I just sat down. Needed to throw a couple of quiches together and get them into the oven before the day gets too hot. I was frying some good bacon from our neighbor’s hogs in my favorite cast iron skillet. (Ok. I’ll tell you foodies now so you can concentrate on the rest of the post: The first was bacon, local raw-milk cheddar cheese, and fresh chives from the garden. The second one ended up with some feta, left-over oven roasted new potatoes along with red peppers, and green onions all from our garden!)
So, having more time than I sometimes do, I put the bacon in the cold pan and put it over a low heat. Slowly, the bacon releases its fat and becomes uniformly crisp. So simple…no splatter, no burned bacon or that rubbery rawish fatty stuff. Time is what you need for good bacon, then. My grandmother taught me that. The part about always putting bacon in a cold skillet, that is. She had the time, or at least a significant amount of time spent in the kitchen, so she didn’t think about outright mentioning that part.
Anyway, I love food memories. I accept, as a true gift, moments where I am thinking about people because food has triggered a memory, a feeling.