People Who Smell Like Bacon

Once upon a discussion, I sat next to a middle aged man. We were perched on folding chairs in an audience for a telecast of academic conversation, stifled by the heated stage lights and closeness of elbows. I was taking notes on the laptop, and he leaned over to ask a question whereby a sudden updraft of warm air from the floor brought the unmistakeable aroma of bacon to the fore.

I realized: it was his maroon sweater that smelled so delicious, I mean, So Delicious. The warmth of the studio became a kitchen, a Sunday kitchen for bacon and sizzling fry pan aromas somewhere in the middle of a cold day. Bacon was for weekends, for slow good morning breakfasts with toast and eggs and orange juice, coffee and the paper. Saturdays were usually rushed affairs, full of errands before the next day when most shops used to be closed. That was why you could take your time on Sundays ago, because nothing else was happening until Disney came on in the evening, after Lassie.

I don't think he understood the effect his sweater had; I wanted to bury my face in his midriff and inhale. I sort of kept up the conversation so that each time he leaned in, I could smell him. Sweetly, innocently, it just joggled the bacon pathways in my brain. The presentation began, and we went our attentive ways.

So, the other night I sat next to a woman who usually dresses in layers of foofy clothing. What? What? My gosh, she smells like bacon. She did. Must have fried something up for a quick supper, or it was left from the morning, but for goodness sake it was a weekday and who cooks bacon for breakfast when you have a job? It did not have the same effect on me, since well, she is also a smoker and frankly, a woman; her hair and clothes were permeated with stale cigarette vapors over the delicate bacon aromas, but yet the bacon-o-meter sensor levels were high enough to establish a reading.

When frying bacon it pays to wear an apron, for even with a screened cover over the pan, microglobules of sizzling deliciousness will invade clothing fiber, the pores of your skin, and cling to fuzzy sweaters. I am only recommending this for my own sanity for if you smell like bacon, I may hover like a hummingbird over a feeder. Really, I have better self control than that. Most of the time. But a man who smells good to begin with, especially with a starched shirt over that and then a sweater with baconness, it's like human catnip.

On myself, I can't stand it. Seems thick and cloying. But then, that's a good thing. I don't cook it or eat it that often, and am shocked and dismayed that some everyday markets are charging up to six dollars for a pound of store brand with a streak of lean so thin it looks unhappy. The price of pork didn't zip up that high, so what gives? Bacon is a mainstay of flavor and used to be a cheap supper; tuck a rasher into a grilled cheese with tomato, build a BLT, begin a chili, add to the vinegared joyful mess of German potato salad, let it draw the family into the house on a chilly day. Pancakes? Waffles? Better with bacon. I rest my case.

Long day, short night. Time just flies by. Aches come and go, come and stay. I will turn gratefully in tonight, after typing up a paper for class. The wool blankets have come out, and the cats burrow under during some of the chiller October midnights. Sleep well, sleep safely, put your worries in a jar and let the subconscious sort out the nonsense. Good evening, good night.