The splatter of cancerous vegetable oil splattered in the electric frying pan as mom dipped the white bread into whipped eggs in a separate bowl. After the gluten infested bread soaked up the eggs, her bare hands picked up the pieces and threw it onto its new home. The transformation to French toast caused a gurgling in my stomach. Part two of her magical creation was crisping bacon. As she separated each slice, I prayed that they remained whole. I hated when things broke apart—my controlling personality was forming. Part three entailed American cheese smashed against the French toast with the almost burnt bacon lodged between the potential mana from heaven result. I wonder if the Jewish acceptance of eating the forbidden pork is rationalized away by it being charred. As if burning removed the guilt and sin. Flipping the sandwich to ensure all the ingredients melded together was the final touch to ensure my taste buds were on the way to the stratosphere.