Never Fry Naked

I have been a VERY busy girl. thus, my slacking in updating this diary..as most of you have noticed, and alerted myself, my family members, and anyone else who may be following along with me. Believe me when I say that you have not been forgotten. I have not lost interest in keeping this diary, and I am very grateful for all of your encouragement.

The truth is, being an unemployed 22 year old is a messy job. Literally. Between scrubbing the cupboards and floors of my house, and trying to continue looking for jobs, I have been driving up to visit Shawn's mom on weekends, trying to discover new things to cook, painting, unpacking etc. etc. Yesterday I even walked down to the local cookie shop and bought enough black and white cookies, calnolies and tarts to stuff a pig. It's a hard job, but someone has to do it. And besides, the pay's not too great.

Back to the topic at hand, however. Let me begin by saying that in order to fry ANYTHING, one should wear the following attire:

1. A full ski mask. Better yet, one of those welding masks that shields your entire face.
2. Large flame retardant gloves, preferably that cover everything up to your elbows. If these are too pricey, oven mitts will do just fine.
3. a hooded sweatshirt to be worn under the above stated articles.
4. Pants. Not shorts, not capris. Pants.
5. Boots.

No, I did not fry anything in my birthday suit, although, scalding my hands with molten hot oil has taught me this lesson in advance...had my common sense alert failed to warn me of such things in the future.

Tonight, after Shawn left for class, I decided to play the house wife roll and have dinner waiting for him when he got home. I also planned to bake sugar cookies. My intentions were for him to walk in the door, take a deep breath, and feel the plethora of flavors dance upon his senses. I planned out my meal:

1. Mild Italian Sausage sauteed with garlic.
2. Pasta with Alfredo sauce.
3. Baked yams with cinnamon, vanilla and nutmeg.
4. Sugar cookies.

I had made the yams for my lunch, so those were taken care of. The pasta and Alfredo was easy enough, but I had never cooked a large sausage. Small, breakfast sausages, or chopped up sausages, yes. Large, Italian sausages, however, were a new addition to my cooking repetuar.

I pulled out my non-stick frying pan and added in my sausages. I placed my heat on low. My sausages weren't making a sound. No simmer, no crack. Silence. I added in my garlic. Still nothing. I thought to myself "Maybe I need some olive oil.." I added it, accordingly. There was a soft crackle that began. Content with myself, I walked to the fridge to pour a glass of juice. Apple. My favorite. Suddenly, my pan erupted into a symphony of popping, snapping, and spitting...spitting flaming hot oil everywhere. Including on me. Don't fret. I'm wounded, but alive. Any horrific scarring that my hands undoubtably have coming in their future from the grease splatters will simply make me tougher, and allow me to educate those younger than myself about grease safety. (p.s. does sarcasm come across through text?)


Needless to say, my sausages turned out perfect, my pasta, although in need of a little seasoning, was superb, and the rest never got touched. Shawn was a very happy, very grateful camper. My kitchen, however....

Tomorrow's duties include scrubbing my kitchen ceiling, floor, stove top, and counters, and trying to get my parents to send me a splash screen.