Bacon Mac n’ Cheese

The first thing Father Tristan Greene did after locking the rectory door was set a pot of water on the stove.

Not tea.

Not coffee.

Tonight called for something heavier.

He reached into the refrigerator, retrieved a packet of thick-cut bacon, and laid the strips carefully into a cast-iron skillet. The familiar hiss filled the quiet kitchen almost immediately.

Normal.

Predictable.

Blessedly ordinary.

He loosened his Roman collar, rubbed at the red marks it had left on his neck, and watched the bacon slowly surrender its fat.

Outside, rain tapped softly against the stained-glass windows of St. Augustine's rectory.

Inside, only the crackling skillet spoke.

After eight hours of confronting something determined to convince every person in that room they were failures, the silence was welcome.

Father Tristan Greene, O.Carm., had assisted in thirty-seven solemn exorcisms.

He had learned long ago that Hollywood got almost everything wrong.

There were no rooms that exploded.

People rarely levitated.

Heads did not spin.

Instead...

There was exhaustion.

Hours of Scripture.

Hours of prayer.

Hours of waiting.

Hours of discerning whether one was witnessing illness, deception, trauma, or genuine preternatural influence.

The Church moved slowly because it had to.

Today's case had been genuine.

He wished it hadn't been.

The meeting afterward had lasted almost as long as the rite itself.

Every exorcism concluded with a debriefing.

No exceptions.

Father Lance Lake chaired the discussion.

Father Galen Hadaway, S.J., meticulously reviewed procedure.

Sister Mary Therese made notes regarding the medical observations.

A psychiatrist reviewed behavioral changes.

The attending physician discussed vital signs.

The psychologist highlighted possible emotional aftereffects for both the afflicted woman and the team.

Nobody left until everyone agreed on precisely what had happened.

No sensationalism.

No ghost stories.

Only facts.

"How did everyone hold up?"

"I noticed increased agitation after Psalm Ninety-One."

"Did anyone experience intrusive thoughts afterward?"

"Remember to sleep."

"Eat."

"Hydrate."

"Don't isolate."

Practical advice.

Father Tristan appreciated practical advice.

The bacon reached perfection.

He transferred it onto paper towels.

The rendered fat remained.

Waste not.

He added butter.

Then flour.

Whisked.

Milk.

Slowly.

Patiently.

Exactly as he'd learned from his grandmother.

Cooking and liturgy had something in common.

Rush either one and the results suffered.

His phone buzzed.

Father Spencer Vale.

You alive?

Tristan smiled.

He typed back.

Physically.

A moment later—

Emotionally?

Making bacon mac and cheese.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

I'll take that as "working on it."

Correct.

He opened the cupboard.

Elbow macaroni.

Sharp cheddar.

Gruyère.

A little smoked paprika.

Garlic powder.

Mustard powder.

Fresh black pepper.

No measurements.

His grandmother had always laughed at recipes.

"Your ancestors survived empires without measuring spoons."

He could still hear the voice.

Not the woman's.

The other one.

It had spoken Greek.

Latin.

English.

Then languages no living scholar recognized.

It had known details from people's childhoods.

Private griefs.

Old sins.

Embarrassments.

Nothing supernatural about that by itself.

Demons were intelligent.

Not omniscient.

There was an important distinction.

People often forgot it.

The Rite itself reminded the priest repeatedly—

The enemy lied.

Constantly.

Even when speaking truths.

Especially then.

He stirred the cheese into the béchamel.

Golden.

Velvety.

Comfort in liquid form.

He snapped the bacon into rough pieces.

Folded everything together.

Steam rose like incense.

He almost laughed at the comparison.

Almost.

A knock.

Three short taps.

He didn't bother asking who it was.

"Come in."

Father Spencer entered carrying absolutely nothing.

"You cooked."

"I did."

"You called?"

"I texted."

"Same difference."

Spencer inhaled dramatically.

"Oh, that's magnificent."

"You smelled bacon from across the courtyard?"

"I've been a priest for twenty years."

"That's not an answer."

"It's a gift."

Neither man spoke while bowls were filled.

The first bite disappeared.

Second.

Third.

Only then—

"Bad one?"

Tristan nodded.

"Yeah."

"Worst this year?"

"...Probably."

Spencer waited.

Silence, Tristan had discovered, was another sacrament.

"I always forget," Tristan finally said.

"What?"

"How tired it makes you."

"The prayers?"

"No."

"The vigilance."

He searched for words.

"You can't let your attention drift for even a second."

Spencer nodded.

"Like standing watch."

"Exactly."

"If fear gets in..."

"It spreads."

"And if pride gets in?"

Tristan smiled weakly.

"It spreads faster."

Rain intensified.

Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the hills.

The kitchen lights flickered.

Both priests looked up instinctively.

Then laughed.

"We're hopeless," Spencer said.

"We're observant."

"We're paranoid."

"Occupational hazard."

Tristan leaned back.

"My grandmother used to make this."

"The mac?"

"Whenever someone died."

Spencer blinked.

"I expected soup."

"So did everyone else."

"She'd say"—Tristan smiled despite himself—"'People bring casseroles because they're polite. I make bacon because grief already tastes terrible.'"

Spencer laughed so hard he nearly dropped his fork.

"That's brilliant."

"She was."

The laughter faded.

"It worked."

"The rite?"

Tristan nodded.

"I think so."

"You think?"

"We never celebrate immediately."

"No."

"There'll be observation."

"Follow-up."

"Medical evaluations."

"Prayer."

They had repeated those words together enough times they no longer needed to finish each other's sentences.

The Church believed in certainty earned slowly.

Spencer looked around the quiet kitchen.

"You know..."

"What?"

"I think this room has seen more healing than the infirmary."

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"How many difficult conversations happened here?"

"Hundreds."

"Confessions over coffee."

"Yes."

"Vocations discerned over burnt toast."

"...Unfortunately."

"Teachers crying into tea."

"Several."

"Students discovering priests can actually cook."

"We're lowering expectations."

The rain eased.

The kitchen settled into comfortable silence once again.

Later.

Much later.

After Spencer had gone.

After dishes were washed.

After leftovers had been packed into containers for tomorrow's lunch.

After the skillet had been cleaned and dried.

Tristan stood alone before the sink.

The rectory was asleep.

The church beyond the wall was dark.

His body still ached.

His throat felt raw from hours of prayer.

His shoulders carried the peculiar fatigue that came from remaining spiritually alert for an entire day.

He knew sleep would come eventually.

Not immediately.

Eventually.

He poured himself one final glass of water.

No dramatic prayers.

No speeches.

Just a quiet grace whispered into the empty kitchen.

"For peace."

He switched off the lights.

The room disappeared into darkness, carrying with it the lingering scent of cheddar, black pepper, and bacon.

Tomorrow there would be classes to teach, essays to grade, teenagers to remind that Latin verbs mattered more than they believed, and perhaps another call from the bishop's office.

Tomorrow would bring whatever God allowed it to bring.

Tonight, there had been one successful exorcism.

One honest conversation.

One shared meal.

Sometimes, Father Tristan reflected, grace looked less like thunder from heaven and more like a cast-iron skillet, a good recipe remembered by heart, and enough bacon mac and cheese for two priests who needed reminding that even after confronting extraordinary darkness, God still met His servants in wonderfully ordinary things.