“Do you think when the guy came up with the idea to invent the bong, a blacklight popped up over his head?” -Mitch Hedberg
I’m not quite sure what popped up over my head when I was blessed with the idea for bacon corn dog ice cream. I only know what popped into my stomach: an urgent, perverse sense of hunger that may be the closest I’ll ever get to bearing a child. Suffice it to say, I discovered who my true friends were when I began spread the message of bacon corn dog ice cream and its potential benefits for human civilization. Meg and the Mathemagician immediately volunteered to help me realize this vision, and in two weeks I was mixing corn dog batter in their kitchen.
I used a disheveled Wikihow recipe for the corn dogs, replacing full sized frankfurters with cocktail wieners. My first few attempts were overcooked and uneven, but eventually I mastered the art of the coat-and-fry, turning out frank-filled hush puppies that plumped, crisped, and melted in my mouth in one ineffable bite. The main event, of course, was the groundbreaking submersion of mini corn dogs into a river of ice cream. To administer our great experiment, Meg prepared what would become the greatest ice cream I have ever tasted.
She followed a recipe for candied bacon ice cream, with two key changes. The first was to eliminate the candying process, instead frying and chopping the bacon to mix, unadorned, into the final product. The second change was to replace the butter in our ice cream custard with pure bacon fat. The results of this alteration were immense: while the taste of bacon emerged as a subtle undercurrent, the richness of the mixture was downright devilry. Sensations of maple, meat, and brown sugar streamed from the spoon in deceptively smooth ribbons of flavor, each more consummate than the last. The fresh bacon bits completed the picture perfectly, providing a savory punch and a scatter shot of focus for the bacon fat in the ice cream.
Having taken the penultimate step towards my black bulb thought bubble, I fried up a handful of mini-corn dogs, mixed them into my bowl of ice cream, and immediately lifted the spoon to my mouth. The freshly fried cornmeal batter promptly absorbed its host, not unlike the fried shell of tempura ice cream. My bite into the corn dog retained the crisp of its batter, which quickly gave way to a delightfully blended texture of crumbs and cream, all swirling around the pronounced bite of a cocktail frankfurter in its prime. While the intrusion of a streetwise hot dog into the more sophisticated realm of bacon fat and milk brought an abrupt end to the symphony of flavor, it remained reassuring to anyone who’s ever wondered if chicken fried bacon would be great or amazing, or jumped at the chance to taste a fresh batch of Kool-Aid pickles.
Surely this was not a dessert for all seasons. The Mathemagician joined in my revelry of a dream fulfilled, but Meg noted that the ice cream made her feel sick. This didn’t change the fact that it may be her greatest accomplishment yet and a feat I hope to outdo in some future act of culinary daring and unspeakable fat that redefines the meaning of the words, “American fried.”