Bacon: Delicious, Pernicious, and... Sexy?

            The twenty-first century in America has brought with it much political and social controversy.  On December twenty-third it is irreverent to wish a Merry Christmas to the clerk in the gift shop if you don’t know he’s Christian.  It becomes a personal attack to assume or mistake a person’s nationality.  A hot-button issue of the last Super Bowl was people’s reaction to hearing “America the Beautiful” sung in different languages during a commercial.  And now with this century’s health movement and animal rights movement, even our food has become a target for controversy.

            Eat beef and an innocent cow has been slaughtered in the service of your own gluttony.  Eat pork, and you’ve blown nearly all conventions governing religion and ethics.  Worse yet, fry up some bacon and wait for the outraged cries of your cardiologist, dietitian, rabbi, and local hippies denouncing your name.  Despite having served only several decades prior as the mouth on the breakfast smiley face pancake, bacon has now become one of America’s most taboo foods.  It’s terrible for your health, it’s harmful to animals, it’s against many orthodox religious practices, and for at least one of these reasons, it is scorned by many flag-waving self-proclaiming Americans.  Bacon is just generally bad in America.  Yet, as often happens with taboos, it has simultaneously become cool.  It is not only despised, but it is also revered.  Bacon has become bigger than itself; it’s almost—sexy.

            Like some might find it obnoxiously trendy to wish a Merry Christmas to a Muslim, the carnivores’ bacon craze has counteracted PETA co-founder Alex Pacheco’s cries to treat animals with “the same rights as a retarded human child.”  Such political activists hold power over much of our population, but in this case we’re not listening to them.  Amidst the fad diets which hold high appeal to many—purple foods, raw foods, veganism, cabbage soup, grape juice, South Beach, Atkins, tapeworm diets (yes, purposely ingesting tapeworms to lose weight)—we are standing by our traditional upbringing and eating those juicy, fatty, artery-coating, controversy-provoking bacon strips.  As Sarah Hepola of Salon Magazine points out in her article “Bacon Mania,” we don’t have to worry about whether the bacon is fresh enough or local enough or healthy enough, as we do with our salmon and produce.  “And there is something comfortingly unambiguous about a thick slab of bacon. It's bad for you. It tastes fantastic. Any questions?”

            There is something about this comfort, this confidence, that has become sexy in America; something sexy when you don’t fall into every fad the culture places upon you, but rebel through conceding to your own satisfaction.  You know it’s indulgent, you know it’s risky, yet nothing can hold you back.  The moment of experiencing bacon is a sensuous one.  We’ve all been in that moment of entering the kitchen to a pan of sizzling bacon.  Its smell fills your body with craving, begs to be satisfied, persists and nags until indulged.  The fullness of the flavor is so bold, so prevailing, that it reaches deep within every pocket of your mouth.  It is undeniable that there is something seductive about the fleshy slab of meat.

            Even more enticing than simply bacon is meat on meat.  Bacon on burgers has become the latest craze.  Take the Wendy’s Baconator, for example, the whopping 970 calorie meal, often devoured in a matter of bites, which made 25 million sales in North America in its first four months. Rarely anymore do we think of burgers without the full experience—two patties, lettuce, tomatoes, onion rings, ketchup, barbecue sauce, fries, pickles, and, of course, bacon—smothered in brown sugar and a secret special sauce.  Whenever I go out for dinner, I flip to the burger page, disregarding all other entrees, and my eye goes straight to their bacon burgers.  Each time without fail, the people I am with stare at my burger with amazement and envy when it is placed in front of me, disbelieving its enormous size and wishing they had ordered the same.  

These massive, decked-out burgers signify to many the image of guns, meat, and manliness; something about it appeals to men, and the notion of eating meat on meat is often considered “manly” in America.  When women eat meat on meat, however, it’s plain sexy.  American women are particularly infamous for giving in to all these fad diets (acai berry diet, low fat diet, and grapefruit diet, to name a few more) so when a woman eats bacon on beef, it symbolizes to Americans that she is tough, womanly, and independent.  Not only does she dance to her own beat, but she is a carnivore.  When we see women eating meat, it taps into our Neanderthal instincts.  She appears robustly healthy to our instinctive response, whether she truly is or not.  And as celebrity bombshell Jessica Simpson told the world on a t-shirt she was spotted wearing in 2008, “Real Girls Eat Meat.”

