Killing the basa

We traveled to the husband's homeland for Thanksgiving. Not Poland...Toledo. But what we brought home was straight-up Polski. I almost took a photo of it, but there's something a bit naked and vulnerable about 6 pounds of long, winding tubes of raw kielbasa . It just felt dirty to me.

The husband spent the last month advertising this great meatness to his colleagues and promised to bring in a full batch after the holiday. The direction from Mama Pasz was, "Boil it to death. You can't ruin it."

Last night, I opened the fridge and faced my opponent. It just stared at me, red and sweaty and powerful. There was no pulse, but I swear I saw throbbing. It knew its sausage fate but it wasn't going to go quietly. Since there were 6 pounds (apparently few vegetarians at the husband's office), a large pot would have been extremely beneficial. But, the Pasz's work with what we have, and what we had was a lot of unlarge pots.

When the husband arrived home, the kitchen was overflowing with angry, growling sausage and my pots runneth over. Literally.

Husband: Um...so my mom usually puts the lid on when its boiling.
Me: Brilliant idea, husband. Perhaps that's why my chest resembles a burn victim from exploding sausage water?
Husband: At least it smells good....
Me: CALL YOUR MOTHER. Or 911.

Just as you suspected, Mama Pasz once again advised to "boil it to death. She can't ruin it." And after a bottle of wine, my burning sensations faded and the sausage found a simmering level of death acceptance. The husband expressed complete satisfaction about the result, but for some reason checked each small piece before packing it for his coworkers. Life is just a tad scarier after Mama Pasz, let's be honest.

In closing, a famous Polish proverb: A woman cries before the wedding, the man after.