BACON + NEEDY PRESCHOOLER + FACEBOOKING MOMMA= amazing light effect.
Here's how this evening went down: It was 4pm. The sun was beginning its ridiculously early descent into the horizon, spilling sharp shards of light across the walls. My blond haired preschooler, previously known as "Eve", turned into a Gremlin like she does every day at 4pm, demanding dinner and snacks and cookies and treats.
I mentally linked arms with all the other mothers of the world enduring the witching hour. To the uninitiated, the "witching hour" is the period of time when supernatural creatures have their greatest power. So by default when you refuse to give food, undivided attention or cookies to someone who is less than 6 years of age, they will use their power and it will most certainly be used AGAINST you.
I didn't have any wine that night. A single glass of wine is usually my "go to" comfort of choice to drown out the unnecessary squalling of my wee one. A little wine helps with the Little Whine. Go ahead, laugh.
But there was no wine to be had.
So I made bacon.
I didn't make bacon to replace the wine, but if I may say, chomping happily on a smoked meat during witching hour produces some really amazing endorphins... ESPECIALLY if you tell your children, "No, you may not have any bacon," and then hypocritically sneak some yourself. It's an adrenaline rush.
My smaller counterpart, however, would not be distracted from her original mission: to create an "anti-ambiance"...
... so I fled to go Facebooking in the office.
I should not have fled because... because I left some bacon on the stovetop and had forgotten how quickly that thin sliced meat likes to char. Happily Facebooking for a few minutes, I stopped suddenly. My "mommysense" was tingling... THE BACON! I bolted out of the office and entered a smoky fog in my kitchen. My fire alarm began to chirp and then squeal as if I stepped on its tail.
When the smoke died down and the alarm silenced, I saw this scene. (See photo.) "Am I in heaven?" I thought. But then I saw the pile of laundry and knew that I wasn't. Stripes of sun flirted with bacon fog. My humble Christmas tree took on an aura of other-worldliness. I swear I heard "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" but then I realized that the only heralding in my house was coming from a spry almost-4 year old.
I smiled, took some pics and fed the squaller. I gave her bread. She quieted down and I redeemed the evening by making the rest of the packaged bacon into a perfect golden brown.
All was right in the world.
