Cast Iron Bacon Poem by Thomas Plotz

Cast Iron Bacon

Bacon oh bacon, gelatinous goodness, smoky, salted taste.
Cooking slow; till your perfection. Baking Bacon; in the land of Lincoln, at early morning light. Sizzling bacon, crackling in a cast iron pan; rendering the fat down with delight. Cooking slowly, concentrating the bacon flavor. Filling your home with aroma; drops of vapor, drift from room to room, with a peaceful alarm. You're not mistaken, when waken with bacon. The scent alerting your family members and pets, to wake up and make hast, to the table.

Bacon, pick your flavor, pick your cut. Thick cut, thin cut, super thick, Canadian. Try fully cooked, apple wood, cherry wood, or hardwood. Making bacon the way you want.

You can render mine down till it shrinks, but not crunchy; able to pick it up, flopping over with a welcoming wave, calling all to breakfast. You have permission, to use your fingers to eat the slices. Popping the bacon in your mouth; swirling the bits around, like fine wine. Then getting the final juices sucked off your fingers, by you; or sharing them with someone you love.

Thank you God; with a nod, for the hog, we live high on.



Saturday, October 18, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: cooking
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