The saying goes, “What keeps many from becoming
In a cast iron pan
Or dripping greasy paper towels
Turning in the microwave.
Any way you cook it: bacon is beautiful. Tweet This
Smelling of home
And bare feet on wood floor
Little faces begging for more.
(Is it bad that I hoard bacon?)
I remember the smell of pancakes
When my dad would cook them up
From my bed covers, I prayed:
Dear God, let there be bacon too.
Your to-do: Write a poem to bacon this weekend, then eat it—the bacon, not the poem (Unless you wrote the paper on the greasy paper towel. Then, well, you’ve got your own bacon issues.)
There’s nothing better than bacon. Tweet This