This weekend marked the return of the semi-annual backyard bacon roast. For those of you who were unlucky enough to NOT have eastern European immigrant farmers as forefathers and mothers, a bacon roast is the quintessential family affair. (Although it should be noted that no one born after 1950 actually eats the bacon...we eat hot dogs.) Basically, family members sit around an open barbecue pit between 1 and 2 pm (no earlier or later) with squares of slab bacon on skewers. The bacon is scored and roasted, and the sizzling grease is dabbed on rye which has been spread with sliced radishes and green onion. This roasting and dabbing is repeated until the bacon is adequately cooked...then it's shaved off on to the bread and eaten. Slab is scored again, and the whole process continues until participants have had their fill of pork fat. Then, the younger generation is chastised for eating hot dogs and "not knowing what's good" and the elder's talk about the historical roots of the bacon roast. It is then customary to drink some liquor and pass out in lawn chairs.
In the long tradition of bacon roasts, this weekend was a success. I always do my part in presenting myself for chastisement, and then drinking and napping in the lawn chairs. However, this year I suggested I might even take part in the roast if I could roast strips of bacon, and not slabs. I found out that this is "not how it's done" and would be "an abomination of tradition." So no bacon for me.
On an unrelated note, I got to watch my brother and my dad destroy the back porch in preparation for the new porch construction set for next weekend. It was pretty entertaining. I watched the whole thing from behind the safety of the arcadia door, which was open just a crack to allow for eavesdropping. The highlight was definitely watching my little brother take out his frustrations on the aluminum roof. His job was to separate the aluminum sheets from the framework, and he did this by wedging a crowbar into the seam and popping the nails out. About halfway through, he got nuts and started working at meth-addict speed. When he finished, he waved the crowbar wildly in the air and screamed "WHO'S NEXT!!!!"
On a second unrelated note I lost more style points this morning by dropping a Carolina's tortilla on the floor. If you've ever had a Carolina's tortilla, you know that loosing style points is totally justified.
Jesus Christ and Illegal Immigration
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