My Brief But All-Consuming Fling With Pork Bacon

Ahhh....bacon!

Bacon.

To some, simply uttering that one word elicits goofy grins, licking of lips and rubbing of bellies. I’ve come to learn that people love bacon. Now, while I’m a turkey bacon aficionado, some may consider this particular strip of poultry to be an affront as it dares bare the same moniker as bacon. I, however, don’t indulge in pork so the substitution of the gobbling imposter was a natural choice for me.

Having said that, I find myself to be somewhat of an anomaly. This past week while vacationing on the lovely island of Barbados I began eating pork bacon like it was about to be stricken from the human lexicon. It appears I totally fell off the wagon...so much so that I was trapped under the crushing blows of the wagon wheels and didn’t seem to care one iota.

Why, you ask?

I have no earthly idea. I haven’t willingly consumed pork in mass quantities since approximately 1988 or so. And while it’s true that I have, on occasion, indulged in bits and pieces of pork-infested meals during the press dinners that I attend, I consider that to be an on the job hazard. After all, as a food writer, how else can I intelligently and knowledgeably write about the food if I have no idea what it tastes like?

I’m still not sure what the good people of Barbados—in particular, the staff at Fairmont Royal Pavilion—did to that helpless bacon. At first, I thought perhaps it was pork of the uncured variety until I realized that uncured bacon could still contain salt. That just flies in the face of my theory that the bacon was uncured in the first place because, after devouring as many as two dozen slices of the killer swine in one day, a headache escaped me. One of my sisters eats a couple of slices and she’s claiming she has a migraine or brain tumor. So why was I spared the same fate?

Beats me.

I know, I know. Bacon is notorious for hiking up the cholesterol. And I may as well just slap a pack of bacon on my hips and butt ‘cause I know that’s exactly where it’s going after I eat it. But beyond a shadow of a doubt, I could not contain myself. The thoughts were so extreme that I was beginning to think that when I met my untimely demise, I wanted to be sure that wherever I ended up, pork bacon would be on the menu.

This is just wrong. View the Bacon flow chart for an idea of just how consuming bacon can be.

I. Don’t. Eat. Pork.

But I’ll be damned if every day I was at that luscious breakfast buffet piling on the pork. There was bacon in my omelette followed by eight slices of bacon on the side. I even had the audacity to stuff bacon into a plastic baggie, take it back to our room and, at lunch, indulge in a homemade club sandwich. I couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

My first thought was I need therapy. My husband was convinced that it was all psychological. And it was. But I blame Barbados. The salt air maybe, or perhaps the tranquil and soothing locale made me totally forget who in the hell I was and, no, I am not one to indulge in pork.

But all of that logic was conveniently forgotten as I ate bacon at every opportune moment. I went to sleep dreaming about bacon and the dream was fulfilled at breakfast. I wanted it all the time—breakfast, lunch and dinner. I wanted it between two slices of bread, on top of pizza, hidden inside a mound of spinach. It was totally ridiculous.

I was a shameless bacon hussy. I was addicted. Pssst, Mister, I’ll trade you my car for a few strips of bacon.

And then, just as suddenly as the onset of baconfest had reached epic proportions, it was gone. But not without some help and a strong will. I was determined to live by the island rule: What happens on Barbados stays on Barbados.

I had resolved to let the bacon fetish remain at the lovely resort. Curses to Fairmont Royal Pavilion for introducing me to that tempting, crispy, greasy bacon.

It’s been four days since I left Barbados and bacon. Not once, since I’ve been back home, have I wanted to run to the kitchen, fry up a pound of bacon and eat it like I had lost total control of my senses. Not once. I’m proud of that. I told my husband that pork bacon would not ruin my life. And after nearly twenty-four years of being relatively bacon-free, why mess up a good thing?