Serious Eats - seriouseats.com

Bacon.
America's Umami.

That all depends. Do I get to pick who I get to eat?
Every time I look around I see people who, based on their diet, personal hygiene and lifestyle would not be deemed edible by the USDA.
That whole 'you are what you eat' thing freaks me out.

And speaking of that, do you think a smoker would taste different from a non-smoker?

@skipfires--Please tell me you watched the 1982 version starring Angela Lansbury and George Hearn. It's a classic.

Beer.
Mostly.

1) Slightly charred, straight off of the stick, no condiments, washed down with a cold beer.
2) Cold, Raw, while standing at the kitchen counter.
3) Octopized. (I've never actually done this, but it looks like fun.)

Sounds like everything else has been covered, so I will just add...

Don't fry bacon naked.

Congrats JEP.

I'll second the frosting and graham crackers, but they have to be made into sandiwches and the timing is key. You must make them a day before you want to eat them and store them in a Tupperware container. This gives the graham crackers time to absorb some moisture from the frosting and soften up. Aside from having a better texture, the hard graham crackers won't squeeze out the soft frosting when you bite into them. Plus, that's the way Grandma Jeys did it, and who wants to argue with Grandma Jeys?

I guess I'll be the first to post Peanut Butter and Jelly.

Any sort of Cheeto, Cheesball, cheezy-poof tastiness. (If you'll remember, the only effective way to remove orange Cheeto-dust stain is by wiping your little fingers on your denim-clad thighs.)

And how can I forget the second, somewhat diluted half of a big ice-filled glass of Pepsi from a 2-litre bottle. That is refreshing after a hard afternoon of building a tree-fort.

When I was three or four, my parents invited some guests over for a rather debaucherous session of roasting hot dogs in the fireplace. After much pleading I was allowed to stay up past my bedtime to enjoy the grown-up festivities. For the occasion, I chose to wear my brand-new corduroy Oshkosh B'gosh overalls over my pajamas.
One by one, guests arrived and gathered by the fire. A few bottles of screw-top wine later, one of the adults decided that chili dogs were in order. Luckily, canned chili comes packaged in its own pot suitable for cooking in a fire. After all, why dirty a sauce pan when you could just put the unopened can of chili into the fireplace and wait for it to heat up enough to explode all over an unsuspecting, hot dog roasting four year old wearing his favorite corduroy overalls?
I remember inaudible, red-faced screams as my dad scooped me up and raced up the stairs followed by several concerned party-goers to douse me, clothing and all, in the kitchen sink.
He finally got me calmed down enough to convey that I wasn't hurt at all; in fact, I was screaming because the front of my beloved Oshkosh B'gosh's were completely covered in Hormel chili and now soaking in tepid tap water!
I was allowed to stay up a little while longer to calm down. As he toweled me off and changed me into clean, dry pajamas, my father assured me that we wouldn't have to throw away my overalls, and when we woke up in the morning, he would show me how our washer and dryer worked.

Please don't let this story deter you from enjoying a meal cooked over seasoned hardwood; to this day it's my favorite way to cook. But if you do decide on chili dogs, have the forethought to poke a hole in the top of the can!

Since a friend just bought me The Deluxe Bacon Wallet for Christmas, I'll have to say pliant, otherwise I wouldn't be able access my cash.

I remember, early in high school, eating at a barbecue joint in Kansas City that was amazing. Upon describing the place to people who weren't there with me, I've been told it was Arthur Bryants. Since I don't know exactly where I was in Kansas City, I'll say Jim's Rib Haven in western Illinois.

Oooh. Cinnamon Life, Grape Nuts with sugar, or Cracklin' Oat Bran.

Wrapped around a scallop, somewhere between crisp and pliant.

Smoking.

When my family and I would visit my great-grandparents farm for holidays, the smell of the bacon grease that my great grandmother used to fry her perfectly cooked eggs would wake us up at 6:30 every morning. We would stumble into the kitchen rubbing our eyes, and be greeted by a breakfast table right out of a Jimmy Dean sausage commercial, complete with a red checkered tablecloth and a heaping platter of eggs ranging from kid-friendly over hard on the left to explode-in-your-mouth over easy on the right.

From the day I moved into my first apartment, I had repeatedly and unsuccessfully tried to replicate Nana's deliciously-greasy over-easy eggs.
One late, groggy college morning with my roommate out of town, an afternoon class which I had planned to skip, and no homework on my plate, I decided to fry myself the perfect plate of bacon and eggs.
Forty five minutes and three broken yolks later, I had done it!
I had successfully fried a plate of eggs like my great-grandmother!

As I sat at the kitchen table, coffee cup in hand, rolling the greasy ovum around in my mouth, the phone rang. I let it ring several times so I could savor one more yolk before the interruption.
When I lifted the receiver to my ear, I heard my Dad's trembling voice.

Nana had died in her sleep some time early that morning.

To this day, I can't smell bacon grease without thinking of Nana and her red checkered table cloth.