David has an office in Union Square, right next to the farmer's market. He often picks up farm eggs, grass fed beef, that kind of stuff.
Friday, he brought home a bunch of meats and he held up this one package of bacon and kind of waved it in my face.
It was uncured hickory smoked bacon without nitrates from Tamarack Hollow Farm in South Wheelock, Vermont. Sounds all home cured and yummy, right? So, I reached out to take it and he whipped it out of my grasp and gave me the evil eye.
"Now, don't do what you usually do," he said, "and make this whole package for us at one time...Ration it."
"Ration it? Like Great Grandpa did during the war?" I said. I was being witty.
"It's expensive." David doesn't think I'm witty.
I ignore this and putter in the kitchen. Sure, it's expensive it's from some quaint little farm, with one amputee farm hand and a pig named Bessy from the most expensive state in the country.
"I mean it", he says, "very expensive".
He wants to confess.
"How expensive was it, baby?" I ask. I sound cool. I decide I'll be cool with whatever he paid. I'm a good wife.
"I can't tell you..."
"Oh come on, it's bacon...how much could it be?"
"No, it's really expensive..." he tells me. The words come easy now.
"...See, I went to pay for it and the guy at the farm stand told me how much it costs and I thought I had misunderstood him, like he was speaking in tongues or something, but then it was too late, my wallet was out, he was taking the money, it was all happening so fast and I was too embarrassed to tell him the price was astronomical...so, I bought the ridiculously expensive bacon."
He was breathing a little hard.
I look at the packaging. A little tree graphic. Quaint. I see that this isn't even a pound of bacon. 12 ounces. Thieving New England farm bastards.
"So, just ration the pieces out to us, okay honey?" he says, "You know, make it last..."
And I did. We ate our allotted two rashers a piece for like three breakfasts. And now, it's mercifully gone and all the guilt can stop now.