            Ingrid Newkirk, president of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), expressed her disgust towards meat eaters to the Washington City Paper in 1985 when she stated, “Eating meat is primitive, barbaric, and arrogant.”  It is this attitude, shared by a growing number of Americans, which makes the act of eating meat risqué. Not only is it seen as provocative, but it is, in a sense, primal.  As some have taken on this view that a carnivorous diet is positively sinful, it seems to have created greater polarization; others, who may have once been neutral toward meat and animal rights, have not only jumped to the defense of meat eaters, but have fallen towards the end of the spectrum that adores meat not only for its taste but also for its vulgarity.  Its lewdness has become erotic.

            Adding to the image of women and meat being sexy, the “bacon bra” surfaced in late 2007 and went viral on the Internet.  On one man’s Flickr page was featured a picture of a woman’s torso covered only by a bra of raw bacon.  It inspired much controversy, as some people were offended by the image of a woman sexualized through strips of raw meat.  Or conversely, as one Serious Eats blog follower expressed, “I am deeply offended by the way this post is objectifying bacon. You are treating bacon as nothing more than a piece of meat.”  Responses to this wave on the Internet represented the many feelings that America holds towards bacon.  Viewers expressed their disgust at viewing bacteria-infested raw meat; feminism came forth through the outraged viewers who saw it as a woman being objectified as a piece of meat; animal rights activists stood forth in their horror at seeing the remains of a pig being used for such a cause; health nuts cringed at the calories and fat contained in this unconventional undergarment; but many, as Heplon observed in her article “Bacon Mania,” responded with a childlike, "Ohmygod, baaaaacon.”

            A couple weeks ago when I was trying to decide what to write my essay about, my friend Brandon called me to check in.  I explained the prompt reluctantly, expecting him to try giving me a list of uninspiring topics.  Sure enough he did, and when he realized my indifference to his ideas he asked, “Okay Liz, what’s your favorite food?”  It didn’t take me long to answer, “Bacon.”  Brandon went quiet for almost too long, and I began to wonder why on earth he could be so upset with me for picking bacon as my favorite food.  After this long pause, he said in a serious voice, “Is it really?  Is bacon really your favorite food?  I have to ask you to marry me now.”  He then explained how dearly and desperately he loves bacon, how important it is in his life, and I wondered if he might become emotional. 

I then told Brandon about a (likely fabricated) newspaper clipping that went viral online a couple years ago regarding a police case which involved a supposed break-in at a couple’s house that resulted in five pounds of stolen bacon.  As it turned out, his wife simply had not wanted to admit to eating all five pounds of bacon for a late night snack. Upon hearing this story, Brandon proceeded to tell me exactly what he would do to a woman who could eat five pounds of bacon in one sitting.  And considering his feelings towards women eating bacon, he would probably only like a bacon bra better. 

Perhaps as long as sex has existed, so have jokes at its expense.   Looking back even upon Shakespeare’s sonnets and plays, and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, we find crude innuendos.  Similarly, jokes regarding bacon began surfacing in the later part of the ‘00s.  With the controversy over ethics and health not hidden far behind them, several humorous bacon-related memes emerged.  In 2006, a man posted pictures (along with dialogue from the event) of a strip of bacon taped to his cat.  And in 2007, some mixologists made a tongue-in-cheek attempt at creating bacon flavored vodka.  Later in 2007, chef Michael Ruhlman made a similar attempt at bacon flavored ice cream.  Then in 2008, Carin Huber of The AntiCraft, a blog for sinister artists who wish to make creation from chaos, created the Baconhenge—a Stonehenge on a breakfast plate created out of bacon.  2008 also saw the publication of a book by author Sarah Katherine Lewis entitled Sex and Bacon: Why I Love Things That Are Very, Very Bad for Me.  In this book, bacon was introduced as not only a guilty pleasure, but as sexy.  "Pour me a drink, light me a smoke, fry me up a pan of bacon, and let's get it on.”

