Makin' Bacon

Yesterday, it was a beautiful morning. Birds singing, windows wide open with a fresh breeze blowing through. A perfect morning for bacon, eggs, and some brioche with butter. Mark went to Costco yesterday and brought something home called brioche, so I included it in the breakfast. At our house I cook the breakfast. So there I was, carefully turning the eggs so as not to break the yolks and then the bacon so that each side was evenly crisp, when.... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!

It hurt so bad, it happened so fast that I didn't even have time to curse. I could only scream, loudly. At least an ounce of bacon fat, rendered down into three hundred degree lava, had spilled onto my thumb and it hurt like hell. My perfect morning had turned into crap. The hell of it is, I don't even like bacon that much. I don't like cooking it because I can never get it perfect. Too fatty, too crisp, too chewy, never right. I'd rather have a pork chop for breakfast, or a steak. Anyway, it was like that question, "If a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there, does it make a sound?" Neither dog noticed me screaming out in pain. They were in the living room barking at all the people walking by on their way to work. Mark was in bed. When he finally did get up, he casually walked into the kitchen, looked around, and didn't say a thing. If it wasn't for the blister bubbling up on my thumb, you would think that nothing had happened. I could have been seriously hurt and nobody seemed to care. Oh, and when I did serve breakfast, the bacon was burnt. That, was noticed.