Quickly, I learned to make sausage crescents. Really, there's nothing to them: brown sausage, add cream cheese, spoon in crescent rolls and bake. They are delish.
Sausage casserole, however, is just a bit more complicated. It's also Brian's very favorite meal. When it's his night to cook, you know he's going to cook sausage casserole. On several occasions, he's offered to teach me how to cook it. On several occasions, I politely decline. If I learn how to cook it, I'll have no excuse to not make it for him. Don't get me wrong. I like sausage casserole. I just don't like to eat it for every single meal.
This is where I messed up. Friday night, Daughter 2 requested sausage casserole for dinner. Brian promised to make it for her. He started the water boiling and the sausage browning, then he and Daughter 2 went out to practice their pitching.
As I stood in the kitchen wondering how it got to be so messy when we hadn't even been home most of the week, I stirred the sausage a little and added rice to the water and before I was fully aware of what was happening, I had put together a pan full of sausage casserole.
This meant that Brian would know my secret. He'd know I could cook it. There would be no end to his sausage casserole requests. I hung my head, disappointed in myself, and slunk to the living room, mentally preparing myself for a lifetime of sausage casserole six nights a week. We eat out in Sundays.
Brian and Daughter 2 came into the house and excitedly noted that I had made sausage casserole without his assistance. He was so proud of me, and I could see the sausage-loving wheels turning in his pork-biased brain.
Then, I was spared, sorta once realized that I hadn't set the timer and the casserole had been in the oven for W A Y longer than it should have been. I rejoiced that I had almost burned the beloved sausage casserole. Brian ate it anyway because "almost" is the key word in that sentence.
|This may or may not have been what my casserole looked like.|
I will cop to nothing.
Brian also just shrugged his shoulders and said that he'd be responsible for time-keeping when I made sausage casserole for dinner, starting the next night and ending when pigs fly and no one can bring home the bacon ... um, sausage.
I messed up. It's a curse of being so efficient.