Sizzling Slices of Smack

"Behold the power of cheese."

When American Dairy Association ramped up their recent advertising campaign, I had to laugh. While there's nothing wrong with a tangy wedge of sharp cheddar or a gooey glob of melted mozzarella, invoking a biblical tone of respect and awe seems to be a bit of a stretch. Anyone who would hold queso in such reverence obviously hasn't tangled with the most powerful of foodstuffs. It's the mighty meat with irresistible appeal that cuts across geographic, cultural and lifestyle boundaries. It's the early morning holy grail and the addictive equivalent of breakfast heroin.

I'm referring, of course, to bacon.

Bacon is, simply put, the most dangerously compelling -- and by extension, wonderful -- of all foods. Fried up to the firm texture of pork jerky or cooked until shatteringly crisp, the boldly-flavored pork product is usually relegated to "side dish" status in vain attempts to control overall portion size. Most of us, given even half a chance, could eat a pound every ten minutes -- arteriosclerosis and hypertension be damned.

From the first crispy bite, this deep smoked specialty caters to two of the most elemental nutritional urges -- heavy salt and comforting grease -- and comes in handy dandy "finger food" form. No need for serving utensils or complicated preparation techniques -- the only requirements are a frying pan, some kind of metal "pokin' stick," and a simple paper-lined draining plate.

Anyone who's ever cooked a full-blown "farmer's breakfast" already knows the power of bacon." Throw a pound in a hot skillet and within minutes, the most militant late risers magically stumble into the kitchen in search of coffee and a handful of post-hangover aspirin. Left unguarded, the paper-lined plate gets picked clean within seconds of being filled. (Every mother knows the constant vigilance required to protect the bacon plate from quick-fingered pork poachers. And for the evolutionary record, that's how they developed eyes in the back of their heads.)

The simple fact is that the human animal has no natural resistance to the primal appeal of freshly fried bacon. Sure, it may be easy to pass up on a diner menu's list of side dishes -- especially at average price of two bucks a slice -- but resistant test subjects, when faced with the smell of pepper-cured slices sizzling in flavorful grease, invariably start to show signs of extreme inner conflict.

As the host of informal weekend pancake feasts, I've watched members of different dietary subcultures -- stringent vegetarians, opponents of red meat consumption, and other folks of quasi-Kosher inclination -- break into a cold sweat when faced with the seductive aroma of the sizzling smack substitute. Dedicated puercophobes like to make small talk about recent advances in camouflage technology -- turkey stamped into thin slice-like servings or soy-based substitutes that even "look like the real thing, only... healthier." And all the while, they're watching the flavorful fat go from white to clear to brown as the slices curl around the edges.

Even if they've been flesh-free for years, the most pious vegans express a deep-seated lust for the succulent strips of sweet, sweet swine. Once they smell the fumes rising from the black iron skillet, the confessions begin: "You know, that's the one thing I really miss..."

They then launch into Grandma stories and how she'd use the rendered grease as cooking fat for her heavenly cornbread or green beans. They wax poetic about the breakfasts that changed their lives before the Cosmo girls invented fat grams. And then -- just when they're sure I'm not looking -- they give into their deep longing and sneak a crispy morsel, escaping into a little world of pure porcine pleasure.

We're all only human. I understand this act as the exception that proves the meat-free rule, and most times, I just let it slide. But every once in awhile, I take them aside and whisper in a hushed, authoritative tone:

"Behold. The power of bacon."