Bacon

I have always been afraid of bacon. Really afraid of bacon.

It took me years to put it together.

Sometimes during the weekend, while I was little, my father would make breakfast. This is the only time I ever saw him cook before my mother died. He would get up early wearing only a white t-shirt and BVDs. A while back, my sister had her only Puerto Rican boyfriend who upon looking at a photo during this time period said, "He looks straight out of Watts". He did. Dark brown skin, thick muscles, the slow gait of heavy lifting and light pay. Some times he was gruff and as monosyllabic as a Spanish speaker can get. Sometimes he was kind, taking his time after breakfast to brush out my waist length hair from the bottom or letting me cling to him after yet another ear surgery facing uncontrollable vomiting.

During these weekend breakfasts I never knew which side of him we would get. I liked watching him cook. I liked watching the bacon shrivel as if by magic, the ritual of putting down a paper towel and laying each piece out dry. Without my hearing aids in and even then before I "needed" them, I cannot hear bacon sizzle. I get the concept, I can see the concept and after two very recent kitchen fires I am very aware how heat works in the kitchen. I wasn't aware then. Maybe I was five years old. I didn't hear him tell me to stand back. I remember distinctly what it felt like as the oil and fat hit my arm. It leapt out and grabbed me, burning a hole into my memory. My father told me it was my fault and to never go near cooking bacon again. And I didn't. For years and years, I was afraid and despite my love of bacon, I shunned it. It began to represent my fear of my father, the oil just grabbed me like one of his bad moods and I didn't even see it coming.

I suppose that people are resilient and my love of bacon has led me to being able to fry it up, keeping the parts of my fathers ritual that served me. The early morning wake up, cooking the entire package at once, black coffee and paper towel for the final lay out. I still stand back though, still have the fear of oil, fat, anger-- reaching out and grabbing, pulling me back to a snot nosed kid, with a several burn marks and new void in my world where the magic of frying bacon use to be.