Yummy Beef Bacon

I grew up in a Seventh Day Adventist (SDA) household. My mom is a vegetarian, and she wanted her children to be the same. Yet my dad was a meat loving man. He wanted his kids to have a choice. It was a battle between my mom and dad until one of us turned seven. Turning seven meant we got to choose sides.  Most of the family meals were vegetarian. A few times a week or less, Dad cooked chicken, fish, some kind of beef and other delightful SDA God approved meats like beef bacon.

When my turn came, it was vegetarianism for me. I had been the first to remain vegetarian after turning seven. My mom was proud of me. Her pride made me feel happy. I was thrilled to be on her team. It didn’t seem a hard choice until a whole year later. Little number eight was going to choose. Would he become a carnivore like all the other traitors? Days before his birthday, my siblings crowded around him like the meat loving vultures they truly were on the inside. They had done it to me too.

To sway him, they said things like, “Spaghetti is even better with meatballs.” But it was their talk about beef bacon that just didn’t quit. Is it really a meat?  Or is it just some kind of amalgamated beef flavored fat? Everyone talked about yummy beef bacon. They loved it best. Right after the baby turned seven, he got to choose. He would be the last of the family to make the choice. It stood at seven to three. With my mother, younger brother and me as vegetarians. If he decided to eat meat, it would be a gigantic shift.

One evening after little number eight turned seven, my dad offered him a hunk of pot roast. Bam! He was a carnivore. No will power at all. Although my younger brother had failed miserably on his initiation day, I remained unfettered. Soon after, he taunted me, saying, “You don’t know what you’re missing.” Naturally, my curiosity peaked. He had taken the meat-eating dive. He knew about something I didn’t know about. Unacceptable. It didn’t matter, I was determined to stick to my decision. Sometimes, when my siblings went on about what I was missing, I’d say, “If I’ve never had it, how can I be missing it?” It worked. I wanted to keep making my mother proud because we were a duo in a house full of meat eaters.

Several weeks into my brothers seventh year on the planet, my parents prepared a special Sunday breakfast. We were going to have waffles. Everyone loved waffles. My dad made them in an electric waffle maker. When he did, he always put the appliance on the buffet next to the table. It made four at a time. That was good because it took a ton of waffles to feed all those boys. I watched as he poured waffle batter onto the iron and closed the lid. Minutes later, he lifted the lid, took out the first waffle, separated it into four squares and then ladled in more batter. Next, he headed for the kitchen.

It was almost time to eat. My mom came out of the kitchen with Dad. She carried a bowl of scrambled eggs. He had a plate of beef bacon.  My dad peeled out a waffle, ladled in more batter and closed the lid, but afterwards he sat at the table. We said grace. My dad went to the buffet and peeled the waffle out and then added more batter. He had made enough for everyone to start eating.

In some families, they pass around the serving dish to let everyone help themselves. In our family, we passed the plates to the head of the table. From there, one of my parents rationed out the food. It was best, considering there were five food crazed boys in the mix. For every meal, they served from youngest to oldest. The stack of waffles was still mounting as my mother had taken over the job of making them. A blob of eggs and then a waffle went on to my brother’s plate. Next, my dad added a slice of bacon. With his plate in front of him, number eight picked up his bacon and took a bite.

It was my turn. I watched as my plate traveled down from number five to three, to one and then to my dad. As always, for me it was going to be a waffle and scrambled eggs, but my dad held up a piece of bacon, “Want it?” he nodded his head.

I did want that bacon. Looking away, I lowered my head.

“You don’t have to yield to temptation,” Mom said as she squinted her eyes and tightened her lips.  

Is temptation and curiosity the same thing I wondered? It was my decision to make, but I did not want to disappoint my mom. We were a team. The whole table seemed suspended in a cocoon of silence as they waited for my answer. There, at our breakfast table, we were witness to the great controversy and the apocalypse at the same time. Would the world end if I chose to eat meat? I didn’t think so, as heaven nor hell had opened up to claim or condemn my siblings or my Dad as unrighteous sinners.

“Get thee behind her Satan,” my mother broke the silence. She stared at my dad.

“Leviticus 11,” he responded with a smile.

I felt like their ping pong ball. It was not about me. But still my dad’s words were hovering in the air. “Want it?” 

“Yes.” I finally said.

My mother shook her head. Dad put a slice of bacon, a waffle and scrambled eggs on my plate. Number one took the plate. Before passing it to number three he said, “Dip your bacon in the syrup. It’s good.”

My mother poured syrup on my waffle.  I picked up the bacon and took a bite. It was crispy, crunchy, salty heaven. I loved it. I sat it down. By that time, I had shut out whatever was happening at the table. It was just me and my yummy beef bacon. For the next bite, I dipped it into the syrup. What a transformation. The bacon became a sticky, salty sweet strip of delight. Sorry Mom. I was sold, having only one regret over not being old enough to have two slices of bacon.

While it’s a bit difficult to admit, I’m sure my mother made me pay for that decision. There was some sort of consequence. Maybe, she didn’t allow me to go to a sleep over or she didn’t take me with her to the store for a week or so. No matter what happened, it has been left in the past. That beef bacon day started me down the road of independence. It seems such a small thing but acting against my mother was never a small thing for me. Making the choice meant, I relied on my own thoughts, ideas and preferences.

Growing up with my father gave me a multitude of opportunities to define myself. I had to decide and know why I wanted to do the things my mother, siblings or friends or even my dad wanted me to do. He insisted on it. My father taught me to consider everything I learned. My dad said, “Know why you do things. Don’t just do it.” He also sometimes said, “If your friends jump off of a bridge are you going to jump too?” I always hated when he said that, but he made his point. Think for yourself.

My father questioned everything. He believed it was important to act based on knowledge. It was something, I came to love about him. From him, I learned to question the things I learned at home, in school, at church, on television and even from him. My actions, as he would say, “had to be my choice.” No matter how old I get, I find myself faced with choices. Whether it’s related to politics, friendship or just plain living in America. In some way, for a multitude of reasons, I’m often deciding who I want to be and what I want to do.

Thanks to my dad, I can make the unpopular choice, even if it means losing a friend. As it stands now, after my father died, there is one thing I do not want to do ever. No beef bacon for me. Not without my dad.