Since I’ve been cooking once a week, Mike has taken to making breakfast. The first few times he made pancakes, and he threw in some fruit and chocolate chips (yummy). This past Friday he made eggs, toast, and bacon. YUM!

Growing up, my Gramma kept a Maxwell House coffee can next to the stove. I once asked her what it was for, and she said she “kept the fat” in it. Not long after, I saw her pour a pan of bacon grease into the can. The grease, she said, would clog the drain if she poured it down the sink, so she poured it into a can and disposed of it when it was full.

After Mike made the bacon last week, he asked me what he should do with the fat. I grabbed an empty Diet Coke can out of the recycling and told him to pour it into the can. I laughed watching Mike try to juggle a large skillet and a small soda can. It was messy.

Once breakfast was over, we cleaned up Annie and then the kitchen, talking about our plans for the day and weekend. Mike stood in front of the sink, washing dishes, and he absent-mindedly reached for the Diet Coke he was drinking. Except…he didn’t grab his drink. He grabbed the can with the fat.

Before I could stop him, he brought the can of fat to his lips and tossed it back. I gasped and then held my breath. His eyes went wide and he screamed “HEATHER!” Then he started gagging and spitting into the sink, and I couldn’t help but start giggling. He grabbed a napkin and started wiping his tongue and he glared at me while I laughed.

“You suck! You made me put the fat in a can! This is your fault!” He said while he scrubbed his tongue.

“HA! The can didn’t feel different to you?”

“NO! I’m going to be tasting bacon for days!”

“And that’s a bad thing because…?” Tasting bacon for days sounded pretty awesome to me.

Four days later, Mike says he can still taste the fat. I still fail to see how that’s a bad thing.