It has been decades since my husband and I decamped from Metropolis and moved to the country, which means one thing: We’ve had our fair share of power outages. In 1996, just three months into owning our first home, the power went out in a freak snowstorm that kept us in the dark for 11 days. We were younger then is about all I can say about how we got through it. Fortunately, that one snowstorm is still the record holder; most of our power outages since then have been no more than a few days (which is still plenty). With the exception of the freaky August 2003 power outage that knocked out electricity for 55 million people in the Northeast, all of our blackouts have been in the winter.
Recently, on a beautiful, calm Saturday morning, just as we started to make breakfast and tucked the bacon into the oven, we heard a huge crash outside the house and saw a flash of light. Then, the radio suddenly went off (the only immediate evidence on a sunny day that we had lost power). When I looked out the window, I could see the power lines dancing on the poles in front of the house, and then I spotted the tree limb in the street. One of the old maples near the road must have pulled down a line.
Decades ago, after that 11-day outage in our first house, and even though at the time it felt like an extravagant expense, we justified the purchase of a gas grill by positing that when the power went out, we could at least cook a few things. This theory, however, mostly didn’t work out, as the principal reason for most blackouts was lousy weather. This made it easy to pass on schlepping out to the stone garage where the grill was kept and dragging it out into open air to cook in the rain or sleet or snow. It’s one thing to traipse about in bad weather when you know there is a hot shower and a warm bed awaiting you at home; doing so in a blackout is not as enticing. Instead, we’d just light a fire in the fireplace, wrap ourselves in blankets, and eat crackers. Rule number one in a power outage: Do not open the fridge.
But that calm morning, with no weather to hinder us, and the grill now conveniently located on a deck outside the kitchen door, we could happily carry on with fixing breakfast.
I had long been making bacon on a sheet pan in the oven. Rather than frying a few pieces at a time on the stove and getting grease everywhere, I loved that I could set up nearly a pound of bacon on a sheet pan, bung it into a hot oven, and move onto other breakfast duties. The only hitch was that you really needed to keep an eye on it. At 400 degrees, it could go from not-nearly-done to black-as-coal in no time.
The power went out 10 minutes after I’d put the bacon in the oven, and a quick peek determined I was still in the safety zone. So I decided to leave it in the oven and cook everything else on the grill. (I know there are people who cook bacon on the grill, but it worried me how easy it would be to drop a couple of rashers though the grates and have flare-ups for days.) I popped a cast-iron pan on the grill, let it heat up for a few minutes, and with a good pat of butter, over-easy eggs were a snap. The sturdy country sourdough bread was easy to toast on the grill, and a little char was even desirable. Best of all, it was possible to have them done at the same time with no need to dart back and forth between the stovetop and the toaster oven. Even the coffee pot on the automatic drip machine had retained adequate heat to make it to the breakfast table at a reasonable temperature.
By far, though, the best delight of the morning, was the bacon. Sitting on that sheet pan with the heat slowly subsiding made for shatteringly crisp, perfectly stiff rashers of bacon. It is now the only way I cook my bacon.
Even though I am Chief Cook around here, with decades of experience, somehow breakfast is the meal that often takes my breath away—and not in a good sense. During the week, it’s usually just an English muffin or granola. But on weekends, we like to make some variation of eggs and toast with whatever breakfast meat might be on hand. It still surprises me how often I find this stressful. Maybe it’s my complete obsession with making sure that the eggs are perfectly cooked. Eggs have to be served the instant they are done—they can’t be parked at all or they’ll keep cooking, or worse, cool down. Toast is best when it’s hot out of the toaster and the butter melts on it. At our house it’s impossible to toast more than four slices at a time, in some cases, two; so unless you can delegate toast duty to someone else, and they are efficiently toasting and buttering, you’re going to end up with greasy hard bread. Some breakfast meats can sit on a platter for a few minutes, but it’s really not ideal. In 10 minutes they’ll be sitting in a pool of darkened fat.
My accidentally newfound bacon technique has helped reduce the stress and has given me a few legs up. I now put the bacon in a 400-degree oven and set a timer for 10 minutes. I cut off the power when the bell goes off; I can forget about it and all will be well.
Cooking bacon in the oven like this means you're rendering the fat low and slow, ensuring maximal crispiness.
One additional benefit is that the bacon fat seems less likely to scorch, and once the rashers have been moved to a paper towel–lined plate and the pan has cooled a few minutes more, it’s fairly easy to dispense with the fat, or better yet, pour it into a heatproof container to keep in the fridge for sautéing other foods and lending a touch of smoky flavor to anything and everything.
Makes one pound of bacon, depending on the thickness.
I prefer thick-cut, and think the texture is better for this technique, but have also tested the recipe with standard thin-cut bacon.