In its controversy, bacon has emerged at its peak.  Through the opposition of some, it has been glorified by others.  In its admonition, it has also become quirky and savored—and at its best, downright sexy.  What else could be compared to waking up in the morning to a hot plate of bacon?  In the midst of the debates surrounding it, bacon has surfaced as strong, sultry, and insuperable.  I mean, it’s bacon.

Chilled

            Chen came from Taiwan to study piano at the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia when she was fifteen.  A small, quiet girl with dimples, she spoke hardly any English when I first met her.  Conversations were basic and slow, consisting mostly of, “How are you?” and “What do you like to eat?”  But over the next six years that I knew her, she became fluent, and we developed a unique bond.  Both only children, we declared ourselves sisters before her studies eventually took her to Yale, then all around the world, sharing the delicate poetry of her piano chords.  During her years in Philadelphia, though, we were family.  I was three years younger, and admired her talent and passion, and feared the bravery that brought her to a foreign country to nurture her gift.  When she played the piano, she swayed gently and comfortably as the muscles in her small arms tremored over the keys.  She evoked something soft and formidable.

When she pulled away from the piano, she was a shy, earnest girl with a smile and an ear for a story.  We were both in school, and would talk for hours about Taiwan, America, and our schoolwork.  While her English improved, from time to time she would twist a phrase.

            “Did you know Arthur Rubinstein tried to kill his life?” she asked my father solemnly one afternoon.

            One February evening after dinner, we were walking down Germantown Avenue in the Chestnut Hill neighborhood of Philadelphia.  I was twenty, and Chen was twenty-three.  It was dark and icy cold that night.  Wet heavy snow fell around us as we hurried to the car, our hats and scarves bundled tightly around our ears and cheeks, mittened hands securing our down coats.  We climbed into the backseat of my dad’s sedan, where we huddled to warm up.

            “Have you ever been chilled to the bone,” Chen asked me, “and not because of the cold?”

            I’m not sure my answer was entirely coherent.  Certainly the day I watched the life drain from my small dog’s eyes was a day I felt chilled, my own blood cooling as hers slowly froze.  The morning I awoke in a dense fog, heartbroken and abandoned, I felt my bones tingle as I realized there was no escaping—I had to bear the deep lashes of loneliness on my raw stripped skin.  I felt chilled to the bone the day I learned of the death of my elementary school teacher, a Catholic nun I both feared and revered.  I felt it the day a mentally ill old man approached me alone at the train station, as he wavered between slinging curses and telling me how beautiful I was, leaving me utterly exposed and defenseless.

Those moments that quiver through the pockets of your marrow are, perhaps, the reminders of how human we are.  That something can resonate so deeply as to chill our blood, to quell its flow momentarily as we struggle to grasp the perplexity of a given moment, another pearl on a string, profound and sacred, yet no different from the rest.  It’s the moment where truth unveils itself in its stark, blank nakedness, unashamed at the stir it causes in its suddenness.  Chen uncovered many of those truths in her music.  They were palpable as chords echoed and her spine heaved, as her long black hair flipped behind her neck.  I only wonder if those are the moments she thought of when she asked that question—those moments of the divine bearing down in uncomfortable ways, ready to grasp you by the shoulders and steer you head on into the cool face of truth.

Holy Meals

                  “I love to eat.”

                  Four years ago, I was sitting in Marya’s dorm room at West Chester University, what would in a few weeks be mine as well, and this was the first thing she told me about herself.  Marya was randomly assigned to me as a roommate for the second semester of my freshman year as I was preparing to switch dorms, and we knew instantly it was a perfect match.

                  “I’m addicted to food.  Burgers.”  She cocked her head to the side and forward, giving me a stare as serious as death.  “The Marya Look,” as I would soon learn it was called. 

