Anyone who has walked with me down that Target aisle next to the cash registers will notice that I never pass by it without slowing my pace and gazing at those yellow bags that call to me like a firefighter ripping off his shirt after battling a three-alarm blaze. I don't bother with the size pictured above - I call those "teaser packs". Bring on at least the 14 oz bags (now Costco sells the XXL bag with the Fresh-loc Zipper that seldom gets employed). Target often has those blessed "pills" (as my mother dubs them) on sale, in which case I get several. Yes, I speak of the peanut M&M. I cannot gauge how many pounds of those sweet little ambrosias I have consumed in my lifetime, but I have no doubt that some of the pockets of peanutty fat from my butt have existed for at least 15 or 16 years.
I recall making this confession not to a man of the cloth, but to a fellow chocoholic in my ward. As it all came spilling out, (the confession, that is) I realized I was holding back. They are even better... "accompanied by a Diet Coke?", Dana filled in. "Yes!" I exclaimed. How did she know?!? The skinny blond shares my vice, but not my pant size... Grrrr....
And now, a haiku.
Keeper of my love blossom,
Flow, blessed nectar
Sachia, entire Ellis family, Christian and Candacy, don't even try to pretend you don't know what I mean. Lately, my only problem with this artificially sweetened goodness is that I can't consume it after 7pm, or I'll never fall asleep at my new 9:30 bedtime. Stupid...friggin'...teaching profession.
Am I saving the best for last? Not really. I have equally strong love for all three vices of which I speak this day, though they fulfill different craving (and nutritional, if we're talking about Peanut M&Ms - right, Mom?) needs.
My fetish for pork products is no secret. I've actually been thinking of joining that one group, PETA. Doesn't it stand for "Pig ETAs"?
My whole family was here in California for Christmas 2007. Since that meant 2 parents, 10 children, 7 spouses and 15 grandchildren, a lot of food was required. We were assigned specific meals to provide to the whole group, and my brother and I busted out Christmas breakfast. I had a whole menu planned - Creme Brulee French Toast with Raspberry Sauce, Spiraled Ham (fried pig), orange wheels, and Bacon Broccoli Salad (fried pig pieces). Notice that doesn't say "Broccoli Bacon Salad." It used to. But that recipe called for 6 pieces of fried bacon. "HA!" said I. Then I told Ted to bust out the George Foremans (yes, we have 2) and get to it. Two pounds later, the salad finally looked decent. As for my family, there were yums all around. Thanks for piggin' out, y'all!
Another bacon story. Our ward had a campout back in September, and while Ted and I hadn't planned to sleep on anything that resembled dirt on a cold and drizzly night, we wanted to go see all our friends anyway. On the way, we stopped at Wendy's because there isn't one close enough to us to warrant the "not going" due to its proximity. You know how it is. If it's a rarity, you go every time you pass by: like Nielsen's Frozen Custard or Cafe Rio or Paris. I'm a big fan of the Junior Bacon Cheeseburger ("Junior Bacon Cheese" for those of us in the know) for obvious reasons, so there's never really a choice to make once we get there except whether to get a regular chocolate Frosty or one of those new-fangled vanilla ones with the root beer in it. What do they call those? Floats? Anyhoo, so we stop in on a Friday night when the less-than-desirable high school crowd is making me hold my purse closer, and that's when I see it. A big sign advertising their next big thing: The Baconator.
Holy atherosclerosis. Two meat patties, two pieces of cheese, SIX STRIPS OF BACON. I admit I wasn't hungry enough that night to order this satanic temptation despite the pillar of light that surrounded the picture, for I knew it would take a fast Sunday or two before the growlings were too large and long to hold me back. But I swore on my grandfather's medical records (he died of a heart attack due to...something) that I would not rest until I accomplished that feat.
Fast forward a couple months later when we went to Utah for Thanksgiving 2007. We planned to go to Mamma Mia! at Mandalay Bay in Vegas on the way back since Ted had not yet seen it, and just happened to be famished on the way out. I figured we'd head to the In N Out on Tropicana before taking to the road again, but Ted wanted to venture a little farther down that street. We didn't find anything. Until that red Wendy's signed sent out its eerie neonic waves, pulsating with "baconator, baconator, baconator" on its crests and troughs. Well, troughs was just about right. I ordered the blasted thing. I barely finished it. That there sammich was a good'n, but it didn't taste how I expected it. Despite its toutage of SIX STRIPS OF BACON, I could barely taste it! All I got was greasy beef when all I wanted was something more like this:
Except I'd use whole wheat bread. It's healthier.
The ride home was interesting. I'll leave it at that.
The experience did not cloud my love for bacon (and subsequently, all things porky), but I'm noticing that my clothes just ain't fittin' like they used to. I'll have to lay off the pig and peanutty goodness and up my consumption of that life-giving serum for a while. Or....