One thing about living in a 19th century townhouse renovated cheaply to accommodate two apartments on every floor, with poorly installed dry wall and lousy ducts, is that you can...smell the other people.
And we have quite neutral-smelling neighbours.
But if they cooking - like the new tenant who always burns garlic in a lot of oil, or if they are smoking, or using air freshener or incense, and don't have open windows or doors. The pothead on the ground floor moved out a while ago. I think they are spared our cooking smells, as we're on the top floor, so only our landing-neighbour will suffer.
But I digress.
This morning it was bacon. Which was just unreasonable. It's Thursday! What hedonist eats bacon on a Thursday? Thursday's Child has Far to Go (I was born on a Thursday and find them troubling, in general). Bacon is for Saturdays, when no one is going anywhere.
Someone broke the rules.
I actually went to the freezer and stared at the apple wood bacon, there.
I thought about it. Then I pulled myself together.
I reached for the Mazzola's loaf of bread I bought last night (it's the bakery from Moonstruck, down the road [see comments!!]) and made Moonstruck eggs.
Sweet revenge. Straight flush.
I've been told I have a poker face.