Show me the Bacon Man
In the United States, bacon isn’t just a food—it’s practically the most holy part of the pig. And I’ll be honest: I’ve become a convert.
To understand why this is such a big deal for me, you need a little background. In the Netherlands, "bacon" is usually cut from the back of the pork. The fatty belly meat we eat here is what we call Spek. When I was a kid, my mom would cook thick slabs of it in a skillet until they were done.
Back then, I had a massive dislike for anything fatty in my meat (to be fair, I still do). The "white stuff" on the bacon absolutely grossed me out. The only time I could stomach it was when my mom accidentally left it in the pan too long, turning it into a dark, crispy strip where the meat was almost rock-hard. All I remember from those days was that salty, intense crunch.
Because of that, I didn't touch the stuff for years after I moved out. It wasn't until I started cooking for myself that I began to appreciate it again. I eventually discovered that Dutch pancakes with bacon and syrup are, quite literally, divine.
Fast forward to the present day in West Virginia, and I’ve realized that bacon here is on an entirely different scale. We aren't talking about those thin, polite 100-gram packages you find in Europe. Here, it comes in bulky, thick-cut strips, twice as long and three times as thick, sold in massive one- or two-pound packs.
I’ve also noticed a strange phenomenon in our house. When I cook a batch, I’ll tell myself I’m only going to use half and save the rest for another day. But somehow, by the time the sun goes down, the leftovers have all mysteriously disappeared. It’s like magic—delicious, salty magic.
I know it’s not exactly the "healthiest" thing you can eat, so I try not to make it a daily habit. But when I do pull out the skillet, everyone in the house is happy. The obsession here goes deep, too. You can buy bacon-flavored powder to shake onto potatoes, salads, or even other meat. If it exists, Americans have found a way to make it taste like bacon.
It took moving across the ocean, but I’ve finally made peace with the "white stuff." As long as it’s crispy and plentiful, I’m right there with my neighbors, worshipping at the altar of the frying pan.
