Burnt sausage

Shhh! Just between you and me, Ned’s on a secret mission to the northern hemisphere. I’m not saying that Shag is involved, but let’s just say that it involves secret caches of Maketu Pies behind enemy lines. To cover my undercover moments, I’ve selected a few choice moments from the Road To Redemption.

Originally published 14 July 2011

MrsDavy is not a Burnt Sausage person.  Her phrase, not mine.

Which is to say, early in our marriage, she made it clear that, if she burnt a sausage or two whilst cooking dinner, that they would end up on my plate, not hers.

I, on the other hand, am a Burnt Sausage person.  When I’m serving up, I’ll make sure that I give myself the least of the offering, in quality if not quantity.

Whence the difference?  To be fair to MrsDavy (which I always strive to be, of course), her position is a political statement more than a selfish one.  Not for her the submissive cringe of keeping her man happy by giving him the best of everything at the expense of her own welfare.  Oh no.

Whereas my approach is one of economics.  If you will have to suffer the burnt sausage, you will take more care not to burn it in the first place.  And now I am training the LittleDavys that sausages must be cooked slowly and gently, so that they do not swell and burst, and the inside comes to moist perfection just as the skin is turning a luscious simmering brown.

Which is all well and good until I am required to barbecue for SisterClare, who will only eat burnt sausages.  The blacker the better.  She claims she got a taste for them early on, thanks to Dad’s style of throwing everything on the barbie as soon as the fire was at inferno level. 

Which is ironic, really, because she’s not a Burnt Sausage type either.

About Ned Davy

By hokey, the big fella’s tipped into his 50s. A rangy loose forward in his prime, good with the ball in hand, but rarely up with the play any more.
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