“You know what the TRUE opiate of the people is?” he asks, waving my wooden spoon as sauce splats against my kitchen wall.

As usual, I perch on a stool, elbows on the counter, taking in the show.

Another sip of perfectly chilled $50 plus a bottle sauvignon blanc he brings, and wait. His questions are always rhetorical, not requiring more than a mere nod of my head.

“Bacon!” as another splat of sauce drips down the wall. “Bacon half-pound fat burgers on donut buns; chocolate-coated, batter dipped, deep fried bacon; bacon wrapped bacon . . .”

I reach for the wooden spoon before ALL of the sauce hits the ceiling.

“Yes, dear,” I murmur. Stroking his hand and his ego. He turns his wonderous handsomeness back to the stove and his special sauce. I love the way his 10 out of 10 ass moves as he cooks.

He looks as good in my kitchen as a BLT sandwich, double bacon, with cheese, fried toasty brown in bacon fat. Hold the tomato. No veggies needed. And, damn, that sandwich is mighty fine!

Concocted/whipped up for Pat’s mlmm Fine Dining; Kitchen Tricks

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