Chiccharones & Me
I am proud to say that I have not indulged in them since father’s day but it is an uphill struggle. It is the kind of food designed to explicitly to slam your arteries shut, not so much an indulgent pork product but an implement of suicide for the patient. God I love them. For the uninitiated, imagine a rectangle of skin on bacon, roughly 11/2 inches wide by about 8 inches long, cut 3/4 of the way down for even cooking, that is tossed into a deep fryer till it is crispy chewy fatty hellfire goodness. Don’t judge me… There is no doubt that 1/3 of my extra girth is chiccharone related, but lord almighty they call me in my dreams like something from a H.P. Lovecraft novel. Part of me wants to stay away, while the other hears the maddening piping of obscene flutists and want to eat the damned things until I metamorphosize into a crispy, fatty, shambling madness to better serve dread Cthulu…. This might be one of the reasons I have a hard time with dieting, but this is the black tar heroin of pork products. True there are dozens of guilty food related pleasures I’ve been known to indulge in; but this is the only one that I have intrusive thoughts about. Hell, I’m home from work (pissed that I have to lose a much needed day’s pay I might add) because I have a nasty stomach virus & can keep down little other than “Gatoraid” and english muffins and I’m still thinking about that porcine hellspawn.