Love and Bacon

Last night I drank a lot of the beautiful, golden, silky liquid known as The Macallan 12. So I apologize if this isn’t my most shimmering post.

A few of us had dinner at Manny’s and it was a significant event in that my BRF (best redheaded friend) was bringing her new boyfriend for us to meet. Yes, this is the same girl who recently broke up with a different guy after a less than spectacular dinner at my house.

I was more than a little excited to meet this one, mainly because in the littany of men she’s debuted with us, this is the first one to truly bowl her over. And man, don’t we all deserve to be bowled over? Reeling with that flush of excitement, doing things that you normally wouldn’t do, throwing caution to the wind for just a little while…

Wait a minute, was I talking about the potential relationship or the slab of Nueske’s on the table, the thick and charred salty slab of bacon? Seriously, what’s wrong with feeling like that about a pork product? I’ve just passed through the eighth year of marriage with my husband and I love him more than he may deserve, but I see him every day. The bacon, I don’t.

The bacon is a surrender to fat and flavor, to risk and decadence, to the aknowledgement that this is not an average night. Your hungry heart may crave it, and you may find yourself remembering it fondly, but you couldn’t eat the bacon every day, your real heart wouldn’t allow it.

I enjoyed the night and I enjoyed her choice of suitor. He seems to be a good person who is equally over the moon about his date. We all laughed and ate and drank far too much for a Thursday night, wrapped up as we were, in a haze of bacon and anticipation.