Bacon oh bacon, gelatinous goodness, smoky, salted taste. <br />Cooking slow; till your perfection. Baking Bacon; in the land of Lincoln, at early morning light. Sizzling bacon, crackling in a cast iron pan; rendering the fat down with delight. Cooking slowly, concentrating the bacon flavor. Filling your home with aroma; drops of vapor, drift from room to room, with a peaceful alarm. You're not mistaken, when waken with bacon. The scent alerting your family members and pets, to wake up and make hast, to the table. <br /> <br />Bacon, pick your flavor, pick your cut. Thick cut, thin cut, super thick, Canadian. Try fully cooked, apple wood, cherry wood, or hardwood. Making bacon the way you want. <br /> <br />You can render mine down till it shrinks, but not crunchy; able to pick it up, flopping over with a welcoming wave, calling all to breakfast. You have permission, to use your fingers to eat the slices. Popping the bacon in your mouth; swirling the bits around, like fine wine. Then getting the final juices sucked off your fingers, by you; or sharing them with someone you love. <br /> <br />Thank you God; with a nod, for the hog, we live high on. <br /> <br />BACON <br /> <br />T. PLOTZ <br />10/16/2014<br /><br />Thomas Plotz<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cast-iron-bacon/
