Because he got a professional smoker for his birthday (and because I chose to indulge him with an industrial meat grinder), Chef is learning to make sausage.
And because he is learning to make sausage, this means we’re about to have a bunch of salami hanging from the rafters in the basement.
And yes, we have four cats.
And because he is learning to make sausage, this means we have sausage casings all over the house.
And by “sausage casings” I mean “pig intestines”.
And by “all over the house”, I mean “in the bottom drawer of the fridge” and “hanging from the rafters in the basement”, which is more than enough.
I’d be vegetarian again if I could — except for the homemade, local, delicious, chorizo sausage thing — just to avoid the phrase “pig intestine”, i.e. “sausage casing”, i.e. “Fuck! Where are the cats?”, in daily conversation.
He can hang the sausages at my house!!! I only have two cats.
re: “hang the sausage at my house”
is that what they’re calling it these days?
e.g.: “he can hang the sausage at my house anytime!!”
i find it rather sad and alarming that there are sausages being made at your house and you are thinking “where are the cats?” it’s kind of like when my friend had a rented wood chipper in his back yard, and even though he never let it out of his sight, he found himself wondering “where’s my daughter?” every two minutes.
When I read “professional smoker”, I imagined some sultry denizen of 1950s cigarette ads, bobbed hair falling over one eye, fishnet stockings, drawing on the fag with aplomb.
I have many “f*** where’s the dog?” moments when I have forgotten to sprinkle our bin contents with household bleach. One of our dogs should be called “Raider”.