I realized I felt happy--really happy. I hadn't had enough bacon, not yet--but I was on the track of my BQ, and that felt good. And I still had more than half a package of raw bacon left. For that matter, I had another whole package in the freezer. It would be short work to defrost it under warm running water, if it came to that. I sang as I laid five more strips in the pan of lightly smoking oil.
I fried and ate bacon for two and a half hours in a back-and-forth ballet among range, countertop, and table. My feet slid along the floor noiselessly--I was grease-skating in my socks, gliding like a swan. With every breath I inhaled slippery clouds of bacon fat, transformed into a smoky haze by the alchemy of my cast-iron skillet and the heat of my stove-top. I was in the fat and the fat was in me, all over me, deep in my creases like a tender lover. Inner had become outer. It was all the same. It was glorious and sinful, a gluttonous greasy rampage, a disaster, a glistening salty triumph.
The BQ was technically reached at three pounds (uncooked weight), but I made sure to eat the remaining pound in the package just to ensure the accuracy of my results. I didn't want to be mistaken--to think that I'd reached the BQ, only to realize an hour later that I'd been premature. I had to be sure. The last pound of bacon was deliberate and labored, but at long last I finished cooking and devouring the entire family-size four-pound package. I folded the greasy plastic wrapping into quarters and discarded it into my garbage can, replacing the lid with a sense of completion and purpose. I was done. I had finally had Enough Bacon.
What's your BQ, do you think?
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