Delta40
10-07-2011, 09:08 PM
I don't know what it is about me and sausages. No matter how I try, they always burn and smoke out my house. Sometimes, they trigger the smoke alarm in the hallway and then I have to get the broom and use the handle tip to deactivate it. It's weird. Let me toss in chops, steak, chicken and everyone says what a great cook I am. But sausages are my downfall in life.
When I was a child I watched some sizzle in the pan while my mum talked on the phone. Back then, they were called bangers. Sure enough, that's exactly what they did. Hot, searing fat exploded across my face and for years afterward, I couldn't bear to eat sausages but my Mum didn't give me a choice.
Funny what financial hardship will drive you to. With my own kids mouths to feed, sausages made economic sense and they loved dipping the slim skinny snaggers in tomato sauce. But they were always black and crispy on the outside.
It wasn't until they got older that they appreciated the difference between burnt sausages and perfectly cooked ones.
'Mum can you not overcook those sausages?'
'I'll try.' And I always did. But whether I cooked them with a watchful eye or did other things while they sizzled away, burned, crunchy outer shells were the inevitable outcome. I guess they got teased at school when they opened their lunch box to reveal the congealed black log jammed between an apple and a peanut butter sandwich.
Now as young adults, they tease me because they cook sausages to a scrumptious amber brown without a second thought and lecture me on how its done.
'See? Just toss them around the pan a bit and keep the gas jet low and wallah!' They spill onto the paper towel in all their glory and I'm left to wonder if there is some abstract emotional reason for my shortcoming. I tell them that I don't care but I do because its such a silly little thing.
When I reflect upon obstacles I have overcome in my life as well as what I have achieved, being retarded over sausages annoys me. It sounds trivial and yet I have been unable to beat this minor setback in an otherwise successful life. I mean I get defensive about it too. I earn a good wage now so who the hell needs sausages anyway? We're not poor anymore so it makes sense to eat better quality, healthier meats. Lean cuts for example.
But sausages are as much part of their childhood as they are mine. I don't know what eating them reminds them of. Probably fond memories as I found 101 ways to serve them up. We used to cut them into chunks and pretend they were little people. A dob of mashed potato on top for hair and we giggled over the low budget meal. Even I smile in rememberance. But to reminisce about sausages further back than my own children, it is not so pleasant.
This morning I decided to give it another go. I turned them constantly over a low heat, just as my daughter instructed, eagerly anticipating when they would be cooked through to the centre. Then the phone rang. It was my mum with some priceless information.
'Woolies are throwing out bbq sausages for $1.99 a kilo this week so I picked up six trays. Will you be in later so I can drop a couple of them off?'
When the sausages exploded in my face, she swore while she cleaned me up with a wet cloth. Then for good measure, she smacked me square across my cheek for being so stupid as to stand on a chair looking down at a frying pan full of sausages.
'Hello? Are you there?' I snap out of my reverie back into a smoke filled room.
'Sure. That'll be great Mum. I'll see you when you get here.'
Back in the kitchen, it's too late to save the sausages. As usual, they've passed their cooking time and taken on the familiar black colour I know all too well. I'm disappointed but not surprised. So its back to opening windows and doors and keeping the broom at hand just in case.
As I put them in the fridge, I feel my cheeks tingle and am reminded of sausage fat and a sharp smack. Perhaps after my Mum has come and gone, sausages will never bother me again.
When I was a child I watched some sizzle in the pan while my mum talked on the phone. Back then, they were called bangers. Sure enough, that's exactly what they did. Hot, searing fat exploded across my face and for years afterward, I couldn't bear to eat sausages but my Mum didn't give me a choice.
Funny what financial hardship will drive you to. With my own kids mouths to feed, sausages made economic sense and they loved dipping the slim skinny snaggers in tomato sauce. But they were always black and crispy on the outside.
It wasn't until they got older that they appreciated the difference between burnt sausages and perfectly cooked ones.
'Mum can you not overcook those sausages?'
'I'll try.' And I always did. But whether I cooked them with a watchful eye or did other things while they sizzled away, burned, crunchy outer shells were the inevitable outcome. I guess they got teased at school when they opened their lunch box to reveal the congealed black log jammed between an apple and a peanut butter sandwich.
Now as young adults, they tease me because they cook sausages to a scrumptious amber brown without a second thought and lecture me on how its done.
'See? Just toss them around the pan a bit and keep the gas jet low and wallah!' They spill onto the paper towel in all their glory and I'm left to wonder if there is some abstract emotional reason for my shortcoming. I tell them that I don't care but I do because its such a silly little thing.
When I reflect upon obstacles I have overcome in my life as well as what I have achieved, being retarded over sausages annoys me. It sounds trivial and yet I have been unable to beat this minor setback in an otherwise successful life. I mean I get defensive about it too. I earn a good wage now so who the hell needs sausages anyway? We're not poor anymore so it makes sense to eat better quality, healthier meats. Lean cuts for example.
But sausages are as much part of their childhood as they are mine. I don't know what eating them reminds them of. Probably fond memories as I found 101 ways to serve them up. We used to cut them into chunks and pretend they were little people. A dob of mashed potato on top for hair and we giggled over the low budget meal. Even I smile in rememberance. But to reminisce about sausages further back than my own children, it is not so pleasant.
This morning I decided to give it another go. I turned them constantly over a low heat, just as my daughter instructed, eagerly anticipating when they would be cooked through to the centre. Then the phone rang. It was my mum with some priceless information.
'Woolies are throwing out bbq sausages for $1.99 a kilo this week so I picked up six trays. Will you be in later so I can drop a couple of them off?'
When the sausages exploded in my face, she swore while she cleaned me up with a wet cloth. Then for good measure, she smacked me square across my cheek for being so stupid as to stand on a chair looking down at a frying pan full of sausages.
'Hello? Are you there?' I snap out of my reverie back into a smoke filled room.
'Sure. That'll be great Mum. I'll see you when you get here.'
Back in the kitchen, it's too late to save the sausages. As usual, they've passed their cooking time and taken on the familiar black colour I know all too well. I'm disappointed but not surprised. So its back to opening windows and doors and keeping the broom at hand just in case.
As I put them in the fridge, I feel my cheeks tingle and am reminded of sausage fat and a sharp smack. Perhaps after my Mum has come and gone, sausages will never bother me again.