Flash forward five months later when
St. Pauli Girl came home late one afternoon and noticed the tree on
the side of our house was now literally on the side of our house. As
in leaning against. As in uprooted with our house as its lone
crutch. It hadn't really done much damage, but it could fall
completely over at any minute, not only damaging our house but our
neighbors' as well, or their motor home parked nearby.
Hence, we had to meet our neighbors to
ask them to move their motor home so the tree could be hauled away.
They turned out to be a sweet older couple who claimed to be in their
nineties. And guess what the ninety-somethings names are? Bacon
(Mr.) and Buddie (Mrs.). No joke! Bacon is short, slim, and wears a
baseball cap and cowboy boots, which is pretty much what I'd imagine
someone named Bacon to look like.
St. Pauli Girl and I discussed whether
that was his given name or just a nickname. We finally decided that
it had to be his given name which must have put Bacon the child under
a lot of pressure. Someone named Bacon must be honorable and salt of
the earth. He/she must be firm and dress crisply. A Bacon may never
be destined to be president, but he/she must be a hardworker and
honest as the day is long. The expectations of the name are the
equivalent of naming a child Sam Houston, or Eli Whitney or Lancelot
Link or Wishbone.
Now onto a tangent: Last Saturday St.
Pauli Girl and I went out to brunch at a local wine bar that also has
live jazz music. That should give you a good indication of the
pretentiousness and prices of the place. For my entree, I ordered a
crepe stuffed with eggs, sausage, potatoes, and hollandaise sauce,
which of course is just a breakfast burrito priced four times higher
because of the words “crepe” and “hollandaise.” For my one
side dish, I ordered bacon.
The burrito, er crepe, was okay (would
have been great with Tapatio hot sauce) but for the first time in my
life, I actually let them take my plate with uneaten bacon on it (as
did St. Pauli Girl). This is the equivalent of the Pope canceling
Sunday services on a whim. It was truly the worst bacon that I can
recall since 1985.
Using my fingers, I held up a piece
that drooped over my hand spilling grease down my arm. “I thought
they stopped making Sizzlean in the eighties?” I asked St.
Pauli Girl. “I can't decide if it's just poor quality or they
tried to microwave it or both.”
If in fact it had been microwaved on a
bunch of paper towels, they might as well have served up strips of
the paper towels instead, because they were that limp, greasy, and
tasteless. It’s not “brunch” if the bacon is not even on the
same level as IHOP’s or Denny's (not that there's anything wrong
with IHOP or Denny's bacon). A Grand Slam it wasn’t. More like a
broken bat bloop single.
In the end, bacon the food and Bacon
the name fall under the caveat of “to those who much was given,
much more will be required.” Restaurant bacon must be firm, crisp,
salty and smell like heaven. A person named Bacon must be humble,
hardworking, crisply dressed and wear cowboy boots.
For all I know, our neighbor Bacon
could be a serial killer, but I will never believe it.
