Reader Warning: Shameless self-promotion to follow; this entry
may contains multiple links to my own old tired *classic!* blog entries.
I cooked bacon this morning. Real bacon. Not the baconish-flavored turkey “bacon” that I usually make, but the actual, traditional, greasy, crispy, oh-so-delicious, Homer Simpson-approved, full-fat pork product.
I don’t do this often. On the rare occasion that I go whole hog (har!) and fry up the real stuff, I am treated to high praise and all-day heartfelt thanks from my children.
She of the bacon, egg and cheese sammich fame; enthusiastic Charlotte’s Web fan; imminent elementary-school stage personality — the very girl who once apologized before devouring her favorite bagel-encased, salty strips-o-cured-meat lunch.
This morning, Hannah’s tastebuds took an unexpected turn.
My little Wilbur turned in her breakfast dishes with all of the bacon — minus one bite — still on the plate. This is unprecedented. Hannah usually licks the pork portion of her plate clean, then asks for more. I asked her if she felt sick. I expressed my surprise at her absence of pork-inspired enthusiasm.
She looked at me, slightly mournfully, and said, “I don’t know, Mom. It just tastes funny.”
Method actress in the house! Piggies don’t eat their own.