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 Holly Winter Living The Life Of Holly Mar 21, 2003 The unthinkable has happened. And though this might be a normal occurrence in your house, it has never happened under my roof before. I woke this morning, in my very own apartment, and was overtaken by the smell of bacon cooking. I know. Me too. I thought that someone had broken into my place to do unmentionable culinary acts in my kitchen. I know. You would have been scared too. So. You can imagine my relief when I found that my stove was in the off position, my front door was still locked, and nobody had carried off my purple chair. Ok. I had to deal with the fact that the hypnotic smell was wafting through the walls from a neighbors kitchen. This apartment living was new for me. Thin walls or what? Oh. I know. I should be more tolerant. Cause. Maybe someone was trying to impress an overnight guest by frying up some early morning fat with their eggs. Or maybe there was some visiting relatives from Idaho who wanted bacon with their potatoes. I mean. That could happen. But. To think that I have to suffer for their petty enjoyment. Um. It is going to take some getting used to Man. The smell of bacon. It reminds me of the Summers on Fire Island, off New York City, where I used to travel with the family that I baby-sit for when I was a teen. Their single digit son ate BLTs for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Oh. No. I never had to make them. Oh. No. His parents never cooked them. They were always ordered out. Always. And. His order never varied: BLT, toast the whitest bread you can find, hold the L and the T and add tons of Mayo. I know. It was a kids dream food, no nutrition! And no kidding. His parents let him eat a lollypop after meals because they believed that it was a good way to get some fruit into his body. (Contrary to my belief system at the time, this boy is still alive today.) Well. I know. My family wasnt much better long ago before my mother caught the health bug and started visiting health food stores regularly. But. Before that time, she used to buy Wonder bread and we would lather it with bologna and Velveeta and top it off with a nice warm slice of beefsteak tomato fresh from the garden. I know. Drizzle it with as much mayo as you could without drawing a fathers attention towards the perils of being wasteful, and it was a perfect meal. Sure. My palate has changed over the years so that sandwich might not seem so perfect today. You know. Like those little apple pies that are covered in fake icing that used to make me so happy when I was twelve. Now they seem stale and dry, but at the time they made middle school worth suffering through. Well. That and that boy. What was his name? He used to buy the pies. Ok. But. Now I am dying for some bacon. You know. Just a few pieces. I could go to the diner and get some drippy eggs and strips of bacon so that I could feed this craving now, before it grows. We all know that cravings dont disappear. Or. Maybe that little restaurant across the street. I could let them fry the potatoes in the leftover bacon fat and season them with salt and, well, more salt. Oh. I am thinking that I should just go all out and order one of those killer omelets that use the egg to hide the bacon and ten kinds of cheese and ham and sausage and just a touch of pepperoni for fun. No. Im not out of control. Not yet. Im ready for my typical breakfast. But. I will retaliate, the Holly way. I am about to go into the kitchen and whip up my protein drink in the blender, but I dont think that it will conjure up nostalgia in my neighbors. And I dont think that it will make anyone plan an outing to the diner. But. Hopefully it will make some late sleeper in a nearby apartment wake out of a dead sleep. You know. From the blending noise. Hey. What can I say? Nostalgia, longing, anger. we are a very emotional apartment complex. ------------ About the author: Holly Winter is a teacher and a writer and a flight attendant living in Denver, Colorado, USA. She can be reached at her website or email: Holly@livingthelifeofholly.com Comment on this column in the forum. ------------ |
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