Sausages

I cooked sausages last night. I tried a new method with the oven grill. A new method, that is, for me, you know, instead of frying them. In my enthusiasm I even got the oven handbook out to make sure I understood the grill settings. I put them in and killed time by playing guitar. I checked on them about seven minutes later intent on turning them over to ensure even cooking, but found that one side was incinerated beyond recovery and looked like space modules that had tried to enter the Earth’s atmosphere without the benefit of a heat shield!

I pulled the tray from the oven and immediately two smoke alarms went off with that banshee screaming sound that sets your nerves on edge and makes the neighbours think you are sacrificing a lamb or something, but are too worried to check on what’s happening in case you are indulging in some ancient ritual and they don’t want to impinge on your rights. 

Anyway, I flapped at the smoke alarms (which were in two separate locations but had now tuned to one another’s frequency like some demented version of a rock choir on hard narcotics) with a tea towel in an attempt to silence their high-pitched cacophony, when what I should have done was shut the oven door where black smoke was belching into my home like George’s dragon in its death throes. Eventually, I silenced the screeching, opened a couple of windows and turned my attention to rescuing the sausages. 

Rescuing was, perhaps, optimistic and probably inspired by the fact that the other side was still uncooked. I lowered the heat, put the tray down a shelf and crossed my fingers. No, the sausages didn’t improve. When I pulled them out of the oven some minutes later, they looked like the remnants of the incident in Pompeii - but I ate them anyway! A geezer that lives on his own and is hungry rarely has backup options!