Time passes, but the smell of bacon lingers on.

The main objective of my parents’ trip to Chicago last week was to drop off the junk Cristi and I claimed after they sold my Grandma & Grandpa’s house back in May. The load was comprised of various collections of drinking glasses, nick nacks, odd kitchen utensils and one large china cabinet. Without a proper place to put all these new treasures, we resorted to the old “stick-it-in-the-extra-bedroom” trick. Hidden, right? You would think.

As many of you have heard me say, my Grandma was connoisseur of bad-for-you food. Chocolate, fried hamburgers, fried chicken, cheesecake, eggs, but I’d say her most cherished artery-clogging favorite was bacon. When I was a kid, we’d spend the week at her house and she’d make it every morning. To this day, the smell of bacon still takes me back to Saturdays somewhere near Grandma’s kitchen watching Cartoon Express on USA television.

Now, over a year and half since her death, the smell is back. Apparently, Grandma made so much bacon that the aroma is ingrained in her dishes, nick nacks, odd kitchen utensils and china cabinet. She may be gone, but I believe a little piece of her soul is living in our guest room.