"Mmm...unexplained bacon." -Homer Simpson
DH works hard, especially in March when his schedule fills to FAA limits. On some mornings, I'll get up with him to make a hot breakfast, particularly when he has to be up painfully early. I'll admit, the reveille schedule I'm on this trimester makes it a whole lot easier. Because this morning was one of those mornings, I made some real, center cut bacon (as opposed to our usual turkey bacon) to go with his spinach, onion and provolone omelet (is there anything better than cooking spinach and onions in bacon fat? I think not. Just wish we had some mushrooms to throw in there, too).
Now, I am a fan of the cremated bacon. Always have been. Chewy, greasy bacon makes me gag a little. So I cook it 'til it's just-this-side-of-Hell-burnt. We don't eat actual pork bacon often, so I never knew that my husband of seven months, whom I've dated since high school fkdawewrfej years ago, prefers his bacon chewy until this very morning. And what's worse? He was willing to suffer my scorched bacon. I had to ask him right out,
Me: I know the bacon is cremated--that's the way I like it. Is that ok with you?
DH: (pregnant pause) This marriage is doomed.
Me: What? Why didn't you say something?
DH: I don't feel right telling someone cooking for me how to cook.
Lesson: Let's have improved communication in marriage and avoid years of resentment. He could have carried around a bacon grudge for years to come. Bacon, sweet sweet bacon.
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