“Is that normal bacon or weird old-timey bacon?” In almost three years of dating, I don’t think my girlfriend and I have ever actually said “good morning” to each other.
“Weird old-timey bacon.”
“Okay. Give me some.” I usually wake up a few hours before her, so being able to eat something vaguely breakfasty in the afternoon is a lucky break.
You’d never guess it was our first time seeing each other after spending our weekend screwing other people. I guess unless you’re one of those other people. But I don’t usually make breakfast or coffee for someone staying over to have sex with my girlfriend. I’d do it if it was a group sex thing, or if I also had a partner, but for me, post-sex breakfast is an extension of the labor and ritual of sex, and I don’t do my girlfriend’s other partners’ labor for them.
If the inexact science of knowing when to add/remove ingredients in a saute or stir-fry is frustrating for you, this Dutch peas recipe is simpler, more intuitive, and still has more bacon than you get in a Denny’s Grand Slam.
Dutch Bacon Peas
2 lbs of peas
1 teaspoon of sugar
3 slices of bacon, diced
1 onion, diced
salt, pepper, water, apple cider to taste
This recipe is a sibling of the Dutch corn hash we made over the weekend, and has even less instruction.
If your peas came in a can, drain the water. Toss them with sugar in the frying pan. Then toss with the diced onions and bacon.
I have lengthened the notes originally put in the next threefold. If you are vexed by IKEA instructions, you would have hated living in colonial Appalachia. Or if, you know, you were a woman, a person of color, non-Protestant, or preferred perry to apple cider. And even then, British perry at this time was dry and still; what we know now as “pear cider” in the States is more related to Normandy-style poiré. You know, England’s (and thus until the Revolutionary War, the colonies’) perennial rival. Enjoy cleaning your teeth with eggshells, asshole, you just won the award for “worst hipster time traveler of all time”.
Fill the pan just a bit of water mixed with apple cider. Not enough to cover the ingredients; think of the top of the jumbled mess of food bits as a fill line, and try to get the water to that fill line.
The original recipe doesn’t actually call for apple cider. I think it adds an autumnal tartness. It also uses up all the various ciders and fresh juices I have at my house; people buy them to indulge, but then the weather changes and you’re too cold and depressed to get out of bed and pour yourself a glass of ice-cold juice.
To me, the main difference between fresh juice and a candy bar you buy on impulse at the register is that the candy bar will definitely be eaten before it goes bad.
You want the water to boil away. Stir to prevent sticking.
As someone who identifies as intersectional and wants this blog to be a space for intersectional politics, I need to say up front: this dish is literally every stereotype of the blandness of white cooking. It has a uniform texture, a minimal profile of spice, and looks like what you’d feed a baby, or someone roleplaying a baby.
If your dream vacation is an ageplay party at Colonial Williamsburg, I am the blog for you. I accept this about myself.
The final product is a sweet, onion and bacon-y green mush that is hearty, tart, and sweet.
I actually didn’t get a chance to have a whole portion to myself because my girlfriend and roommate liked it that much. It’s like a lentil dish, or a solid pea soup, like how eating nuggets of fried mac and cheese is all the rage, now. This would be good on a slice of toast, or with a bit of rice; my roommate ate it with fried egg.
You could also treat it as a sort of soup base, adding stock and roasted root vegetables to stretch it out on a cold winter night. This dish, in its rustic minimalism, offers you the chance to start with something bland and basic, and then tweak it to meet your needs. Recipes are invaluable but not infallible; sometimes you’ll have an oven that runs hot or a frying pan with uneven distribution of heat. You’ll have vegetables that are wilted, meat that’s not same cut as the recipe calls for. You’ll need to be able to rely on your own experience, then.
These muddy heaps will help you build castles, in time.
Author: Jetta Rae
Founder of Fry Havoc. Can be found on twitter at @jetta_rae