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BaconFebruary 15, 2011 One of the staples of my culinary repertoire is quiche, and for quite a few months the default setting for quiche has been linguiça and spinach. Tasty, yes, but I was ready for a change. I turned to Phyllis Ann Karr's Bacon-Cheese Pie recipe in one of my most-consulted cookbooks. You have probably never heard of this cookbook: Her Smoke Rose Up from Supper. It is one of only two cookbooks that I have ever had, or probably ever will have, a recipe in. The other one was The Bakery Men Don't See. The science fiction fans among you will recognize both titles as riffs on titles of short stories by the late, very great James Tiptree Jr., aka Alice Sheldon: "Her Smoke Rose Up Forever" and "The Women Men Don't See," respectively. Both cookbooks were published as fundraisers for the James Tiptree Jr. Memorial Award, with which I was happily associated in its early years. Aside #1: The cookbooks were published in 1993 and 1992, again respectively. It is sobering to realize that not only was I an adult 20 years ago, I was over the hill 20 years ago. Carry on regardless. The recipe calls for 3/4 pound of sliced bacon. I cooked up a full pound, figuring I'd easily devour a quarter of it in the prep process. I love bacon but I don't buy it very often; it's messy to cook in single servings. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. What I ate in advance was closer to half. My mother cooked bacon far more often than I do: she was cooking for six, after all, while I cook for one. She'd roll up partial slices and eat them raw. I did likewise. We didn't die of trichinosis. We didn't call it sushi either. Once the cooked bacon was draining on a paper towel, I sautéed four chopped small- to medium-sized onions in some of the bacon fat, then stirred in 2 tablespoons flour, 1/2 teaspoon caraway seeds, and a cup and a half of buttermilk. I stir stir stirred till the mixture thickened, then I added three beaten eggs, a teaspoon of Dijon mustard, and a heaping cup of grated habanero cheddar cheese. Aside #2: My mother loved spicy food. The rest of us were steeped in New England bland and distrusted anything hot. Once out in the wild world, however, I discovered hot and spicy. The cheddar in Phyllis Ann's recipe isn't habanero, but as Ursula K. Le Guin wrote in the preface to her Cream of Food Soup recipe in the same volume, "We think back through our mothers, but we must take responsibility for our own blending." The habanero cheddar is for you, Mum. At this point I realized that I'd forgotten the salt. Salt? With more than a cup of cheese and at least half a pound of bacon? Be brave, Susanna. You can skip the salt. I rolled out the pie crust dough that had been chilling in the fridge, patted it into my pie pan, tore the cooked bacon into bits -- eating a few and licking the grease off my fingers -- and covered the bottom of the crust with them. Over that went the cheese, milk, and egg mixture. As I slipped it into the oven, Rufus Wainwright was singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." Travvy got to lick what was left in the pan. The pie then baked for about half an hour at 400 degrees. Now Trav and I are going for a short walk. When I get back, I'm going to eat some of it.
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