“Every week we go to Whopper Wednesday at Burger King, when Whoppers are half off.  You’re always welcome to come with us.”

                  Despite this addiction to fast food, Marya did not appear to be affected by it.  She was average height, about 5’3”, and had an athletic build.  Perhaps this was why her appearance did not suffer.  She wore her Whoppers well.  She was half black, half white, and had caramel skin with long curly black hair.  Her round face was always in a big smile, her mouth either closed in contentment or stretched open in laughter.

                  In that same first meeting, she pointed out her Bible quotes posted around the room, along with drawings of a cross.  She had been raised Baptist, and was very devoted to God.  She prepared me for this, explaining that she often prayed and went to fellowship.  I soon came to realize that her relationship with food was also very much associated with her faith.

                  By the time the spring semester began, I had all of my belongings moved into our room, including my refrigerator.  Marya and I split space in the fridge.  She had a shelf full of juice and canned fruit.  And on her shelf on the door she kept a giant bottle of ketchup.  I soon learned what a big part of our relationship would revolve around eating.  Going to meals at Lawrence Dining Hall was an ordeal.  Typically it meant you might as well clear your schedule for the rest of the day, because you’re not getting out of there anytime soon. 

We would gather around a table in this giant university dining hall for hours to eat, laugh, and talk.  But before every meal, Marya would pray.  Even when the dining hall was packed—so crowded you couldn’t find a clean fork and people walking by had to squeeze between chairs—Marya would fold her hands and bow her head to pray.  A moment later, she would look up and our meal would begin.

 The meal consisted not only of food.  It was filled with laughter, love, and fellowship.  These spiritual appetites are not always filled in a thirty minute block of sitting down to eat.  They often require an hour or more of sitting back, eating slowly, and simply enjoying the time with friends.  One of our friends told me about the time she went to lunch with Marya and stayed for seven hours—until dinner was over.  In both the dining hall and the diner, Marya greeted every staff member she saw by name, and spoke with them about their personal lives, of which she knew every detail. 

“I’m really shy,” she told me one night coming back from the diner, and to her dismay I doubled over with laughter.  (A few minutes later, we found ourselves on the elevator with someone we didn’t know.  Before the doors closed, Marya knew his name to be Leonard.  By the time he got off on the fourth floor, Marya was calling him Lenny.  “Gosh Marya,” I said.  “You really need to open up to people.”)

I often recognized a few of the seemingly countless people who worked in dining services at West Chester, but I never learned the names of anyone except Ernie who cooked my omelettes.  And come to think of it, I only knew his name because Marya told me.  Now that Marya works in the dining hall, I suppose I know one more person’s name.  Though she knew everyone’s story, she was not one to pry.  She always remained appropriate and sincere when inquiring into the lives of others.

                  “Hi Betty,” she said one afternoon to the older lady who swiped our cards as we entered for lunch.  Betty’s face lit up when she saw Marya.  “How are you today?” Marya asked her.  “It’s so nice to see your beautiful smiling face.”  They exchanged words for a few minutes, and Betty made a comment as to Marya’s young age.  “You’re young too, Betty,” Marya told her.  “Look at your beautiful blonde locks.  People can be sexy at any age.”

                  “Sexy” was one of her commonly used words.  Every time I wore something nicer than yoga clothes or sweatpants, without fail Marya would notice and say, “Oooh look at you.  You so sexy.”  And every night when she picked up her ringing phone, she would answer it, “Hello, you sexy woman.”  I knew when I heard this greeting that it was her mom, whom she referred to in regular conversation (with friends, professors, strangers in the diner) as Sexy Lady.  I never once heard her call her mother “Mom.”  I can’t imagine she ever did.  When she met my own mother, Marya even called her sexy. 

“Where do you think our sexiness comes from?” she asked when my mom denied this observation.  “We have to have sexy moms like you ladies for us to be so sexy.”  Of course, these words were spoken to my charmed mother in the West Chester dining hall.

And that summer when we went off to a friend’s barbecue and my mom suggested I get a jacket, Marya responded for me: “Oh it doesn’t matter, she just gets naked as soon as we get in the car anyways.”  Exactly what I was going to say.

