Sausage Sunday

Get your minds out of the gutter, people. I quite literally mean sausage.

I thought, by moving into the basement of a row house from a regular apartment building, that I had abandoned all kinds of things. For example, the pounding of a neighbor's music. Or the creepy guys down the hall. The skeevy, but generous, offers to smoke pot on a Tuesday night. The broken elevators. The long trips to the laundry room. And the unavoidable penetrating smells of ethnic food.

Yay. I had made it to the luxurious world of "the English basement."

Things were going somewhat well (aside from the horrible cult nomad couple above me)... until about three weeks ago. I didn't realize this last year, but, despite the privacy of this apartment, there is one place I failed to consider as a conduit for noise and smell. The frickin' fireplace.

During these past few weeks I've awoken to the smell of various pork products. This is not a horrible thing I guess. There are worse smells. And I love sausage. I also love bacon, fyi. But there is a time and a place for these things. For example, bangers and mash, the BLT, etc. Do I want to wake up to the smell of the greasy American breakfast every morning? No! I appreciate these foods, but come on, people. I eat Kashi for breakfast. Maybe the occasional muffin. The smell of fried meat at 7 am doesn't exactly give me the warm fuzzies.

So now I'm thinking, do I just sit by and let sausage control my life? Do I let pork products win? I am stronger than the pig, by God. And I will overcome. In retaliation, I will cook curry. I will cook fish. And I will saute garlic. And, by the end of all this aromatic cooking, everyone will want to be my friend.