My dear, sweet mother has been putting up with my cooking blunders since grade school. However, after years of practice I though I had left my careless ways and had graduated to master chef who never messes up. But marriage seems to bring out old habits. The fact that I can't even cook a toaster pastry with out burning it has me a bit frazzled.
Just this week I was preparing a spinach pasta dish that called for Italian sausage. I took the links from the package, and cutting them into half inch slices, tossed them in my wok. However, the sausage had a skin I failed to remove which started to shrink from the heat. I began to notice when all my happy sausages were looking more like a marshmallow with a string tied in the middle, slowly squeezing it in two rather that tasty pig morsels. I turned off the heat and sat the pan off the burner. I had thought the skin was edible but due to recent developments I was quickly concocting suspicions. I stabbed one with a clean fork and blew on it for a moment before plopping it into my mouth. As my molars worked and gridded down on my victimized sample I discovered that, while the meat was breaking apart in my mouth, the skin could not be torn nor (I suspect) dissolved with the most acidic toxin. When the sausage had cooled just enough for me to handle it, I took my little fingers and pulled the ring of skin off each little bite. . . one by one. . . The night of cooking disasters didn't end there. Luckily, I have a very patient husband who didn't say anything when dinner was two hours late.