Bacon and I Are at Odds

Bacon and I are not on speaking terms. Bacon spat at me. I did nothing to hurt it. All I wanted to do was cook my mushrooms in his beautiful, luscious fat. I wanted the fungus to have the scent of its alluring fragrance to make our mouths drool. And it spat at me.

We were making lunch a few weeks ago. My husband was on the grill, cooking steaks and potatoes. He had a nice slab of bacon on the griddle, rendering its fat and cooking the French fries in it. He had a refreshing, cold beer in hand as I brought him spices and plates to put the food on.

I busied myself making a salad and setting the back patio table. It was a beautifully temperate day. The sun was out, but not frying eggs on the concrete; the air smelled of fresh-cut grass. Spring flowers danced in the light breeze, bobbing up and down in their approval of our company. Bees hummed their tunes, and the birds chirped along in accompaniment. Stunning. Those are the Pre-Venus-type summer temperatures, the mild days of late spring, that we enjoy most.

While I did the monotonous thing inside, I saw the mushrooms sitting on the counter, waiting for their butter bath in the skillet so the steaks could be well dressed and not naked. Who wants naked meat on their plate? “Not I,” said the fly.

It was not invited, but it always seemed to know when there was a meal to be had, and would barge in and make itself comfortable at the outdoor lunch table.

A brilliant idea popped into my head. Why not cook the shrooms in bacon fat instead of the usual butter, ghee, or oil? So I asked my hubby to save me some of the nectar for cooking the mushrooms.

I got the stove ready with a skillet. The mushrooms were sliced and ready to go, next to the stove. I went out to the grill-master and asked for my cache of grease, took it inside, and put it in the frying pan. Then I turned the burner to medium.

Once the pan was warmed up, I poured the mushrooms into the pan with the bacon fat. That is when it happened.

I don’t know how it happened, but apparently I insulted bacon. When mushrooms went in to take their bath in its grease, it spat at me.

Drops shot up, hitting me in the face. They burned. They burned. Hot oil hit me between the eyes, the bridge of my nose, and my upper and lower cheeks. It felt like my flesh was cooking. Like red-hot pokers were being stabbed into those areas of my face. I am not being dramatic; it felt exactly like that.

I think I remember shouting with very unladylike language as I made my way to the kitchen sink to run cold water and soak a paper towel. I covered every grease-splattered spot with the cold towel, but I still felt the stinging burn. It was pain I had never felt before. I cannot imagine what poor burn victims must go through. Well, I can imagine it a little now, and it is a misery unlike any other.

For the next several days, I kept seeing my face in the mirror and prayed to God that the burns would not scar me forever. I bathed my face with Neosporin to prevent infection, and I hoped.

It took two weeks for the raw skin burns to heal. The nose burn and the one between the eyes healed first. The tiny burn spots took longer. I still have two troublesome pin-sized spots.

I don’t know what those are doing, hanging around so long, but they are stubborn. They are definitely unwelcome squatters. I assume a couple more weeks of evidence of the assault will be in store for me.

I have not spoken to Bacon since then. We are not on speaking terms. It assaulted me for no reason. All I wanted was for it and the mushrooms to dance together. They have a lovely dance. Instead, I was spit upon, and the party was over.

Bacon will have to be very sweet to me to earn my forgiveness. Maybe if my husband soaks it in maple syrup and fries it, I can forgive it. That is how I usually enjoy it.

We will kiss and make up. I know that. For now, I’ll hold on to my bitterness and wait until we are friends again.

(Published by Midform on Medium, June 2026)

#angry #food #story #thishappenedtome #cooking #summer #humor