I was eight. I awoke to the smell of bacon and I jumped out of bed, eager to cram my face with another yummy Saturday breakfast. I walk out and see my Dad frying bacon in a skillet. Hot grease spews. I eagerly watch.
“Dad can I help?” I ask my happiness spilling over.
“Sure, but be careful…” He goes to get the eggs from the outside fridge. I take the tongs off the counter and poke the bacon. the grease spits at me, but I dodge it skillfully.
I knew I had to flip the bacon over or it would scorch and then it would be ruined. That just couldn’t happen. I grip the tongs, pick up the bacon, and quickly flip it over. The grease was angry, it spat at me.
“OW!” I grab my arm and hop up and down. Grease now my worst adversary.
Many times, people would cook food in hot grease, they would ask me if I wanted to help, if I wanted to assist. In my mind I thought, Are you kidding me? Grease hates me and I hate grease. I would rather wait until the cooking process was done, and then take part in the eating…But of course I would say, “Sure.”
Today, I faced off against grease. It spat and hissed. I wore protective gear (gloves) and I tried to beat it, but grease won. I got stung many times before my meal was done cooking. And even when it didn’t get me…I cowered in fear.