Tonight I was able to get home before Chuck went to work, which I hadn't thought would happen. But it meant sacrificing my daily romp through the hallowed aisles of a grocery store Chuck refers to as The Mold Factory -- for good reason. I hoped there was a box of Annie's Mac hiding in the pantry, so I didn't have to settle for Peppermint Patties sauteed in envelope glue. Then! Then I remembered two fat links of andouille sausage brats, left over from last night's dinner. They were the delicious, meaty stars, shining in the vinegar scented sludge of a mediocre meal.
Oh, Gah. Cue saliva.
The one thing standing between me and those sausages: The other adult in the house who would also be wondering what Iams Weight Control Cat Food would taste like served in a cereal bowl with two heaping tablespoons of sugar. When I got home, the sausage were safe. I checked, quietly closing the refrigerator door like it was a precious figurine of, perhaps, a figure skater mid twirl, marks in the shape of an 8 cutting into the fresh snow, her skirt billowed like a tutu and cheeks rosy. Like I said: I quietly closed the refrigerator. I only had to hold my breath for 36 minutes and the brats would be safe.
Well, until they met my incisors.
I greeted my soul mate, hoping he forgot that scene in the kitchen last night when I'd wagged those weinies and said "Hey! Look! You can have these delicious andouille sausages for dinner tomorrow night. I won't be home! So much flavor! How lucky for you!"
31 minutes. Links status: Safe.
Now Chuck was freshly awake. Still on the coffee and pajama pants part of his daily routine. Sitting at his computer. He didn't look hungry. Maybe he wouldn't eat before work today. Maybe he morphed Vegan sometime between phases one and three of his sleep cycle. Maybe he was craving dry lentils and soy sauce.
I played round after round of Bejeweled Blitz, the red shapes reminding me of the sausages. The yellows reminding me of the dijon I was going to bathe them in. The purples, my urgent tongue.
Chuck went into the kitchen to make his lunch. I held my breath. It was 10 p.m. I had 8 minutes until go-time. I held my breath harder. And then:
"I'm just going to eat these last two sausages," he called from the kitchen. "Is that okay?"
My stomach was growling "Noooooooooo!!!!" But my mouth gulped the saliva I was prepping, and said "Oh. Kay." My voice weak. Like a character in a Charles Dickens novel.
"What?" Chuck said.
"Go ahead," I said. Rewind. Cue up that scene from last night in the kitchen again. That perky cheerleader voice saying "Hey! You can have the left over sausages for dinner tomorrow night." Stupid cheerleader. Stupid perky.
He put them on a plate. Heated them up in the microwave. The entire house began to smell of perfectly tanned andouille hide. He came back into the Red Room. Forked what I imagine to be a glistening hunk of meat into his mouth. I could feel that delectable moment where the sausage squirts a stream of liquid. Did he lick his lips? Did he free a hunk from his molar with his tongue? He pushed the fork into another piece. I couldn't watch. I averted my eyes. It was like Edgar A. Poe meets Hitchcock meets Cronenberg meets my stomach -- caterwauling like Toonses when we forget to sprinkle his food with Aderall.
It was brutal. The kiss before he left for work was the worst. His lips tasted awesome. They should make chapstick from that junk. He's lucky I'm not flossing lip out of my teeth right now.
Some of you are probably wondering why I didn't claim one of those sausages. There were two. One, I knew, wouldn't be enough. Not for him. Certainly not for me.
Whatever. I found some prosciutto in the crisper, two eggs and some Feta. That was pretty good, too.