some bicycles are improved by fish

I have a coworker named Jim who has long maintained that bacon is the perfect food. He says it goes with anything else you might eat. If it doesn't improve it, he says, at least it's still wonderful. For example, if he was eating a bowl of ice cream and someone handed him a strip of bacon, he'd gladly alternate spoonfuls of one with bites of the other.


He has tried the chocolate/bacon mashup. At a fancy hotel brunch buffet with a chocolate waterfall on one side of the room, and an omelette bar at the other. He said it was fine.


Back in January, I saw a recipe for bacon ice cream on a blog. I saved it for future use.


On Monday, in honor of Jim's birthday, I brought in my ice cream maker, a quart of custard, crushed pecans and 12 oz of crumbled bacon that I had prepared the night before. Over lunch, I enlisted the help of my tablemates who normally sit together in the employee lounge to help agitate the ball containing rock salt/ice and custard/bacon. It took about 20 minutes, and then I started serving up bacon ice cream.


Jim got first taste. He liked it.

Mike went second, he pronounced it okay.

I went third. I really liked it. A lot.

Andrew declined to taste it. With disgust. Let's just say that I've never seen him order a salad, so it wasn't fear of saturated fats that was inhibiting him. As his boss, I considered ordering him to taste it, but decided instead to be gentle.


Some people around the lunch room - about 50% - were willing to have a spoonful. The rest made a wrinkly face of disgust.


Comments received (beyond the "whatever made you want to create this abomination?" variety):


"Eewww."
"It tastes...so wrong."
"I thought you were Jewish."
"That's definitely bacon."


Jim had seconds. I offered him a nicely wrapped pint to take home, but he didn't think it would survive the commute.


I sent an all-staff e-mail inviting anyone who wanted to try bacon ice cream to come to the employee lounge. I admit to being a little disappointed in the lack of adventure my coworkers displayed. I ended up freezing the two remaining pints solid and taking them home with me.


Rachel made the "Eeeww" face. The kids said they liked it, but left most of it. I offered tastes to my neighbors. They made the "Eewww" face.

I realize this isn't doing a good job of selling what I thought was a delicious recipe, but you probably already know in your heart if you're the kind of person who is going to enjoy bacon ice cream.

Ruined for me

On the evening of July 3rd, a friendly neighbor pressed a drink into my hand. It was bright red and served in a plastic cup. The taste - strawberries, ice, and a little metalic vodka tang- called up some memories. Specifically, it called to mind a party I went to during my freshman year of college. I was working up my nerve to go talk to a pretty young woman, trying to memorize a first, second and third series of conversation topics. I went up to her, opened my mouth but instead of talking I said "Bllaaaaaaaahhhhhh."

I had no experience with alcohol. I didn't drink in high school. I never really picked up the feel for it. I would see other people drinking and becoming elated, and I would just get sleepy. I would hear conversations about different kinds of beer - what do you prefer, Joe, wheat beer or a hoppy ale? - and think they all taste kind of the same to me. If I drink a glass of red wine, I need to go lie down on the nearest couch.

I accepted the July 3rd cup. After drinking its contents, I felt about a 5% lack of inhibition relative to my baseline, a drop so minimal as to be statistically insignificant. I forgot about that cup until the next day, which sucked. I was tired, grumpy, dehydrated and constantly irritated by kid noises. That was from one drink, which might have had half a shot glass of vodka in it, and it's not the first time this has happened.

There is no point in drinking alcohol anymore, except when explaining why would cause me more harm and embarrassment than leering and/or going to sleep. I won't even miss it, but I am sad to see another closed door on the options hallway of life.

I also no longer enjoy the sight of hot high school girls. I used to get a happy little charge when I'd see them but now I feel a punishing game show wrong answer buzzer. I'm more glad and less wistful about this change. I recall a kid named Robbie from my home town who never recalibrated his attraction to girls his own age. He went away to college, but always came home on weekends to scout out the newest freshmen. I wonder if he's moved back to Connecticut, and if he still wears his NHS BAND jacket on Saturday evenings.