I don't like bacon. There, I said it. I'm often approached by outraged and baffled friends and strangers who can't believe I don't like bacon. Usually, this is followed by the accusation that I'm a religious Jew, as if that somehow explains it.
The truth is, I simply don't like the taste. It's no secret that I'm the meat-eater of this blog duo, but when it comes to smoky meat, specifically pork, I didn't grow up eating it and therefore don't like the way it tastes. Sorry, folks.
This faux bacon, though, is on another level.
I spent two hours last night writing and re-writing this post.
Writer’s block — it happens more often than we care to admit. Usually, I can defeat it by just sitting down, shifting into “writing mode” and typing out whatever story comes to mind. Last night, however, that was not working. I wanted to tell you guys a funny story that started with a friend setting off a smoke alarm at midnight while cooking chicken and ended with me bragging about how I’m my father (the homebuilder)’s most handy child.