This morning, Farmer H crept out of bed, showered, and tip-toed from the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. I should have known that he was not doing it to be sweet to me. To let me sleep in. To allow the workhorse of the family a few extra minutes of unbridled snoozing. I heard him feed the dogs on the back porch. It was almost as if he hand-placed each crunchy nugget of Ol' Roy in the three metal pans. "One for you...one for you...one for you, " until each fleabag had his allotment. I did not hear him come back in.
Usually, Farmer H tromps in and out of the laundry room, which abuts the headboard wall of our bedroom, and flings the dry dogfood into the dishes like a world-champion jai alai player. Then he microwaves a sausage/egg/cheese biscuit, grabs a banana, and exits the Mansion through the kitchen door, which has its own distinctive slam.
I did not hear anything for so long that I thought he must have gone on to his goats and chickens from the dogfood area. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Farmer H to tromp. I could not go back to sleep. The mystery consumed me.
I caught Farmer H in the kitchen, makin' bacon.
No! Not like THAT! He was frying bacon in my Christmas-new nonstick red-bottomed skillet. A half-pound of bacon, to be exact. He looked startled when I came in. Like when Jerry pretended to smother George with a pillow when he went to the hospital for a presumed heart attack, and Elaine walked in, and Jerry said, "Elaine. What are YOU doing here?"
It's not like bacon isn't allowed in the Mansion. I normally use it when cooking green beans. We're not big breakfast people, except on Christmas morning. I don't know why Farmer H was being so secretive. Unless he wanted a half-pound of bacon all to himself. I saw that he had set out a double-yolk egg and a banty egg. Let the record show that at no time did Farmer H offer me any of his cooking. Or his warming up of food on the stove, as he would call it if I was the person engaging in such behavior.
I turned on my bare heel and proceeded to the shower. Farmer H was gone when I came out. The #1 son was scurrying about, gathering items he needed for a hike after church. He paraded through the living room several times, munching bacon.
"Don't worry. I didn't want any of that for my breakfast."
"Oh. Did you? Because if you did, you should have told me before I just ate the last piece."
"Never mind. I don't think it was intended for me, anyway."
He's a scintillating conversationalist in the morning, that one. Now I need to procure more bacon. At least it wasn't like the time Farmer H captured two pot-bellied pigs while I was in town, with the plan to butcher one and fatten the other for future consumption.
Men and their bacon. Go together like horse and carriage.