A Proper Bacon Sandwich

The smell comes first. Before the kettle has boiled, before you've properly opened your eyes, the bacon is in the pan and the kitchen fills with that particular, unmistakable warmth that means Saturday. Or Sunday. Or any morning that deserves a little kindness.

A bacon sandwich isn't a recipe. Writing it down feels almost ridiculous, like writing instructions for putting on your shoes. But I've put it in the notebook anyway, because the details matter more than people think. The bread matters. The butter matters. The heat of the pan and the patience to leave the rashers alone until they're ready, these are small things that separate a bacon sandwich you forget from one you remember.

I want good back bacon, dry-cured, from a butcher who can tell you where it came from. I want white bread with some body to it, not the cotton-wool sort that compresses to nothing when you press it. I want salted butter, soft enough to spread without tearing. That's the list. Three ingredients. No technique to speak of. We're only making breakfast.

There are few better feelings than putting this in front of someone on a slow morning. A mug of tea beside it. No rush. The shoulders drop. That's the whole point.