So I’m sitting around at eleven o’clock at night and I’ve just finished the latest edit of my eighteen page fantasy short story called “Stalking Justice,” and I’m hungry. I rummage around in the refrigerator and I pull out a package of Italian sausages and dump a pair of them into the frying pan. Okay, I didn’t bother finding a frying pan – I found a cheap aluminum tray and slapped it on the stove. It works just as well.
Anyway, I turn the heat on seven (out of ten) and start cooking it. After it starts to brown, I cut them into pieces. And then something strange starts to happen. The sausages start smoking. Not talking a few little wisps of smoke either. Think chimney. Of course, being a guy, I’m not going to turn down the heat. I’m not sure what I was thinking. Maybe I thought that the meat would run out of smoke or something. Didn’t happen.
After I had a hard time seeing around in my tiny kitchen, I had the bright idea to turn on the ceiling fan. Worked too – at least it spread the smoke around. I opened up a few of the pieces of sausage and they were still red in the middle, though a dark brown or black on the outside. Still, I let it smoke till I was sure that a bleary-eyed neighbor, looking outside, saw smoke pouring out of every crevice in the house, and called for a five-alarm fire house response.
At that point, I gave up on the frying. I punched in four hundred degrees on the oven and cooked the meat for thirty minutes while I watched Supernatural on Netflix. Halfway through the show I had to calm my wife down and assure her that the house, in fact, was not burning down.
Next time, I think I’ll just bake them.