Friday, December 11, 2009
On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me two sausages and Lubomir Visnovsky.
I'm just finishing up a sausage from John, my friendly neighbourhood sausage guy. He cuts a fine figure with his cap, his mustache and his charming European accent.
I always get the Polish sausage. Throw a little corn relish on there and I'm ready to go.
I ask for it and he always smiles:
Polish Polish, yessir. No box!
No sir, no box.
When I was a single man living on the Island in my apartment I would have sausages for lunch and sausages for supper. Fry em up, yes sir. Eat them right out of the pan. Alternate that with a fry up of ground beef and onions.
Of course the entire triplex reeked of my culinary masterpieces and I forever suffered from a pretty good case of bad gas.
Oh well. If I had a last meal planned a steak would probably be tops on the list or maybe bacon and eggs. And lamb. I fucking love lamb, those little wooly bastards taste so good. But a good old sausage on a bun and a beer sits right up there.
Posted by Black Dog at 2:05 PM