Makin’ Bacon

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"Do we have any bacon left?"

I nodded.

"Great!" said my boy. "Can I have some bacon?"

I groaned.

Let me explain: I hate bacon! Hate the smell. Hate the grease. Hate the mess. Hate the stuff!

When bacon's on the menu my sailor does the cooking, but he's still at his mother's in Powell River. (He's collecting so much good karma he should buy lottery tickets.) Potential future lottery wins aside, I was on the hook to prepare the bacon for my carnivorous boy.

A quick call to my sailor filled me in on the bacon basics. ("A slow, even heat is the way to go with bacon.")

The actual cooking wasn't too bad, but afterwards…eeew! Do you have any idea how much fat bleeds off three strips of this stuff?

I decided to pour the melted grease into an empty yogurt container. Once it hardened, I could throw it out and avoid having to deal with it.

Like many ideas, this one worked in theory, but in practice–not so much. Did you know hot bacon fat will melt a plastic yogurt container? Neither did I.

Even though I had to deal with a gross slimey mess, I got the last laugh. I cooked the last three slices of bacon today. There's no more left!

They Had Bacon

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My sailor was invited to lunch at the Canadian Embassy in Kabul last week.

He looked forward to getting away from the camp for an afternoon. I had mixed feelings. As always, I worry when there’s any alteration to his routine and off-base travel is a change that makes me especially anxious, but I wanted to hear all the details.

I’ve never visited an embassy for lunch or even just to say hi to a diplomat, but I’ve seen enough James Bond movies to have a good idea of what an embassy in a European city is like. The decor is formal, the people are all dressed like they work in a high-end department store and the food is fancy.

But an embassy in Afghanistan? There’s still kind of a war going on there. Surely corners have been cut and normal embassy conventions are not followed as strictly as in more stable areas. (By normal embassy conventions, I mean the ones I imagine.) I couldn’t wait to hear the nitty gritty when we Facebooked.

“They had bacon.”

“They had bacon?” I said. “You had lunch at an embassy, and that’s all you’ve got for me?”

“They haven’t served bacon at the camp since Ramadan, but they had it at the embassy.”

Like that explains it.

“It was good bacon.”

We’re so in tune that we often get a busy signal when we call each other because we’re both phoning at the exact same time.

We have near identical views on politics, financial planning and child-rearing, yet we’re so far apart in our bacon appreciation levels it’s scary.