Bacon...And Go

By 8th grade I had successfuly avoided most responsibilities children experience in their formative years. The only time I spent doing those boring things called chores was when I lived with my AR. Cooking was never one of these.

Most of you know my father spent 8 years in prison (GoDad!) And I highly anticipated getting to know the man I had lost my relationship with at 4. I was now 13.

Dad: "Valencia!! Will you make your father breakfast?"
Me: "Uh. Cheerios or Frosted Mini Wheats"
Dad: "Cute. I'll take a cheese omlete, bacon, and some toast"
Me: [blink]
This would be the first lesson my father inspired after returning home..

I called my grandmother.
What pan do I use?
How long?
How many eggs?
How much cheese!
How do I form it just so?!

The egg turned out to be the easy part. Even now, Omletes are my specialty. But it was the bacon that did it.

I threw it on the pan. In a pool of butter. Too much? Whatever. He's skinny from prison food.

OUCH! That motherfucker just bit me!
Dad: "Shimmy! Quit swearing, God Dammit! I don't like it!"

I had a process of tossing the bacon from 2 feet away so that I wouldn't get any stinging grease skeets. And my attempts at trying to turn it over reminded me of fencing. I'd find the longest utensil and poke at it. quickly. Fighting the grease monsters. I'm pretty sure I made the appropriate noses to go along with such nonsense.

An hour later, after much fighting, greasing, swearing, and (oh yes) burning.. voila.

Dad: "Valencia. It's cold"

Me: "Try the dollar menu"