How I Want To Go When It’s My Time

“Fever, ‘til you sizzle / What a lovely way to burn…”

original photo by Antonio Barroro

I think about death a lot. I’ve probably given mortality regular headspace since college. A morbid pasttime sure, but it keeps me honest. While I was contemplating life recently, I thought specifically about how I’d like to go.

After much deep consideration and plenty of soul-searching, my answer is: I would prefer to go in my sleep. But a very close second is… bacon inhalation.

“In my sleep” is the default on the pull-down menu of life. It would surely be the “number one answer on the board” if the world took a Family Feud-like survey. The whole “going painlessly” thing is quite agreeable. And if lucky, you could possibly go midway through a steamy dream fantasy. Imagine that!

But, to go out smelling arguably the world’s best meat, I mean, there’s no better way I can imagine. Nothing against beef, steak, chicken, turkey or even pork and ham, but for me: bacon brings home the bacon.

You can literally wrap ANYTHING in bacon and it makes that anything better; including yourself. Is it healthy or good for you? No. But those strips of meaty heaven are so tasty you can’t help but want all of them. All of the time.

My love for bacon dates* back to my childhood. (*Ooh! bacon-wrapped dates!) I recall for years saying those three words everyone wants to hear: “bacon double cheeseburger.” My mom must have known about my love for the sweet swords of swine because there was always Sizzlean around (that was bacon’s not-at-all “healthier” cousin).

That’s how good bacon is; even its healthier alternative is still pretty tasty. (Not to mention, the Canadian version.)

Early on in my wife’s pregnancy, she discovered her sense of smell had heightened to that of a bloodhound. Unfortunately, the smell of meat made her stomach turn — don’t even ask what “street meat” did to her. We, of course, had a pack of bacon (purchased before this newfound super power) just sitting in our fridge, tempting me. Until…

She had to travel for work one weekend. While she was away, I chose to accept my mission: to rid the house of all that bacon. I went out and bought a hearty loaf of freshly-baked bread and cooked up the suckers (oh, how the house wafted with such a sweet aroma!) I sat down with a literal bowl of bacon and had AT it.

The night and day to follow, I opened the windows to circulate the air flow so that the scent would be long gone by the time she returned. I felt such a sense of accomplishment — I even messaged her to let her know I was taking care of business for her. And all was well in the world. Until…

Warmer weather came and with it the need to turn on the air conditioner in our kitchen window. You guessed it: she hit the switch and lingering whiffs of bacon washed over her in waves. She survived and, thankfully, we are a bacon-friendly family once again.

So, if I can’t shuffle off this mortal coil while visions of bacon-wrapped sugarplums danced in my head (asleep that is, perchance dreaming), the only other viable option for me is for my nasal cavity and lungs to be overcome by the intoxicating scent of well-cooked pork.

Unless… I could somehow have my cake and eat it (literally and figuratively). Nothing against bacon, but for me: cake takes the cake.

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This short story was originally published in Bacon, Eggs & Geek.

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Writer-Artist ✍ Contact: →in New Yorker: Find @ernio_art →on Instagram: License →via

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