Maple Bacon

Last night Sam made us dinner: Chicken Bacon Ranch Subs. (For the record, we almost never buy bacon.) The sandwich was really good. But then the bacon smell lingered, and lingered, and lingered. Past dinnertime and into the evening it hung in the air like the aroma of a McDonald's at breakfast. It permeated all the fabric in the apartment and settled in the heater which blew into our bedroom at night, filling my head with nauseating, maple bacon dreams. The bacon was ready and waiting for us when we woke up in the morning, despite my best attempt at using a whole brick of Scentsy to inoculate the kitchen. No good. It even burned itself so strongly into my nose and my memory that I continued to smell it at work. And it wasn't on my clothes or my coat - I checked. It was just there, haunting me like my regret for having consumed it.

This morning my Samuel was so apologetic and wonderful after I whined and whined about it. Then I said, "Sweetie, it's ok. The smell will eventually go away and I do love you more than a pleasant-smelling home." And we both felt better.

Moral of the story: DO NOT buy maple bacon. The end.