First, what aren’t they? They aren’t something that is very nice for pigs, who forfeit their lives so that you can chow down of their succulent fried deliciousness (vegans, just stop reading right now, it gets worse) that becomes their skin when cut into little bits and thrown into hot oil, and is fried and salted and if you are lucky served with salsa verde.

They are not something that any doctor who cares about your cholesterol levels is going to recommend that you eat on any sort of a regular basis. But they are delicious. Damn are they delicious. And you would be hard pressed to travel very far in Latin America without finding a portly woman on a nearby street corner selling it by the delicious platefuls. Imagine French fries, made of pork. Imagine that this flavor touches your buds and goes straight to your soul and clogs your arteries with the same gusto one feels right before a cocaine induced heart attack. This is probably based on a true story.

If you think you have a problem, if you spend most of your waking hours hungry for Chicharones, do not go to Cuba. Stay out of Brazil. Steer clear of basically all the countries that used to belong to Spain and don’t even think about going to Guatemala where Chicharones are as abundant as flapjacks on Paul Bunyan’s farm.