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The Sausage Incident
May. 31st, 2009 03:54 pm![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
gameboyguy13 came home from Vegas (yay AF! I'm glad it went so well for you guys this year!) and since airplanes and trains on the same day are cranky-making, and also since ursamajor and hyounpark were in town, it was as good as any for an excuse to meet up and have fun. (More on that later.) Since I am a heretic who doesn't believe in breakfast food, and I also have the disconcerting habit of eating nearly the same thing almost every day for weeks on end, it was necessary to get things such as cereal and milk for the JD. (I also don't suffer lactose well.) I also picked up a half-dozen spicy Italian sausages, on the grounds that hey, I do like sausage. (JD was not a taker as there had been many too many hot dogs in his recent past, plus, he was still suffering from the effects of overindulgence in spirits on the previous day.) (On the way out of the Trader Joe's parking lot, I identified my aunt's SUV by its license plate, and waved like crazy. This doesn't happen often.)
Upon getting up in the morning and deciding it might be time for breakfast, yeah, I decided to start the sausages, and dumped them in the frying pan and turned it on. (It was turned on high.) I promptly forgot to turn it to low, but assumed that I had, because I'd meant to, and skittered for the bathroom to See To Female Needs and put on some clothings.
The Female Needs were rather more ... dire ... than I'd thought, and required cleaning products as well as feminine products. I started to smell something that might be the sausages, and scurried through the rest of the cleanup and threw my nightgown back on rather than bother dressing and raced back to the kitchen.
Happly, there were no flames. However, the sausages in the frying pan had begun to billow alarming amounts of smoke. JD was still happily immersed in his computer, and hadn't noticed a thing. As I rather hurriedly told JD to open the door, not that one, the glass one, the smoke alarm went off.
I stood there in my faded and ink-spotted pink nightgown, working the front door like a bellows to clear the worst of the sausage smoke from the apartment, the smoke alarm still blaring, JD jumping at the smoke detector, fanning at it, wearing his glasses and a pair of boxers. Someone, I believe my upstairs neighbor, popped around and asked whether everything was all right.
It was, I assured him, and "just a sausage incident."
JD, in plain view of the door, turned colors.
Once the smoke cleared, I finished cooking the sausages. They were tasty, aside from the burned bits.
