Is there anything better in the morning than waking up to the smell of bacon?
I know you dudes think I’m going to answer that question with a resounding no (especially considering we’ve discussed the Law Of Headlines No. 17.3 which states that for any question asked in a news headline, the answer is invariably no ((or penguins, depending on the weekday asked))), but you dudes are wrong this time.
The one thing better than waking to the smell of bacon, is walking downstairs to discover that there is — in fact — bacon to be et at the origin of those delicious smells.
Yes, that’s right. For those perspicacious among you who have already realized where this is headed, please hang on a mere moment as I talk about the deadly, soul-crushing moment of pure heartbreaking defeat when you walk into the kitchen to realize that all you have are those wonderful smells.
The terror of realizing that all you’re smelling is the ghost of bacon past. . . The residue of bacon already eaten. . . Insubstantial aromatic echoes that linger on the nose, but never on the tongue.
I speak, of course, of my darling wife, known to me as She Who Must Be Eating All The Bacon.
Yes, dudes, it is true. The other day, I awoke to the lovely, tingly smell of freshly cooked bacon. Now, considering that I’m the person who cooks maybe 95% of the food in our house, smelling any kind of food aroma when I didn’t cook it means something odd is happening.
The smell of bacon hooked me through the nose and pulled me from a warm, comfy bed and stumbling into the kitchen. Through bleary eyes, with demanding bladder being roughly ignored, I scanned the kitchen looking for what surely had to be there.
But to no avail. The counter was empty. The greasy pan was empty (well, empty of food, but not the mess I would have to clean) and cold.
I felt as if someone had taken a stake made from sharpened bacon and then shoved it through my heart. Which, considering how much fat and nitrites and other horrible things are in every crunchy, delicious bite, is a pretty good metaphor for what happens to your body when you eat bacon.
Bereft. Bacon-less. Broken
I staggered around the kitchen, unsure of how I could go own, my heart breaking from the crispydeliciousbacon betrayal.
What else could I do? I got out the rest of the bacon, cooked it up and then devoured every delicious slice.
At which point, Zippy the Travelin’ Boy’s twitching nose tugged him into the kitchen. He mumbled something about needing bacon.
I snatched the empty bacon wrapper, shoved it deeply into the trashcan, covered it with greasy paper towels, looked deeply into his bloodshot eyes, swallowed, breathed deeply and told him the truth.
“Your mom ate it all.”
Thus doth bacon make fiends of us all.Share on Facebook