My apartment fridge died it's third death in 4 years last week. Once again, I awoke to find a warm, and slightly fragrant, assortment of leftovers, tupperware, sundry frozen goods and the food for the week. Though annoying, it forces me to clean the fridge while awaiting a new one, though most of the food is just that, food. Except for my beloved stash of Bacon o' the month Club offerings.
I like bacon alot. I belong to the bacon of the month club. However, I don't eat tons of it for concern for my coronaries, but save it for special occassions- or when cooking for large groups of people to share my love (and my stash) with. I was hoarding about 4 months worth of bacon, and was contemplating a bacon tasting breakfast, when I was confronted by my warm fridge. Mind you, most of these artisanal sides of cured pork have much less preservative than your average supermarket bacon, and with no alternate source of refridgeration, about 4 pounds of salted pork had to be unceremoniously dumped in the trash.
For me this is up there with saving that chocolate Easter bunny until the dog days of summer, fighting off your friends and family, until you finally open it and find it crawling with those white moth things. All the anticipation of hickory, applewood, and even garlic bacon smokey goodness, saved for one glorious Saturday morning, gone in an instant.
My friends don't quite understand the feeling of loss. I was hoping the Chowhound community might understand.