This is a piece of creative nonfiction that I wrote last semester. I consider it a finished work as it has already been workshopped, but I didn't have anything else to post and I thought you all would enjoy this.
Aged Bacon
As I opened the door to my house after a long day of classes the aroma of freshly fried bacon slammed into me. My mind raced back in time and I saw my mother standing at the stove. She’s wearing a blue apron faded from her years of cooking. There is a skillet of sizzling bacon on one side of the stove and a pot of red liquid on the other. I look into the skillet and remind my mom, “Daddy doesn’t like his bacon hard and crispy like you do,” so she takes it out and adds more. The red liquid starts to boil, and my mom adds the cooked noodles that have been sitting in the sink. Next to the stove there is a counter filled with vegetables and condiments ready to be put on the table -- lettuce, tomatoes, onions, pickles, spicy mustard, regular mustard, mayonnaise. Mom asks me to set the table and I choose the oldest dishes in the cupboard. They are faded white with blue around the edges. I like using them because I know no one will care if I break one. The package of bacon is empty and Nanny and Papa are pulling into the driveway. I rush to put everything on the table, so it’s ready when they walk in. Our table is oval-shaped and light brown, filled with marks and scratches from years of use. The legs branch out from the middle like roots on a tree and there’s a phonebook underneath one of them to keep it balanced. I pick out my favorite tablecloth -- red and white checkered -- and throw it on top of the table. Then I set the plates -- 7 of them. Since we’re having short spaghetti, we also need bowls. Then the napkins and forks on top of the plates. Nanny and Papa are getting out of the car and I still haven’t filled the glasses! I quickly get them out of the cupboard and fill them, first with ice and then with water, and put one by each plate.
I hear the back door creak open and hurriedly take the condiments to the table. Nanny and Papa are walking through the laundry room, and I run to give them both hugs. They sit at their usual spots, and Mom calls for everyone to come to supper. Dad walks in wearing boxers and a t-shirt -- he’s just showered after a long day. Claire runs in and gives Papa a big hug and a kiss while Troy plods in to take his seat, dreading the short spaghetti he knows he’ll be required to eat. Mom brings a heaping plate of bacon and the pot of short spaghetti, and we’re finally all together, ready to eat our meal. Dad starts off the prayer “Come, Lord Jesus...” and everyone joins in. Mom stands up and begins serving the short spaghetti, but I’m too eager to wait so I reach for the bread to build my sandwich so I don’t have to wait for other people to finish using everything. First the bread (whole wheat, of course) then mayonnaise and four strips of floppy bacon. My sandwich looks awesome. Mom plops short spaghetti into my bowl and I take a bite. The flavor seeps into my mouth-sweet tomato juice with a taste of butter. The noodles are cooked just right.
The usual supper chatter occurs -- the price of wheat, the weather, which cows had calves. I finish my meal, but I stay and listen, hoping to hear something interesting for once. Finally everyone is finished eating and the table is cleared. It’s time to play some cards. Nanny and I are always partners and Papa plays with either Mom or Dad -- tonight it’s Mom. Papa deals the cards, and I am first to bid.
“Six” I say confidently. Mom and Nanny both pass, but as usual Papa outbids me.
“Seven” he says with a grin. “In spades.” I only have two spades, so I draw four cards and the hand begins. When Papa bids he almost always makes it, but this time Nanny and I get lucky. We win the first game and Mom and Papa win the second so we have to play a third. It’s close at the end, but Nanny and I win it. Papa starts to stand and says, “Well, guess we better be headed back.” I beg them to stay, but it’s late and he has a long day planned for tomorrow. I walk outside with them and wave as they drive into the night. The smell of the cool night air surrounds me like a warm blanket after a good, deep sleep.
So many smells -- of freshly cooked bacon, of short spaghetti, ready to be eaten, of Papa Dean, old and aged by the years, of soap from my Dad’s shower, of the cool night air. Each smell brings back memories so vivid that it seems like they could have happened this morning. And yet I can’t even tell you what I had for breakfast without thinking for a minute. Our sense of smell is a complex reaction.
Now I have grown up quite a bit, and when I am home, I still set the table and watch for Nanny and Papa to drive in. But I don’t have to rush as much because they also have grown older, and it takes them longer to get out of their car and come inside and sit down. I use a small glass for Nanny because she’s not able to grip a normal one. I still hug them, but I don’t rush into them like I used to. Instead of playing cards every night, it has become a special occasion, and I walk outside with them not only to say goodbye, but also to make sure they make it to the car safely. Everyone in my family has grown older, but looking at my grandparents reminds me that life is but a fleeting moment. So many people rush through it without noticing what’s happening around them.
The door creaks as I shut it and I hear the bolt grind into place as I turn the lock and head to bed.
