Do you want to know how I know that my marriage is more secure than yours? It’s really very simple.

Before your wife kisses you, there’s the chance she’ll push you away, reach into her purse, and don flavored lip gloss. That’s nice. She cares, and she’s proving her care. But true love goes further. Pulling my wife closer for a kiss, she halts the advance, goes to the refrigerator, steals and eats a few slices of cold but cooked bacon, and then returns for the kiss.

Indeed, love is a wife’s kindly kiss. True love is a wife’s bacon-flavored kiss. Such intimacy emerges from a marital sphere that not only knows bacon makes everything better but that it’s an assuring baseline of that love’s authenticity. She makes it for me. I make it for her. This means if either of true love’s participants ever rejected bacon’s allure, it could be a sign the marriage has experienced an unknown fracture.

By way of unfortunate example, not long ago, while she was cooking some bacon in preparation for dinnertime BLTs, Jennifer asked if I wanted a slice. On my way to the garage to retrieve some tools, I said no. As soon as I said it, I stopped. I knew what I’d just miscommunicated. I turned to look at her. She was already examining me.

Is our marriage okay? Does he not love me anymore? Maybe it’s not even him. Are body snatchers real? Who is this man?

Yes, I’m real. And, of course, I love her. Self-bewildered and concerned for her certainty, I immediately course-corrected and said, “Yes, dear wife, for whom my love reaches deeper than this world’s oceans, I’d like some bacon.”

She gave me two slices, just to be safe. I ate them. She watched unblinking. I chewed and savored them. They were delicious. I smiled and thanked her. She was reassured. I was glad. I rejoined my trip to the garage.

Come to think of it, maybe bacon isn’t the only stability indicator in our relationship. If she ever offered me a whiskey and I refused it, she’d likely demonstrate the same bacon-type concerns. She’d wonder if I was becoming someone different—a man she could no longer love, a man who no longer loved her.

The thing is, I have refused whisky on a handful of occasions, but usually only because worship was about to begin or because it was Scoresby. There are a few I’ve nearly refused but didn’t, some to my regret and others to my relief. The Pig’s Nose Blended Scotch Whisky is one I initially refused but am glad I eventually tried. I did not try it because of some existential relationship between pigs and bacon, but because it was a gift, and because the one who gave it insisted, “It is cheap but good.”

By “good,” he meant it’s better than most bottom-shelf whiskies. By “better,” he meant it’s not just a mixer. It’s a stand-alone dram worthy of an occasional sip. He was right.

There’s an initial sour in a freshly opened bottle’s first sniff. But it only lasts a moment. It is non-existent in the glass. A swirl and snort there gives nectarines. Another insists the nectarines are salted. A sip confirms the seasoned fruit and adds a strange back-and-forth between smoked toffee and lime—which is weird. Although it’s a pleasant weirdness, the kind that makes a “Meh” into “That was surprisingly nice.”

The finish is short. The lime becomes spiced lemons. Perhaps this is related to the initial sour? Either way, it’s an enticing thing—like bacon-flavored kisses from my wife.

Come to think of it, maybe bacon and whisky aren’t relationship indicators but relatively fool-proof ingredients for the perfect marriage. Well, for mine, that is. I suppose everyone else can settle for regular lip gloss.