Look into his eyes

I halfway hate to say anything positive on my home page because it might confuse the fucktards who read no deeper, but the worse industrial meat (and eggs, and milk, and cheese) looks, the better I feel about the future of small farmers. My new addiction is the bacon from Flying Pigs I buy at the Greenmarket on 97th Street on Fridays. It’s not as smoky-tasting as Niman Ranch’s, but it has amazingly clean, meaty flavor and doesn’t all cook away even if you like it crispy. The copious drippings are phenomenal in refried beans, as you might expect from a place that makes outstanding lard. But the best thing about buying it is buying it. The farmer who produces it actually sells it, and the last time I stopped for some in the bitter cold he offered me a choice of three packages, light to heavy. I asked if there was any difference, and he said only in the proportion of fat to lean and the size of the strips. “It all depends on the pig,” he added. Unspoken was the truth that he knew each of those heritage pigs before they were bacon. Somehow I don’t think surveillance cameras in slaughterhouses are going to clean up the food supply. It will have to happen one conscience at a time. And if bacon priced humanely sounds too elitist, there are always bean burritos.