My daughter wrote the following for her college English class:
Take a trip with me to my crispy, warm, happy place; I’m talking about a warm plate of bacon. After a long day at work, in class, or just doing chores I love slaving over a hot oven to broil my favorite food. Broiling with a slotted pan is the only way to get the crispiness that I desire, as opposed to pan frying, or the lesser cousin microwaving. In the oven the bacon pops like a synchronized fireworks show and hits the bright red oven prongs with a sizzle, this causes my natural reaction of “oohs and ahs.” The kitchen fills with smoke and the aroma of a late-night bonfire with a hint of maple syrup. At this point the beautiful little slices of bacon change from a light pink and white color to a dark red and charcoal color. The charcoal texture is not exactly what I look for, but to get the bacon crispy enough there has to be some sacrifices like anything else in life, sometimes the edges are rough, but the inside is what matters. When the sweet little morsels are cooked to perfection they must rest on a paper towel like a little blanket cradling a new born baby. When cooled a little bit, they crispin’ up and glisten with a little of the fat still on the surface. After about three agonizing minutes they are ready to eat and crumble when I pick them up but still stay intact almost like a chocolate bar melting in my fingertips. The flavor is that of nothing else, a sort of black sheep in the meat world. It tastes almost like a mix between beef jerky and hot sauce, hot sauce only because it always leaves a very strong after taste that is indescribable. After I finish a plate of bacon, I always look down at the white plate that is juxtaposed with the little black crumbs and wish I had more. Then again my stomach never agrees and growls because of the spontaneous overload. All I have is the memory of my favorite comfort food that I enjoy when I’m feeling down.
I am impressed and proud of her writing skills. Good job, Alex.
No comments:
Post a Comment