Like marriage, or boot camp, or a first child (so I am told), no amount of preparation can truly make you ready for the experience of BaconMarmalade. You will be surprised. There is over a half a pound of bacon in every four-ounce jar. And there’s still room left for as many flavors, tastes and adjectives as there are people who have tried it. It is a spiced, sticky, sweet, savory, smoky, bold, nuanced concoction of heretofore unknown origin.

I admit, I am not the first to tell a BaconMarmalade story. Stories of its creation have been told, and many times over at that. While there is truth in every rendition I have yet heard, they all still want for something when they call the discovery an “accident.” It is, in truth, a key on a kite, a purposeful end result, a sought-after objective, and yet another dollop of triumphant yumminess in a long line of successes borne of its discoverer’s insatiable creative drive.

To paraphrase the most popular variations of the story as it is now known… Chef Ross Hutchison was on a yacht thousands of miles away from a decent American butcher when, in preparing the afternoon spread, he burnt the very last of the bacon. Making matters worse, bacon had been the only ingredient specifically requested for the meal. So, gazing at a frying pan full of crispy catastrophe, “Chef Ross” did what anybody would have done… he made jelly out of it. (Duh!) A primitive version of BaconMarmalade was born, and it was well received, to say the least. Returning to the states, he revisited his creation. “Chef Ross” was as intrigued by the sweet, glistening amber spread as the growing number of friends knocking down his door for more. In short order, demand elevated it from curiosity to commodity. “Chef Ross” and his indescribable jam would catch the eye of, among others, the James Beard Award-nominated culinary website Food Curated which would feature BaconMarmalade and its creator. Over night, BaconMarmalade spread like, well, BaconMarmalade… on a thick piece of breakfast toast… or a steak… or pork chops… or a baked potato… or puff pastry… or ice cream… or pizza. Today, “Chef Ross” takes orders and interviews from across the globe.

But this is all too simple, really.

Before I continue, full disclosure, “Chef Ross” and I were fish buddies in Texas A&M’s Walton Hall. We built Bonfire, friendships and reputations. We ambitioned, struggled and failed mightily, and eventually found success, each in our own arenas. He was my roommate, my best man, and is my best friend. And he is, without a shred of hyperbole, a true creative genius. I have referenced that irrepressible creativity and its product in my professional work. Even in the limited scope of influence I may enjoy, the real story of BaconMarmalade has been an inspiration, and far beyond the kitchen. All of that said, we get down to business, and I throw my friend under the bus…

The real story of BaconMarmalade begins in school at Texas A&M University. “Chef Ross”, or Hutch as he is known in these parts, was a bruising, broad-shouldered baseballer from north-Houston. Few folks in the dorm could or would play catch with him. He threw so the ball disappeared, and though his precision was equally impressive, it was harrowing nonetheless waiting for a projectile of unknown speed and trajectory hoping this wouldn’t be the one that missed. Still, gifted as he was, he was content to be a student spectator. Once, as he lead the dorm into the Aggies’ Olsen Field to catch an evening game, we saw an opportunity to put him to the test. Against his objections, someone anted the three dollars for three pitches in the Diamond Darlings’ charity radar booth. Stone cold, and rather hoping to get to the game, Hutch humored his friends quickly with politely-delivered, precisely-aimed cannon shots of 87… 89… 93 miles per-hour. As he sauntered away, he was oblivious to the cute summer-girls running the booth as, star-struck, they asked faintly after him “you wanna try out?” Following behind him, we lamented his apparent disinterest in this sport at which he was so clearly gifted.

Years later, our “senior” year, Hutch and I were up late in the dorm, burning the midnight oil, or rather simmering it, to be precise. After a respectable, even laudable start to college, together we carried a combined 60 hours and 20 grade points over the previous three semesters. The next day was final exams, and our academic futures teetered precariously over an oblivion from which no one had been known to recover. But Hutch did not flinch… nor did he study. In fact he cooked. To the soundtrack of downloaded morning-show sketches, Hutch entertained and fed a steady stream of spectators. With just the yellowed decade-old electric skillet our spartan dorm had to offer, he sent his friends off to study full of better stuff than they had eaten at the dining hall (and most restaurants) all year. Through the night into morning, he was as a cellist going down with ship, dutifully staying behind to exercise his craft in the face of disaster. As our sated friends left aglow in comfort food to return to their books, they lamented his apparent disinterest in the studies at which he once showed so much promise.

