Alarm clocks are my nemesis. We are slaves to an alarm six days out of every week. And my husband insists on using the old school, painfully obnoxious variety that jars me awake violently each morning. The noise is reminiscent of the blaring scream that warns of a nuclear fallout. I have told him, at many 4:00 a.m. wakings, that the day he retires, I am bringing that little bugger out into the driveway and bashing it to bits with a sledgehammer. He thinks that sounds wasteful. I think is sounds cathartic.
There is only one day that I am saved from the wretched screeching that brings on homicidal emotions. Sunday mornings are sacred to me for this reason. Particularly now that my kids are older and, in theory, can feed themselves, I am afforded the opportunity to sleep to my hearts content. Even the dogs and cats leave me alone. Whether they fear my wrath or are just equally thrilled to not have to wake to a siren, is unclear. All I do know is that no one dares disturb my slumber.
Getting up on this morning is always bittersweet. I know that I am well rested (provided no animals forced me from bed by vomiting in the dark of the night), but I also know that for the next six days, I won’t have such a luxury. The driving force that pulls me from under the sheets is a carved-in-stone family tradition: bacon.
I know my family is not alone in this tradition. This is obvious because the brand of smoked pork that I purchase is named, “Sunday Bacon.” Bacon is clearly a national obsession. There are websites and facebook groups dedicated to its deliciousness. Even vegetarians admit that this glorious, salty meat is a necessity and have created several varieties of “facon,” a horrifying bastardization, but an obvious nod to the wonder of the original.
Bacon love is hardwired into the genetic code of my children. On vacations of his youth, my husband would pester his grandfather for the breakfast staple. The not-so-patient older man was so browbeaten by this that he would give Brian raw bacon. And Brian would eat it.
People who do not eat bacon for moral reasons, or, God forbid, because they don’t like it, are deemed suspicious and untrustworthy by my family. My daughter, like me, is a mush when it comes to animals and their cuteness. As she got older and learned about the origins on the meats that she found on her plate, she was saddened by the thought of a life ending in order for her to eat. Being that we count a pet pig and chickens amongst our family members, she was particularly horrified. She brought up the idea of being a vegetarian. My princess had naturally shied away from meat for most of her life, so it would not be a very difficult transition. I had been a vegetarian for many years, so I understood where she was coming from and had a frank discussion with my little girl.
“Being a vegetarian can be a good choice. However, you have to be more aware of your food choices and be sure to take in enough protein. It’s essential that you increase foods like nuts, beans and eggs to continue to grow and thrive.”
She’s a huge fan of those foods, so this was all good news. I could see her really taking to the idea. No more bad feelings when looking at her dinner plate!
“Oh, and you’d have to give up bacon.”
“What?! Why would I do that?! Who would do that?! That’s cruel and weird. I can’t live like that.”
And that was the end of her very brief foray into a vegetarian life.
Their is a problem with bacon, though. As a strong advocate of sustainable living, I learned long ago that an infinite supply of bacon is not sustainable. There is only so much bacon that can come from a single pig. Therefore, we regard our bacon with the appropriate revelry. Each Sunday morning, we cook only one half pound of bacon for our family of four.
This respect for bacon has garnered some odd side-traditions at our house. The most prevalent being the burning question, “How many pieces do we get today?”
Is it a two-piece day? Or maybe, blessedly, a three-piece day? The eight ounce package weight remains constant, but how that is sliced up is a constant variable. Which leads to another tradition that nearly every mom will understand. The total number of slices is divided by three, and if there is any remainder, that is my share. Sometimes it’s one slice, sometimes two, but on most Sunday mornings, it comes out to none.
I am not a martyr. This is not some abusive policy forced upon me by an uncaring and cruel family. This is my choice. As a mother, the sheer joy that something so little as bacon brings to my children, is way more important then any salted pork product. Of course, I should maybe be a little concerned about the intense love they have for bacon, but that’s an issue way bigger then me.
Cooking bacon is no little thing. I am rarely allowed to come near the skillet, as Brian has a time-honored, torturously slow method for pan frying it (and some other peculiar breakfast-cooking quirks that I’ll reserve for another time). Some have told us how they broil theirs. Others extol the virtues of the quick-fix option of microwaving. Heresy. An abomination. A true horror.
No Nigro Sunday morning bacon delicacy will ever see the inside of anything other then a good ole fashion frying pan. Oh, and no non-stick either. Not only does the bacon render all the glorious fat you need to prevent sticking, teflon and its counterparts are among the most toxic materials to the earth and the people that live on it. A good stainless steel or cast iron skillet will last a lifetime, or even longer. Mine is a hand-me-down from mom, that came from her mom.
Cast iron is fabulous and I try to cook just about everything in it. From my multiple frying pans to my Dutch oven, I love the way things cook and the feel of the heavy, sturdy cookware. Seasoning cast iron is essential to keeping it nearly non-stick. For the best how-to, I defer to the experts. Lodge has been making cast iron since 1896. Follow their instructions for the perfectly seasoned cast iron.
Do you have any odd traditions that are sacred to your family, but might make others question their relationship with you? I’m good at keeping secrets and after all, who isn’t just a little bit crazy? Share with me at laurie@riverheadlocal.com.
