COMFORT FOOD

I'm not sure if I've written bout this afore, but it's my dang blog so I'll repeat myself as often as alzheimer facilitates.

My Dad always had a natural gas cook stove. Older models had a "pilot light". The pilot light was a small flame that burned all the time to ignite the stove top burners. The metal part of the stove top over the flame stayed warm at all times.

Dad also had an old aluminum percolator coffee pot. You know, the kind that had a clear hollow glass ball in the lid where you could see the coffee "perking" up and down. The guts of that java machine included a metal basket with small holes that allowed you to place ground coffee where heated water could flow over and through to flavor your morning pick-me-up.

Now to the point of all this scintillating information. Dad cooked bacon darn near every morning (before daylight). After the browned pork belly slabs were extracted, Dad would lift the lid on that old percolator. He'd pour the aromatic, sizzlin' bacon grease into the metal basket to filter out anything not pure unadulterated taste ticklin'.

As the magic grease pot remained parked over the pilot light, the golden goodness within maintained the perfect viscosity for pouring.

Dad slathered this soul satisfying seasoning on everything in sight. I'm talking beans, taters, and fried termaters. He poured it on soups, salads, souffles and sorbets. He slicked up baking pans, window fans, his own hands and beach tans.

All the medico sawbones tell us that rendered hawg fat is the root of many evils and a first cousin to most (cholesterol, heart disease, fatbuttaticus). The ranch hand is here to tell you that it's the only thing I know likely to make Blue Belle Ice Cream taste even better.

I ain't saying I ingest that sweet elixir anymore. I'm just saying Dad's bacon grease was a simple country pleasure that gave credence to the label "comfort food". Everything just seemed to taste better when it got a donation from that ole greasy pot.