And so we failed out of school. Withdrew actually, but with a Dick Nixon twist. We moved off campus, a short 150 yards away to, as we called it, “the closest front door to the Dixie Chicken.” A story in its own right, we lit up “Church Street” like Christmas, built an impressive deck, and piped out music seven nights a week. Our humble house became a beacon in the Northgate bar district. But even in the midst of distractions and dissonance, a purpose was formed. The late nights our location invited perfectly complemented Hutch’s new schedule at Christopher’s World Grille in College Station.

Without formal training, his ambition fueled his development. He had a particular fearlessness, peppered with aw-shucks, and a heap of levity that became a highlight of his coworkers’ shifts. He would create for politicians, business people, foodies, foreign dignitaries, former presidents, celebrities, gourmands, and poor college kids who scraped together what they could for a magical night with their sweetheart. While another name was on the door, it was Hutch’s heart and soul that were on the plate when he was in the kitchen, and it was not long before his name was on the menu.

Those who new of Hutch’s humble start marveled at his progress. Many others just believed he was formally schooled, or had cooked at this level for years. But I was in on the secret to his burgeoning success and it was insight I thoroughly relished gaining. Many nights, I would awake to the most glorious smells coming through the vents from the kitchen. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I walked downstairs, I would hear sizzles and snaps, the oven door creaking, the metallic rhythm of a swirling saucepan. As I rounded the corner to the kitchen, I would be greeted by a Charles Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Present-caliber spread. A range of courses would be prepared the likes of which one could only hope to afford at the finest restaurants. Had I not risen to oblige the chef in eating of these feasts, I do not know how the food would have been disposed of, and I am not sure that Hutch ever considered that either. As I dove in to these spectacular eats, Hutch would describe his inspirations which were always eclectic and ranging.

There was always the common thread of passion, so entrenched that it pervaded his every thought, waking or otherwise. After only a short few hours of sleep, Hutch would be roused by dreams of some fantastic concoctions as yet untried. A man possessed, there was no alternative but to create. He would run to the only 24-hour grocer in town (Wal-Mart, it had to be done) and return with armfuls of raw ingredients and cook, and cook, and cook until exhaustion overwhelmed him, or satisfaction finally had mercy. This was all very common, though the ever-improving, ever-more-surprising creations made each experience increasingly extraordinary.

In the mean time, Hutch did return to Texas A&M, getting his degree in an off-handed sort of way. Neither the education he had received there or his future aspirations were tied up in a diploma, but being the determined sort, he dispatched his remaining hours coolly, efficiently like one would a boiler-bound lobster.

Having tied up loose ends, Hutch made his way onto that yacht where he would serve as private chef to many illustrious, famous, or otherwise uncommon guests with tastes seasoned by years of informed indulgence the likes of which he was expected to deliver. While discretion prevents me from divulging too much of what discretion permitted Hutch to share, I cannot resist mentioning that once, when moored off the South of France, Martha Stewart was so pleased with some of his work, she requested he take her to the markets he shopped where they spent the afternoon talking food and sharing cappuccino.

And it was on that yacht that the oft-told punchline of the BaconMarmalade story unfolded. When life burnt his bacon, Hutch made marmalade. While he certainly did not intend to make bacon preserves, he did set out to impress, to create, to discover and share, and that he did, and continues to do. If the course he took in preparing the dish was not by his specific design, this is in truth, semantics. What is relevant, what truly matters is that when one determines that success is the only outcome, when one persists to that end in every pursuit as large as life or as small as finger-food, there is no alternative beside success. And there will be great peace in this knowledge, however vexing it all may seem to those who do not yet know the gifts and surprises in you, which you will spend your entire life uncovering, discovering and stumbling upon… and, hopefully, sharing with the world.

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BaconMarmalade can be found at www.baconmarmalade.com. You will also find a few recipes there (and here too), but I assure you, none are needed; everything could use a little BaconMarmalade… and it’s crazy that I’m not joking.