[There’s a slight whiff of hypocrisy in this, but who’s going to complain when it smells like sweet, sweet rendered pork fat?]
I don’t remember whose idea it was — Amy’s? Marisa’s? Mine? Likely it was fomented by the collective bacon-obssesed unconscious — but it was a brilliant one:
An LGBT party.
(A test drive of my latest batch of cured meat led us to the realization that the only thing better than a BLT was one with both bacon and guanciale; hence Lettuce-Guanciale-Bacon-Tomato. The rearrangement of letters just so happens to convey our freewheeling love for pork in all its orientations — but you didn’t need me to spell that one out for you, did you?)
Perhaps one of the best aspects of such a theme is its relatively painless scalability. We instituted a BYOBread/Bacon/Beverage policy, borrowed a few extra toasters, and made appropriate condiments.
And then we spent the evening cooking a shit-ton of bacon.
At least 15 pounds’ worth, but probably more like 20, in my estimation, and something like 12 different kinds, including several pounds of Benton’s (far and away the best) and incredibly fatty slices of guanciale from DiPalo’s.
Not content to leave well enough alone (Well Enough can always use the company of More Is Better, For the Win, and Might As Well Go All the Way), I also made dessert in accordance with the party theme.
Bacon ice cream, lettuce sorbet, and tomato sorbet.
The two most frequently asked questions at LGBT:
1. How long do you think your apartment’s going to smell like bacon?
2. What are you going to do with all that bacon grease?