We had bacon for breakfast.
This used to be a rare treat.
Like once-a-year rare.
But we decided we really liked bacon, and it would be reasonable to enjoy it in less modest moderation.
A long time ago, in the midst of recognizing and admitting our participation in the American Rat Race, my husband and I developed a theory that we came to affectionately call the “Three Fs” or “The Fat French Farmer.”
Our train of thought went something like this: Who is happier? Those of us who avoid bacon, alcohol, cheese, and carbs in an attempt to achieve perfect health and fitness, who worry about everything, from avoiding illness and physical limitation to attaining and achieving and acquiring things we can’t take with us when, one day–despite our best efforts–we die. Or, the French farmer who gets up early, eats a fat-laden breakfast, puts his hands in the dirt, works in the sun all day, smokes, and indulges in the pleasures of wine, food, love, and close friends, who doesn’t care about his cholesterol or his BMI or even knows to be worried about them. And–like the American in the hampster wheel–one day, he too dies.
And who avoided dying?
We forget about the Three Fs too often
and run on the wheel too much.
Once in awhile–especially on days we have bacon–we make a new commitment to embrace our theory of the Three Fs, to be the Fat French Farmer who enjoys hard work, delicious food, ample wine, sun-kissed skin, generosity of spirit, and the love of those with whom he surrounds himself.
This is living.
Copyright 2013. © Christina Caine. All rights reserved.