There Is Torture In America

Last night we had friends over for a Mardi Gras pancake dinner. Usually we serve sausage on the side because bacon is too messy and time-consuming for a mess of people. But a neighbor brought a package of maple-cured bacon and fried it up, filling the whole house with the most wonderful smoky smell.

Which was pleasant last night. But I curse her on this day of fast and abstinence when the very walls are crying out, "bacon."

I think it was deliberate. Sneaky Baptist.