I was reading the November 27th issue of New York Magazine on the plane today and thumbed through the cover feature on holiday gift giving (yet another "Ultimate Guide"). While some of the categories are predictable ("What to Buy for Your Mother"), there was one page that jumped out at me: "What to Buy for a Pork Fiend." Huh? I went back and reread it, thinking that the heady whiff of mistletoe and cloves laced throughout the seasonal pages had temporarily caused me to hallucinate.

I looked again and sure enough, against the glossy whiteness of the page rested images of beautiful, wanton pork products. These were not of your garden variety, everyday pork products—these were the Cadillac of pork products. Spanish air dried pork loin, smoked kabanosy, spicy cured hot soppressata, Virginia Wigwam country ham, salametto and the baddest mother of them all: real slab bacon from Flying Pigs Farm in upstate New York. Now that's a gift that has love written all over it. And the best thing about giving a gift like that means that you'll probably get to enjoy some of it as well.

My love affair with pork was handed down to me, as most traditions are, from generation to generation. My Dad loved bacon his entire life. His ultimate comfort food was a fried bacon sandwich. He'd cook up the bacon, then fry a slice of white bread in the grease, slap it together and scarf it down while still standing over the stove. He adored these, much to my Mom's consternation. I can still hear her yelling at him, "Ralph, that crap will give you a heart attack!"

Our grandpa Babe used to smoke up the kitchen frying salt pork. As kids, we loved Pappy's salt pork and he'd dole the salty, thick pieces to us generously, piping hot out of the skillet, much to my grandmother's consternation, I can still hear her yelling at him, "Babe, don't let the kids have that! It'll kill them." But by then, it was too late. The addiction had already manifested itself.

My mother was English and she despaired of American pork products. She never developed a taste for American "streaky bacon" (as she called it) or breakfast sausage. She hankered for the traditional thick English back bacon and bangers. My dad was loyal to his Hormel. Marv likes the streaky stuff, well done. And me, I am equal opportunity pork. Any new taste of the swinish variety is a friend of mine. Still, at the end of the day, I'm probably most loyal to those tender slender strips of bliss.

On an unrelated note, the big blue sky and pure restorative sunshine of California did not disappoint. I wanted to eat up all the air around me in one big bite. Delightful.