bacon - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The bacon sits on the plate in crispy waves, the sea-foam fat glistening on the rind and over the rasher. It tastes like campfires and those times in the woods, of long days and the tall tales we told as the stars shone around the moon.
As soon as my barefoot crosses the threshold I know they're having a fry up by the smell of the bacon. It's two o'clock in the afternoon and my brothers have only just rolled out of bed after their big night out. I can hear the rashers sizzle and spit under the grill, so I sling my paints and canvass into my studio more carelessly than I should and scamper down to beg some, they can never refuse their little sister. If Jared is doing the cooking it will be perfectly crisp as good Canadian bacon should be, I can already taste it layered generously between two slices of a white bloomer from the bakers. But when I round the corner the smile is wiped from my face. They are not alone. Two strange girls sit around the breakfast table dressed up like they're all set to go clubbing, only they have no make-up on they look like the smallest sounds would make their heads explode. I could run and hide but no, this is my home. So I put the smile back on my face and greet them all, very loudly.
Bacon, like all pork products, was banned from the firefighters' BBQ. No-one would be able to eat with the smell of burning people wafting around the manicured lawn.
"Ah, but it's happy pig bacon," says my mother, pushing a plate of greasy rashers my way. "It lived on a farm it's whole life until it went for it's little nail trim." She smiles at her own joke and looks at me as if I were merely a truculent toddler. All I see on the fine china dish before me are fragments of a carcass that once belonged to an animal more intelligent than a dog. All she sees is food, no different than an apple or a potato. She thinks her organically sourced free-range bacon solves all my issues, well, it doesn't. I don't eat sentient beings no matter how good they smell, it's gross. So with my eyes fixed firmly on the plate I say that I'm glad it had a pleasant life, and I know it's better to support ethical farming over mass production, but I must politely decline to consume it. I can tell she's taken aback, I usually shout about these things and try to convert people. But not anymore. Now I just decide for myself and not the whole world. I'm just one girl.
If it wasn't for bacon she could have envisaged being a vegetarian. Even it's greasiness was perfection to her. Those rashers sizzling in their own fat under the grill, filling the house with a smell that had her salivating in seconds. She buttered the bread and waited with hungry eyes on the grill, waiting for the bacon to be crispy. It had to be crispy.
The bacon broke over her tongue, perfectly crisp, perfectly salty. The flavour was like a bomb in her mouth, exploding in all the right ways. It was the way she started Saturdays, a sort of edible party to begin the weekend.
From between the soggy white slices flopped greasy bacon rashers, none of them cooked beyond the point of being chewy. Tara peeled back the top layer and let it fall, walking away as the geese fought over her cast off bread. She lay what was left on the gun-range picnic table and peeled off the fatty rinds before eating the meat. As she walked to the clay pigeon woodland, wiping her fingers on her coveralls, the geese clamoured for everything she had left behind.
River awoke to the smell of bacon, for a confused few seconds he was thrown back to his childhood and the breakfasts his mother would make. Focusing on the room he was brought back to the present and the empty place on the mattress next to him. Willow was cooking. Then bit by bit the previous night came back to him complete with the wild hog he'd chanced upon; his hand went to his leg to find the wound the creature had inflicted even after he thought it was a goner. Since Willow wouldn't butcher a pig that mean Paulo had dropped by and likely there was conversation in the kitchen. He swung his feet from the bed to meet the cold floorboards and hauled himself to standing.
The bacon in the supermarket packages turned Faith's stomach: the blood, the softness of the flesh, the white fat that ran through it. Yet once cooked it called to her, perfectly crisp with an aroma that wouldn't let her step away. Patted with kitchen paper and layered in wholegrain bread it was something to be devoured, simply food, nothing more.