It's no fancy French cookie that brings me rushing back to summers of my childhood... it is the BLT.
I am home in Indiana for a very brief stay, under sadder circumstances than I would like, but I grasped one moment of joy today when I made myself lunch.
I fried up three pieces of bacon until there were crispy bubbles of white amidst lines and textures of brown. I washed and dried 3 pieces of lettuce and laid them out on my multigrain bread. And then I sliced a homegrown tomato... blood red, with juice just pouring out of it. I finished the remainder of the tomato like an apple before applying a tiny layer of Miracle Whip and closing my sandwich.
As I bit into the first bite, tomato juice dripping down my chin and hands, I reminisced on the multitudes of BLTs that I have consumed at home. We awaited with great anticipation the first ripe tomatoes and it would be one of the few times of year that Mom would buy bacon. I remember my very exact layering of the sandwich and how once it was put together and a bite was taken, there was no putting the sandwich down: the integrity of the overflowing bread was far too precarious. I remember how milk was often paired with BLTs when we ate outside on the picnic table and I would drink it as fast as I could before it started tasting like "outside milk." I would inevitably have another half-sandwich and then, because my parents and brother were kind, I got the last piece of bacon... trying to savor it for as long as I could.
I like a BLT in a restaurant... but only if it's dressed up with something fancy like avocado or garlic aioli or some other non-native ingredient. Because, unless your tomato comes freshly picked in the garden, you shouldn't even try a simple BLT. There is just nothing like a homemade BLT in Indiana summers.
Bacon, lettuce, tomato... what an amazing combination.
I am home in Indiana for a very brief stay, under sadder circumstances than I would like, but I grasped one moment of joy today when I made myself lunch.
I fried up three pieces of bacon until there were crispy bubbles of white amidst lines and textures of brown. I washed and dried 3 pieces of lettuce and laid them out on my multigrain bread. And then I sliced a homegrown tomato... blood red, with juice just pouring out of it. I finished the remainder of the tomato like an apple before applying a tiny layer of Miracle Whip and closing my sandwich.
As I bit into the first bite, tomato juice dripping down my chin and hands, I reminisced on the multitudes of BLTs that I have consumed at home. We awaited with great anticipation the first ripe tomatoes and it would be one of the few times of year that Mom would buy bacon. I remember my very exact layering of the sandwich and how once it was put together and a bite was taken, there was no putting the sandwich down: the integrity of the overflowing bread was far too precarious. I remember how milk was often paired with BLTs when we ate outside on the picnic table and I would drink it as fast as I could before it started tasting like "outside milk." I would inevitably have another half-sandwich and then, because my parents and brother were kind, I got the last piece of bacon... trying to savor it for as long as I could.
I like a BLT in a restaurant... but only if it's dressed up with something fancy like avocado or garlic aioli or some other non-native ingredient. Because, unless your tomato comes freshly picked in the garden, you shouldn't even try a simple BLT. There is just nothing like a homemade BLT in Indiana summers.
Bacon, lettuce, tomato... what an amazing combination.
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