                  Every couple of weeks or so, I would return from yoga around ten o’clock and find a crowd of floormates in our room.  On these nights, we most often ordered pizza; sometimes we splurged and had it covered in pepperoni.  Marya would pull out her Costco economy packs of chips, candy, and fruit roll-ups, and hand out juice to everyone present.  Whether we considered West Chester a home or not, it was home when Marya brought out her food.  Everyone was taken care of when they were with Marya.  Food was the expression of her love.  Sometimes this went along with YouTube searches for videos of people falling, and sometimes we brought out tubs of Play-Doh.  One time we pulled out a bottle of face paint to accompany our nighttime pizza and snacks.

                  Our room was in the new dorms, so the walls were white and clean and the carpets were spotless.  We were on the Honors College floor, so everyone was well acquainted.  Our door would be propped open, and people would come to join our pizza and snack party.  My side of the room was usually neat as a pin, and Marya’s side was covered in clothes, papers, and books.  People would sit on our beds, our chairs, and our floor.  They would eat, talk, play my didgeridoo, speak Spanish with Marya, and leave when they were satiated.  It was not unusual to have people in our room past midnight.  After a while I came to appreciate this, and started taking naps during the day.

                  The most prominent of my food adventures with Marya, however, was Whopper Wednesday.  I soon learned that when she said “we” went to Whopper Wednesday, she meant an entourage.  She gathered as many friends as she could pull together every week for the event—floormates, classmates, and eventually people she happened to meet in the diner on campus.  As she had told me from the beginning, she was hopelessly addicted to fast food.  On her key ring was a plastic card in the shape of a Wendy’s frosty.  She went to Wendy’s almost every week to get a meal, and with this card came a free frosty.  She got fast food as many times a week as she possibly could.  In this respect, she was more American than George Washington.

                  On Wednesday nights, often six or more people came to our door.  Sometimes I went and sometimes I didn’t.  It wasn’t until later in the semester that I began to appreciate this ritual.  When I didn’t go, Marya often came back and told me about the drunk people she had met at Burger King that night.

                  “That man was at Hogwarts,” she would often say.  “He was Hagrid.”

                  When I did go along, I saw that Marya knew the names and life stories of the employees at Burger King, just like at the dining hall and diner.  Everyone would order a whopper for half-price, and experience the world of fast food restaurants—the brown tiled floors, the white plastic chairs attached to the ground, the distinct smell of Burger King fries.  I watched people at the counter put a penny in a water-filled container and hope it would land on a colored circle.  I was always cautious of what I touched in Burger King, noticing the crumbs and ketchup stains on the tables.

Like usual, Marya would fold her hands and bow her head before biting into her Whopper.  I had not eaten fast food in years, but under Marya’s influence I indulged occasionally.  Though I enjoyed the taste of Whoppers, I was irritated that I could devour them in a matter of bites.  I appreciated the fries more.  They lasted a while, and tasted of nothing but salt and fat. 

Sitting on the plastic booths at Burger King, we would talk and laugh as usual.  I remember the last time I went to Whopper Wednesday, sitting with Marya and our friends Alex and Caitlyn, and a boy named Pat whom Marya had met in the diner the night before.  Before leaving, Marya had insisted that though Pat was more than welcome, he was not obligated to come.  He clearly wanted to be there.

Wherever we ate with Marya, we were at home.  In the middle of Burger King, in the crowded dining hall, the noisy diner, our bedroom, it became a familiar ritual.  Whomever we were eating with became our family.  By bringing friends together to share meals, Marya was performing her acts of God.  Though she often performs much more deliberate acts of Christian fellowship, these meals were the manifestation of God at a table—or on a carpet.  As college students we didn’t have the means for fancy, or often even healthy meals.  But this was irrelevant.  Whatever we had to eat, we were experiencing goodness in all its forms.  The quality of the meals may even have been necessary; it was comfort food.  Away from home, away from all that was familiar, we found common ground at meals with Marya.  The meals were her ministry of love.