Where there’s smoke, there’s sausage

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.


About daemankale

I've been writing off and on for twenty years. I primarily enjoy fantasy and science fiction, but I also enjoy the occasional thriller or mystery. I've lived in Hawaii, Utah, Colorado and Thailand. In the end, I believe it's a commitment to write, not chasing after a trend or blind luck that creates success.
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