A ten-pound slab of pork belly blankets my large cutting board. From the top, the white smears of fat look like wavelets in a sea of pink meat. From the side, the meat is the interloper, pushing its way through the thick cushion towards the smooth, tan skin.
I bisect the belly from top to bottom, moving my knife firmly through the inch or more of flesh. One half requires additional effort: I carve off the skin and cut the meat into thick fingers. The chunks spend the night in an aromatic wet cure before I cook them slowly in homemade lard to make pork belly confit. The best way to reheat this treat? Deep-frying.
The other half of the slab requires patience. I leave it intact and dredge it in a dry cure: one part sodium nitrite, four parts sugar, and eight parts kosher salt. I seal it in a Ziploc bag for a week, checking every day to ensure the meat hasn't spoiled. Finally, I pull it out and smoke it over apple wood chips for four hours, testing the temperature of the darkening slab until it reaches 150°.
I've made bacon, a solid mass of smoky, porcine flavor. I shave off three pieces and fry them gently over a medium flame. I cut them in half, and share with our friends who own the house where our smoker lives. The slices have a clean, balanced flavor. They taste as bacon always should and yet rarely does.
Every night during the week, we have fresh bacon for dinner. Sometimes for lunch. We've rarely tasted any version as good as my batch. For a potluck, I make quiche lorraine, the ultimate marriage of bacon and eggs.
I think I need more pork belly.