Entries Tagged 'bacon' ↓

TechCrunch has a post this morning on Justin.TV’s 1 millionth user.  Having just signed up, I can only assume it was me that pushed them over the edge.

In fairness, it wasn’t that hard.  Nonetheless, I’d like to thank The Critter who poses in my “not broadcasting” photo.  I’d like to thank the City of Chicago for being so beautiful when I took my header photo last February.  And, most of all, I’d like to thank the little people, notably Herve Villachaize, who gave me the confidence that I too had something to offer the TV viewing public.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Oh: one last question: 109 years of archived video???  Really?  No seriously: Really?

So some guy from Canada found  stuffed French toast (and is appalled - whatever):

#4

A breakfast creation in upstate New York called “Stuffed French Toast”. What does “Stuffed French Toast” entail, you naïve non-American might ask? It’s French Toast (which, keep in mind is cooked in butter) stuffed with bacon, eggs and processed cheese (which they proudly call ‘American processed cheese’, I presume, to distinguish it from real cheese which could, after all, be French and/or offer unAmerican nutritional content). But here’s the kicker: on top of your “Stuffed French Toast” cooked in butter, you will find… a square of butter.

My only question: where can I find this in Chicago?

I’ve crossed the Chicago River twice, walked by the sixth largest building in the world, and have just passed Mr. Beef. It’s a normal day in the big city, an average commute, filled with drooping eyes and bus exhaust. And then, suddenly, at 7:36 AM, my senses come alive as the whole world begins to smell like bacon.

Bacon: I gave it up at an early age. My father’s high blood pressure diagnosis forced the issue. This was before we had pills for everything and had to actually change our behavior if we wanted to affect our health. My mother, in an uncharacteristic bout of domestic focus, removed salt and salty foods from our diet. This included bacon. I was just becoming a pre-teen, and bacon became an early vehicle for my rebellion. When I stayed over at a friend’s house, I’d gorge myself on their bacon. Other parents occasionally commented on how much I enjoyed it, but no one minded. Bacon was, it seemed, a reasonably safe obsession for me to have.

When my parents divorced, I thought the embargo at home might end. No such luck. Both of them stuck to their low salt but otherwise completely unhealthy diets. But by that time I was a boy scout and it was with the scouts that I gained free reign to experiment with bacon. I put whole slabs in cast iron frying pans and then scrambled eggs in the grease. I over and under cooked it and served it despite my fellow scouts’ protests. I threw aerosol cans into an open fires so the rest of the troop would be distracted while I had my way. Regardless of where we were, everyone understood: the bacon was my domain.

Fast forward a few years. I’m out of the scouts, out of high school, and I have access to one of the greatest gifts anyone can ask for: a reasonably good collegiate food service. Three meals a day and my effort was limited to standing in line and pointing at what I wanted. I pointed at the bacon. But something was different. Sure, it was still bacon, but something was missing. I decided I’d try to get a job with them and find out what it was. When I succeeded, the only position they had for me was washing dishes. I couldn’t even get close to the bacon. It was a confusing time for me. My decade long obsession was blocked. I had to redirect. And so, in the dish room, blocked from my first love, I began flirting with my second, a co-worker. We later married. And, even later, divorced. I blame the bacon for both.

The smell stays with me for the remaining two blocks of my commute. Bacon is becoming popular again. I find it everywhere: in salads, on burgers, in burritos. I’ve become something of a food snob in an attempted to stay away from it, but then someone creates organic apple smoked bacon, and my obsession begs for attention. I resist. I know where that road goes.