During this time of isolation and reflection, I confess to two loves that have made this period worth surviving.
The first is the Baconator. A half-pound of beef surrounded by cheese, bacon, ketchup, and a worthy bun. Leaving my den of solitude, I wander into the fresh air and take my place in the exhaust-laden auto line snaking toward the drive thru. The plexiglass-covered menu displays my beloved in full color.
I place my order with the teenager manning the speaker. It seems almost illegal, if not immoral, ordering my object of lust through the unsuspecting pre-adult. She’ll understand some day.
I unwrap this gastronomic masterpiece, ignoring the warning of 960 fat-laden calories. The next ten minutes are a blur as I sit sated but confused. Why are my hands greasy? What happened?
I don’t indulge in this often, common sense prevailing. But sometimes I need a fast reward to uplift the spirits, even if it weighs down the stomach.
All I really know is, if they only serve one thing in heaven, it better be the Baconator.
Now for more lasting love. My granddaughter Lydia, perfect as all grandchildren are. She hasn’t known me long enough to discover my faults, there is just this look of humor, affection, and security. Grandchildren are the do-over for grandparents. Sure, we loved our kids and enjoyed raising them. But they got to look under the hood and see misfiring cylinders, worn belts, and leaky radiator.
My children love me, don’t misunderstand, but their wild-eyed innocence has given way to the realities of human interactions. Grandchildren are spared this.
Paula and I communicate with my daughter Maureen, son-in-law Jason, and Lydia mostly through Facebook chats. These sessions are booster shots to us all. A confirmation that things will be better someday.
We also get the occasional visit when all of us feel the need to be closer. We try to be safe and keep a reasonable distance, but the need to be proximate to each other overrides this, somewhat. Lydia’s smile and giddy laugh make this all worthwhile.
One final note, I made sure my love for Lydia covered more words than my infatuation with the baconator.
The first is the Baconator. A half-pound of beef surrounded by cheese, bacon, ketchup, and a worthy bun. Leaving my den of solitude, I wander into the fresh air and take my place in the exhaust-laden auto line snaking toward the drive thru. The plexiglass-covered menu displays my beloved in full color.
I place my order with the teenager manning the speaker. It seems almost illegal, if not immoral, ordering my object of lust through the unsuspecting pre-adult. She’ll understand some day.
I unwrap this gastronomic masterpiece, ignoring the warning of 960 fat-laden calories. The next ten minutes are a blur as I sit sated but confused. Why are my hands greasy? What happened?
I don’t indulge in this often, common sense prevailing. But sometimes I need a fast reward to uplift the spirits, even if it weighs down the stomach.
All I really know is, if they only serve one thing in heaven, it better be the Baconator.
Now for more lasting love. My granddaughter Lydia, perfect as all grandchildren are. She hasn’t known me long enough to discover my faults, there is just this look of humor, affection, and security. Grandchildren are the do-over for grandparents. Sure, we loved our kids and enjoyed raising them. But they got to look under the hood and see misfiring cylinders, worn belts, and leaky radiator.
My children love me, don’t misunderstand, but their wild-eyed innocence has given way to the realities of human interactions. Grandchildren are spared this.
Paula and I communicate with my daughter Maureen, son-in-law Jason, and Lydia mostly through Facebook chats. These sessions are booster shots to us all. A confirmation that things will be better someday.
We also get the occasional visit when all of us feel the need to be closer. We try to be safe and keep a reasonable distance, but the need to be proximate to each other overrides this, somewhat. Lydia’s smile and giddy laugh make this all worthwhile.
One final note, I made sure my love for Lydia covered more words than my infatuation with the baconator.