One day a week I cook bacon for breakfast for the boys. I almost wrote that I make a grand fill the table with homemade choices feast for the boys. However, that would be a total lie and would not match my skill set in any way. I admire cooks, but let’s just be clear, I cook. I am not a cook.
So, one day a week I make bacon. And, the boys stand by my side waiting from the very first sizzle for the very first pieces to be peeled bubbling and crackling from the pan. I used to be scared of bacon just a little. The way the pan spit back at my hands and the wall made me too nervous to do anything but microwave that pig. Now, with Dylan sitting cross-legged with a plate in his lap and Luke on a stool teetering just a little too close to the greasy action, I am bacon brave. After all, those boys need a bacon-cooking mama at least once a week.
Their Dad is a cook. He thinks about making them food and then loves his boys that way. It took me a while to understand this fact. The time my husband spends thinking about our meals is really his way of thinking about how he might feed us. For Jimmy this feeding is about more than calories that convert into energy. This feeding is about what might make us happy. Jimmy is a cook that tries to serve happiness on the plate. Jimmy is the feast maker.
But, once a week I make bacon for my boys. If I don’t hide some slices, the two littler ones will eat it all and Jimmy will wake up to the smell of bacon only. On these mornings, I feel just a tiny bit of what my husband feels when people fill up with something I made. With crunches and slippery fingers and shiny cheeks, my boys are happy and I did that. So, once a week I will run whichever finger gets burnt under cold water for however long it takes to stop burning and for just a few minutes I will feel like a cook.