For a guy who loves cast iron, and should be taking every opportunity to cook up a pan of bacon to re-season his favourite frying pan, I gotta tell you that the discovery of “baking” my bacon has been a minor local miracle in our house.
Not that we eat a lot of bacon. Once a month, maybe. It’s more of a treat than a staple… y’know the price and the calories, and the whole eating healthy thing.
But I’ve got a small pan of bacon in the oven right now, six strips stretched over a wire rack atop a foil-lined cookie sheet at 400F and the smell of it wafting through the main floor of our house… and there will be so little mess afterwards I almost feel like I haven’t earned it.
All that sizzling and popping and wiping down the thousands of grease splatters is fun and all, and scraping the congealed bacon fat from the pan after it’s cooled on the stovetop for six hours is a complete joy… but.
I’ll tell you now, I think I might just be a bakin’ bacon convert.