Please allow this post to serve as an explanation of why I don’t harbor fantasies of working in a professional kitchen.
I could, with herculean effort, overcome the obvious: you know, better shape, willing to work nights and weekends for barely a living wage, more deference to authority, and, you know, the whole “punctual” thing. I could learn to endure the cuts and the bruises and the burn marks. I could even get used to the Hammer Pants.
This much should be obvious if you have been around a while: It’s all about the sloppy and the haphazard. In fact, It is often a small miracle that dinner even happens.
Let’s go over the rules:
You will not scoff at the idea of bacon toffee.
You will not consider, as an alternative, a low-fat toffee, a vegan toffee or a seitan toffee. I did not grab you by the mouse hand and force you to read my bacon blog.
You will not question yourself, hesitate, or dither while meez-en-placing your bacon toffee. Like Doctor Strangelove, there is no recall code.
You will not use bacon toffee as a promise, or the withholding of bacon toffee as a threat. Barter is perfectly acceptable.
You will not make bacon toffee for someone for whom you have an unrequited crush. He/she is unworthy and will break your heart. We both know that he or she is going to call Hershey Bar as soon as the candy cools. This is the way of nature. Just be smug and continue to stir.
You will not pause in the middle of making bacon toffee in order to cook yourself another strip of bacon. This means you, Mathews. Although truth be told I wouldn’t blame you.
You will not pause to reflect upon the following irony: Bacon Toffee is cooked to what candymakers call the “hard crack” stage. There will be plenty of time to think about this later when you are in the corner, twitching uncontrollably and ready to sell your TV for a dolla.
You will simply make bacon toffee.
Indulgent breakfasts are one thing. Indulgent alcohol doused brunches are another. And, forgive me for sounding like I’m channeling Jennifer Love Hewitt, homemade crepes and mimosas for breakfast is totally the most amazing and awesomest thing ever.
So I was mildly amused at the small but noticeable traffic spike I experienced this past weekend, presumably because so many people thought I might have posted something in honor of International Bacon Day. Two things.
1. I love you. But I am not your goddamn bacon hero.
2. Every day is International Bacon Day. Amateurs.
It had to be done. The words came out of my mouth, the vision appeared in my head, and my fate was sealed.
Does this ever happen to you? Going from zero to completely obsessed in a matter of seconds? About something that had not ever really crossed your mind before?
It’s somewhere. Even now, it stalks me.
I might have to shave my head Monday night.
Let’s do a little experiment, shall we?
1. Look around your desk, cubicle, coffee table, couch or piggy bank for all the nickels you can find. At least a big handfull of them.
2. Put them in your mouth*.
Mkay. Personal life. Like so many of my issues it relates back to food, but permit me to unburden.
I’ve been stressing out lately. Beneath my even-keeled calm veneer and amid even the absurdly simplistic zen garden of my life, I find myself very jittery of late, and not always dealing with these jitters in the most productive of ways.
I promise you that the following recipe is, in fact, bacon related, and that the following self disclosure is germaine to my recipe.