But one night, I was making BLTs -- and believe, as a high priest in the Church of the Sandwich, they were some knock-out BLTs. So the air is redolent with the whiff of cooking bacon.

I know. It's like you were there.

And my gentle little son comes in the kitchen and wonders what I'm cooking.
I look around -- "oh, I'm cooking bacon, for sandwiches," I said (he had never eaten it).
"can I try some," he wants to know.
I think of his mother, the mother of this dear little boy, as yet uncorrupted by the savory flesh of smoked pork, and what would she think? But I gave him a little bit of it.

He ate it.

And promptly wanted some more. I thought of his mother again, and realized, if I am going to lead him into this life of carnivorous sustenance, for both body and soul, I must almost give him some advice, or more like some context for the experience. I knelt down and looked him in the eye.

"When you go through life," I say to him, looking into his pure, guileless eyes, "you can take either the high road, or you can take the low road.
But the food is better on the low road."