apple juice

We’re all packed, ready for the flight out. We had one last good American breakfast. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, hash browns. The grease is oozing out of my pores.

I’ll never forget the time Bert and I went camping with the Swedes in the arctic circle. We were told to pack food for the trip, and Bert and I thought, bacon?

We scoured the local market for some bacon–

“Is this bacon? The pork product?”

“I don’t know, looks like it…”

“Will it stay cold?”

“We’re going to the arctic circle!”

“Oh yeah”

So we packed our bacon, drove hours and hours north, and shivered ourselves to sleep in the howling arctic winds.

The next morning, as we groggily awoke, (hours after the swedes, it seemed), we unpacked the frying pan and tossed in the bacon.

Pandemonium erupted from swedish contingent. “What is that, bacon?” They said. “That is a dinner meal!” “Why did you pack bacon all the way up here?” they wondered aloud.  Pictures were taken, additional mockery ensued, but as we made our way up the mountain, wondering exactly how far a “swedish mile” is, bellies full of yummy, yummy bacon, we were content with our breakfast selection.