Free Sex and Bacon by Sarah Katherine Lewis

of the following before baking:
     

Rub your chicken with a little olive oil. Mince a few cloves of garlic (or, if you’re like me, use a couple of spoonfuls of bottled preminced garlic or garlic paste from a tube). Massage the garlic into the chicken and finish with a generous dusting of both salt and pepper.
Marinate the chicken in your favorite vinaigrette salad dressing for twenty-four hours, turning once.
Mix up equal portions of soy sauce, honey, and canola or olive oil. Add a generous spoonful of garlic and another spoonful of ground ginger. Add a splash of lemon juice. You can either marinate the chicken in this mixture for a day or you can just brush it on both sides and bake it immediately (though the flavor will be stronger and richer if you let your chicken soak overnight).
Make a sauce of plain yogurt and dill. Put some on the chicken before baking, and keep some in the refrigerator to use as a dip once your chicken is cooked. Slice the breasts into strips, dip them into the cool yogurt-dill, and eat them with your fingers. Better yet, let someone feed you.
Rub the chicken breasts with a little butter. Sprinkle them with a generous amount of dried rosemary and a little thyme. Finish with salt and pepper. The butter will make your chicken brown beautifully, and the rosemary will make your whole house smell delicious.
    The possibilities of chicken are endless: It’s like good old penis-in-vagina sex—there are a million ways to do it, from missionary to superfreaky, and all of them get the job done.
    Feed yourself protein, then go out and fuck shit up. You’ll be surprised at how beautiful that makes you feel.
    WHEN I WAS working as a lingerie model at Butterscotch’s, I was often scheduled with a Chicago debutante who came to Seattle for the drugs. She smoked crack to keep her weight down and took Kcstasy in lieu of high-calorie cocktails when she went out. She was tall and whippet-thm, with concave shanks and a completely visible rib cage. She looked like an anatomical drawing of the skeletal system come to life. A few fetish-oriented customers loved her, but most preferred curvier models. Wlien she danced, she looked like a marionette being bounced on its own strings.
    Bear this in mind: As physically wasted as my coworker was, even she wasn’t a size 0. When even a crack habit won’t make you as thin as a Hollywood starlet or a fashion model, it’s time to reevaluate the beauty standards that keep us literally starving ourselves to death.
A NOTE ON VEGETABLES
    Vegetables are tricky—I’ll admit it. They’ve always seemed like a lot of work to me, without the commensurate payoff. Making a cake from scratch is a lot of-work, too, but at the end of the process you have a whole cake, and cake is delicious!
    But when you fix vegetables, all you get are . . . vegetables. And unless you’re a radical vegan, veggies aren’t much of a treat.
    The thing that keeps me from veggie-love is, frankly, laziness. I think I have Food ADHD: I like food that’s ready for me when I’m ready for d —and if it’s delicious and fancy in some way that’s even better! If it’s brightly colored or makes noise or there are lit sparklers stuck in it, even better! Ka-POW! Vegetables, on the other hand, are as subtle and reserved as an Ingmar Bergman flick. For someone with a fairly aggressive internal sense of editing, there’s just not enough going on with vegetables to bother.
    The whole process is laborious: First you have to pick them out, selecting the individual vegetable or vegetables you plan to serve later. There’s no uniformity—you have to look over each vegetable for freshness and lack of damage, and usually you end up putting a dozen back before you find one worthy specimen. Then you have to take them home, wash them, and, in some cases, peel them. You have to cut parts of them off. Then, finally, you cook and eat them. By that time I’m usually pretty sick of the vegetable in question, and I’ve