I’m still weak in the knees.

This isn’t sated, or full, or even satisfied or happy - this is one of those moments where you’ve spent hours with your eyes glued to the back of your skull and your jaw slack from what you’ve just felt - and all of your favorite smells and tastes have just shouted to you in a mysterious language you only at this moment understand.   And you realize, right then, when you’re done sitting in the dark corner licking the unctuous charred bits from the edge of your plate or trying to fish those last grains of rice from the tines of your fork even though you’ve already finished dessert - that THIS this is the meal against which all future versions will be Judged and Found Wanting.

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I am married to bacon.

Goetta is my friend, ham is sort of the Meat Next Door, BBQ and I go too far back for there to be passion,  pork tenderloin and I exchange long glances when we pass each other by the water cooler, the Pork Belly Mac and Cheese at Mayberry is on my Laminated Celebrity Card, and pork hocks and I have an understanding.

Chorizo is what calls me at 2 in the morning.

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I’m willing to write off one out of every, say, twenty dishes I cook as a complete and unmitigated disaster.  And usually, afterward, I understand why it happens.  Botched technique,   too much heat, (either in the “caliente” or the “picante” sense of the word) too little attention, or drastically misunderstanding the changes the food will undergo while cooking.   We make a mental note, we salvage what we can, we do the dishes, and, if necessary, order up some Indian takeout.

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I used to think that I could be a vegetarian.

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