In the days after my daughter was born, my husband made for me what I can only describe as the best BLT in all of existence. It was mid-July, and he’d carefully selected a juicy heirloom tomato from the farmer’s market. The bacon was thick and smoky, nearly a meal unto itself. The bread? Impossibly crusty, scraping the roof of my mouth in the best kind of way. A generous heap of raw alfalfa sprouts, forbidden for months to my pregnant self, added an herbal crunch, while slivers of avocado lent divine creaminess. A tangy slathering of In-n-Out-inspired “secret sauce” brought it together.
I devoured the whole thing while perched atop my Boppy pillow—I still needed a cushion under my bum at all times—and cried. It was just. So. Good.
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