Bacon

Bacon breakfasts are over. Big Guy returned to work today. For nearly two weeks, the pigs of America have reigned as the sizzling centerpiece on our table. Big Guy likes his bacon and doesn't mind cooking it. Birdie, Daisy and I don't mind eating it. We could fry our own batch of bacon, but that would mean getting out of bed. And with no smell of bacon wafting from the kitchen, nothing will nudge us from under the covers. So we're stuck, in bed, until Big Guy returns home. Perhaps he will fry some bacon for dinner? For that, we would awake and start our day, well after the winter sun has died. But who cares? There will be bacon. Fried. And lots of it.