You had me at "blanket of bacon"

Let's just say that the recipe had me at "wrapped in a blanket of bacon." I do not enjoy cooking but am not particularly fond of starving. I am not independently wealthy enough to eat out every night and cereal only goes so far. So...occasionally, I find myself dabbling in the culinary arts.

"You have an entire repertoire of meals that I like," Brad repeated miserably as the week-long build-up of my bacon-wrapped meatloaf began. "Your chili is outstanding. Venison strudel...stuffed shells...breaded porkchops...we love those meals." He watched unhappily as I darted around the grocery store, rooting out my ingredients. I couldn't blame his trepidation. I'd once baked his holiday ham in its shrink-wrapped plastic. Giving oven-baked chicken wings a try, they'd congealed into an inedible poultry-geist. My last batch of potato soup had morphed into a solid accessible only by the sturdiest of wooden spoons to ratchet it out of the pan. Brad Mosiman had real reason to fear. But not THIS time!

As usual, part of the problem was the build-up. Expectations were WAY too high (Mine...NOT my family's). I sauteed peppers and onions. Yum! With baggies protecting my hands from actually having to touch raw meat, I squeezed the ground beef, venison, and pork sausage into a rectangular-ish shape. I layed out the vegetables, a ton of mozzarella and then began the process of rolling this monstrosity into a loaf. "It's time for the blanket of bacon," I called out. My reluctant audience watched as I wrestled our precious bacon around a loaf of meat. Doesn't it sound appetizing already?!? "Such a waste," Sydney muttered, "Like a concert pianist playing Happy Birthday at a rest-stop Burger King."

I set my timer for the required twenty minutes. Ding! I rushed to remove its protective covering of foil and set the timer again for the required thirty minutes. Ding! Hmmmm....the bacon didn't seem quite done yet. "Is the oven on?" Brad asked helpfully, peering over my shoulder at what was supposed to be his dinner. I set the timer for an extra twenty minutes. Ding. The bacon was a bit browner but still pretty floppy. "Maybe it browned from age," Sydney suggested. I boosted the heat. Added another ten minutes to the timer. Ding. "Don't say a word, " I warned, glaring down at the brown noodle-like stripes blanketing my loaf of meat. I yanked the dial up to broil. Set the timer...again. Ding. The bacon was burnt on top and still practically raw underneath. I didn't care. I cut into the loaf and almost cried as I looked at the uncooked middle of my meat. I set the timer for thirty minutes. Ding.

"What do you think," Brad asked as, with hand shaking, I lifted my fork to my mouth. I fought back my gag reflex and choked out, "This is the best meatloaf I have ever eaten." Brad carefully sorted the burned bacon into one pile and raw bacon into another before beginning the delicate process of separating the cooked parts of his meal from the sections that had the potential of killing him. I glared at his dramatics. "Some people are just glad to have food," I snapped at him. "I'll just be glad if I don't get Salmonella," he replied. I was done (even if the meatloaf wasn't). I stomped off, crawling into bed to wrap myself in a blanket of...blankets. I didn't come out until the following morning. Ding.