way down the steep part of the slope, until it went around the bend and leveled out to something more rational. 

I found the Critter there waiting on me. 

She had stopped, and watched the racers zoom by, and was patiently watching the slope for me to finally make it around. We laughed a bit together at the foolishness of old men who think they can keep up, and I strapped my skiis on again. I told her to give my battered, snowy corpse a gentle shove down the hill if I didn't manage to make it all the way off of this slope. And which pocket I had put the car keys into. Zoom, swish, zoom, swish, stop, I went down the rest of the hill. Steady, easy, confident skiing she went along side me. 

We skied for another couple of hours and headed home, where I soothed my oldness with a hot bath, a cold beer, a half bottle of motrin, and something on my kindle. Simultaneously.

 

 

 

The Critter has never been in a rush. She strolls through the day, enjoying whatever she's doing at her pace. It shouldn't have surprised me that she took skiing with the same confidently content insouciance that she does everything else. She ran cross-country this past autumn for the first time, and was consistently the last to finish at every meet. But she was having a good time. She enjoyed her classmates. She liked the activity and running through the woods. She felt good about what she was doing.  And I gave her a high five when she crossed the finish line. She's in competition with nobody but herself. And she seemingly came into this world already & instinctually aware of that fundamental truth.

 This is the same kid who, when she was five and meeting a friend at the movies, chose to wear her Pirates of the Carribean costume. With the hat. Not because it was a movie about princesses, or because her friend was going to wear her costume. Just because she enjoyed it. These are the lessons you hope and pray your kids - maybe especially your daughter - picks up. Enjoy who you are. Be comfortable with your skin. Laugh when you fall down, and wait for those that need a little extra time. Especially when it's your daddy. 

This week, she got in trouble. Normal, 10 year old kind of trouble that cost her tv, computer and other electronics priveleges for a week or so. (I learned this trick from the Army: "Drop and start doing pushups until I get tired!" The irrationality of the punishment is the only way to restore a little fun into being a parent in those moments.) 

This morning, I made her lunch and slipped a note into her lunchbox:  I'll love you to the stars and back, little girl. Even when you get in trouble. 

I cannot teach this stuff. Hell, if anything, she's teaching me. I just get to sit back and watch this remarkable kid turn into a remarkable person. And wish it wasn't happening so damned fast.