Spoiler alert: The first part of this post is found in Fifty & Failing, Fabulously!

One of the grandest indulgences I can think of is the bacon sandwich. Unlike a slice of chocolate cake or a scoop of ice cream, the bacon sandwich is real sin, possibly mortal sin.  Let me explain how I do a bacon sandwich.  Upon deciding to indulge – and it is a willful, conscious decision to do so – I take the bacon from the fridge and arrange it in a frying pan.  The sizzling, popping and crackling increase my anticipation and my mouth waters as the bacon cooks and the kitchen fills with its pungent aroma.  

The smell causes me to crave, for there is no such thing as indulgence without craving.  I don’t make guilt-reducing pansy sandwiches, but full-fledged, honest-to-goodness, one-hundred percent fatty, piled high with boar flesh, sandwiches; and I devour them!  To even dab off the grease would lessen the experience!  When I prepare the sandwich, I do not attempt to disguise the flavor or justify the calories with anything remotely wholesome.  I don’t reach for the lite bread; I don’t cheapen the ritual by masquerading the red-and-white ribboned flesh with any tomatoes or lettuce or anything so lean and healthful.  Instead, I layer and crisscross the greasy bacon onto the bread so that not one bite will be skimpier or less than the other.  

Habitually, I set aside one slice of bacon for the end of my bacchanalia.  Then I inhale the sandwich.  I don’t savor or ration – just inhale.  And when I’m done and feeling just a tiny bit sad because the feast has come to a close, I remember I still have one piece left – one fried, crunchy and chewy, lard-filled piece of pig left to stimulate my nostrils, to caress my lips, to tease my tongue, and satisfy my rounded, pooching belly. There is an art to indulging.

I admit to the necessity of at times living ordinarily, but the bacon sandwich would not be as enticing if I were to eat one every day. Instead of a tantalizing treat, it would be a routine meal, a fattening one at that! It’s a simple rebuttal: for the most part, we live our lives as routine and without savor, not meeting the needs of our soul. But we have those instances when they are anything but routine, when they are sublime, and those are the moments that sustain us during the rote present, become fond memories for recollection, and fuel our expectations for the future.

I also posit that those who live the fullest lives find the gifts of sublime in the small nuances of life as well as the grand adventures. I make a conscious effort to practice being one of those who can routinely recognize and be grateful for the extraordinary in the ordinary and master the art of living well.

Please share an extraordinary ordinary moment or occurrence that you’ve experienced.