Bacon makes everything better

Remember the commercial from Christmas past with the “Ooh, I love Turtles,” and a provocative woman with the high-pitched voice and the look of “Gee, I’m really stupid” (don’t get me started)?
Well, as yummy as those caramel-pecan-chewy treats are, and I enjoy them as much as the next person, I’m more inclined to say, “Oooh, I love bacon.”
CBC Radio and “The Debaters” with Steve Patterson had a debate on last week about bacon, good or bad. Dave Hemstad argued for bacon while David Acer argued against, but I’m willing to bet he was just pretending not to like bacon.
I didn’t hear much of it as I was on my way to get my snow tires off (a display of positive thinking) but I couldn’t get bacon out of my mind all day.
In fact, when I got home from work, I had bacon and eggs for supper—a step up from the bowl of Cheerios from the night before.
This is a crazy busy time of year for me, or at least that’s my excuse for rather questionable eating habits. I have eight more tax returns to finish before April 30 knocks on my door.
But bacon. Ooh, I love bacon.
I know I shouldn’t love bacon. I know bacon is filled with nitrates or radioactive particles, or whatever it is that is harmful. But I have to say I get a whole lot of pleasure from eating bacon.
I don’t smoke. I don’t drive a gas-guzzling race car. I turn the tap off while I am brushing my teeth so I’m not wasting water—or at least most of the time I turn off the tap (okay, half the time I turn off the tap).
I don’t kick dogs, though I’d like to toss my cats that steal all my paperclips from my desk—every last one—at every opportunity.
I use both sides of the paper when I am writing. I hang my laundry out on my clothesline whenever possible to save hydro. I compost. I recycle. I floss. I donate to charity.
I don’t watch Jerry Springer or Maury Povich or “Hockey Wives”—shows that display the very worst qualities in us.
I buy Canadian. I don’t litter. So surely I have earned the right to eat bacon.
If I were going to build a bomb shelter in preparation for a nuclear holocaust and the end of the world as we know it, I would pack bacon. It would be at the top of my list, along with water and broccoli salad (that, coincidentally, has bacon in it).
I remember going to my first all-inclusive resort in the Bahamas many years ago. Translation: all you can eat bacon. When they saw me coming for breakfast in the morning, I imagine they shouted out to the kitchen: “Kill another pig.”
I’m not proud of that. In my defence, though, I buy my bacon from a farmer whose pigs live outside—pigs that have the freedom to dig and root through the mud (as pigs are happy to do) and who get to laze about in the sunshine when they are done rooting.
I eat bacon from happy pigs and their bacon makes me happy, so it’s a continuum. Happy bacon and tomato sandwiches. Happy bacon bits for Caesar salads.
Bacon really does make the world a better place to be. I even would go so far as to say it might be more effective than anti-depressants to cope with all the nasty things swirling about in society.
If you’re down in the dumps, try some bacon. You may be pleasantly surprised. Plus, it’s gluten-free.
It’s my birthday today (April 23) and in celebration, I shall have bacon and wish myself “many happy returns of the day.”