Today there's bacon in the oven – a cookie sheet full of bacon – which gives the entire kitchen and much of the house a distinct odor. We're new to this, and I'm trying to monitor the process closely, since burnt bacon seems to me to be an abomination unto the lord.
The first time I
open the oven door, there's (obviously) a strong aroma that seems to
slap me in the nose; an aroma which transports me back to boy scout
camping trips of my youth.
Crawling out of
heavy canvas tents to a lush, green autumn morning, mist rising from the creek obscuring our view of the fog settled in the hay field across the way, we woke to the smell of bacon frying in cast iron (no, we
weren't backpacking) – a little slice of misunderstood heaven,
wasted on youth who were without enough experience to recognize the
paradise we were waking up in the middle of.
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