Once my dad taught us how to make stoves from coffee cans. We sat on the cement steps overlooking the back yard on a sunny summer day and strategically cut little doors in our cans with tinsnips. The top of the can where it was rolled over itself in preparation for a lid was always the hardest part for us to get through, our small hands and his big tools. We’d make to cuts down the sides of the can til we hit the first groove rolled into the metal as a strengthener and we couldn’t muscle through any longer. He’d finish the cut and made it look so easy, like cutting snowflakes from paper. We poked some holes around the now inverted can, making sure the exhaust didn’t project towards us when we started our little twig fires underneath. Excitedly, we darted off in search of leaves and sticks and anything that a young mind finds burnable.
Rushing back to the steps with arms full of consumables, we each stacked little piles of wood like old men preparing for a blizzard. The click of the propane torch as he set off each of our metal sheathed pyres, the smoke wispy and thin at first but growing in intensity as our fires took hold. It took a while for the paint to burn off while we tended our sacred sources of heat. When the top of the can was seared clean by the flames, we allowed the now hearty pile of coals to do the heavy lifting for us. We slipped bacon from its wrapping and smelled its smokiness as we hurriedly nestled it on our little cooktops. While it’s easy for a kid to get a bit overzealous at this point, it’s critical to make sure to not overcrowd since the rendered fat needs an avenue for departure and burning up your stove limits your breakfast options. Taking care to appropriately tend the fire and keep watch over the bacon become paramount from this point on. Silence fell amongst us as we ceremoniously placed twigs in the fire and turned bacon with forks, the smoke twisting and writhing between our faces. Soon the smell of our succulent success was overwhelming to our noses and we started sniping the crispy bits around the edges, bacon grease slipping down our chins. Being mindful not to burn our porcine treasures, we set them in paper towels and proceeded to the main event, eggs sunny side up. With all the care and devotion that an eight year old could muster, we carried cold eggs from the fridge out into the bright morning light. They almost instantaneously became covered with condensation in the humid air, droplets of summer racing down their sides as we cracked them into the now smoking puddle of bacon fat. Looking at each other with eyes wide with excitement as the eggs popped and snapped and crackled in the terrific heat, we anticipated their salty, runny yolk. As the whites began to set, a frantic rush to make the transition to plates ensued. Taking care not to rupture the golden orbs floating upon billowy whites, puffed up and glistening, we slid spatulas under and lifted them into the sun, fat dripping onto the concrete. The sounds of boys eating bacon and eggs on a Tuesday morning in June filled the air, jesting the young day with fervent carelessness.