Day 51: Lipstick On A Pig

I admit to trying them once or twice, when I was young and didn’t know any better. Youth is a time for experimentation, after all, when one wants to seem cool and groovy and in the know. Sloe gin, menthol Marlboros, No Doze, pork rinds – you try it all.

Not together, even back then. I’ve always had a healthy respect for self-preservation.

Pork rinds remain an object of morbid fascination for me.

I image, under the right circumstances (starvation, for instance), that they might be tolerable. If forced to eat every part of the pig, you might well prefer crunchy fried bits of skin to weird glands or excretory organs. They’d have a bacon sort of vibe.

It’s the on-trend thing that has me shaking my head. Overpriced artisan-fried pork rinds? As if Small Batch means Good For You?

Junk food must be approached with honesty. The hot-and-spicy nacho-cheese flavored tortilla chips I adore are trash. I admit that freely, especially after I’ve devoured half a bag and stained my fingers orange and poisoned myself with sodium. I eat them knowing that I will hate myself afterwards.

It’s always worth it.

There’s a bistro near us that serves perfect French fries. They’re cut long and thin, fried twice, and served so hot they sizzle on your tongue. They’re sprinkled with truffle oil and coarse salt and a little fresh parsley. No one pretends that the herb garnish adds anything but color. No one pretends that those potatoes offer anything remotely approaching nutrition. Yet they’re worth dying for.

So to speak.

Pork rinds ought to revel in being the worst, most outrageously unhealthy snacks out there. They ought to roll proudly around in fried pig fat glory. Healthy hipster labeling leaves them — and us — looking sad and silly.