and the introductory paragraph for a paper I wrote about existentialism (but mainly about food):
I made a sandwich yesterday. At eight a.m., I slid a tray of apple wood-smoked bacon into the oven. I drank a glass of milk, leaned against the kitchen counter, and turned on the coffee pot. Ten minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the heady aromas of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon. I sliced and salted red potatoes and set them aside. When the bacon was crisp — not too crunchy, I prefer some chew to my bacon — I removed the strips of bacon from the tray, laid the potato slices in neat rows onto the rendered bacon fat, and slid the tray back into the oven. The air outside was pregnant with a spring storm and my current playlist was playing upstairs. In a small blue bowl, I combined Greek yogurt, chopped chives, cracked black pepper, and some finely-minced garlic. Every few moments I would wave my hand over the pan that was heating on the stove, judging the heat that would radiate onto my palm. I sliced the bread — the crackle of crust being one of my favorite kitchen sounds — and generously buttered the slices. It was time for assembly: first a slice of cheddar cheese, then still-hot potato, cool Greek yogurt, the bacon, another slice of cheese, and, finally, the other slice of bread. Into the pan the sandwich went and I watched, judging the sandwich’s doneness not by the clock but by the goldenness of the bread, flipping once and watching longer. Once the sandwich was a golden brown and cheese was oozing from the sides, I slid the sandwich onto a plate. I paired the sandwich with BBQ kettle chips and a honey crisp hard apple cider; the cider’s acidity sharp on my tongue and cut right through the richness of cheese and bacon. It was all so decadently delicious.
recipe via BS'in The Kitchen
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