I want a bacon sandwich. Now. And I want cool, fresh leaf lettuce on it and a great thick slice of that engorged tomato which my neighbor gave me yesterday. That thing so gorgeous I wanted to bite into its side like an apple. If I had any sense I'd have started the bacon cooking right before I started this ramble. Then I could smell it teasing me along. But then, I'd probably have to get up and check on it periodically, and I'm not supposed to stop writing for anything until I'm done. But then, no one would ever know. Sooooo--I could set the burner for a long, slow sizzle. Well, it's too late. No. I've already started. I won't think of hot toast, slightly crunchy, browned around tiny pockets of air, nor the creamy ranch dressing I'd smooth across the surface.
What is this power in bacon which brings everyone to the kitchen eager and expectant? I don't
make it often, but it happens every time! I should be able to use that somehow. Like maybe when I
want to call a family meeting in which to make profound announcements or go on a rant. No--it
would never do to rob them of the mystery of bacon. That pleasant, meandering, hickory-smoked
soul wafting freely about. Bacon would have a male persona I think. There is something so
irresistible, so intriguing, so appetizing about it, but you can never put your finger on quite what
it is. And it's so bad for you, but you just want it! A joke. Merely a joke. Based on fact, however.
But I see bacon as a man, wandering about aimlessly, smoking a pipe, silently enjoying the day
and whatever comes along. His clothes are a bit odd and worn, face wrinkled with character and
merriment. And he knows something......something you're just dying to know. But you never can
find out what it is. Each time he comes back round you just have to run alongside, follow and