I have been carrying this Cumberland sausage around for twenty minutes, the loops of its resealable transparent bag tangled around my fingers like a rosary. It's jumbo size, curved to an oval and, guessing by the even colour it's been oven baked, and over-baked if I'm honest, its glistening brown skin a little wrinkled. I have clutched it up and down the aisles of Tesco's at Lunsford Park, near my home in Kent, feeling its heat and fearing even to let go of it at the checkout in case it disappeared under a pile of crumpled carrier bags. In the carpark each bag I lift into the trunk is one step closer to it. By the time I slip behind the steering wheel and close the door this sausage has developed mythical status: it is the homecoming sausage. It is all the sausages I haven't eaten during three years in France. It is the sausage to answer my prayer, assuage my cravings for a good British banger.
Of course it does not live up to expectations but some things are good even when they're bad and I forgive the way the skin squeaks when I take my first bite. I forgive the over-seasoning, the enthusiastic bite of black pepper. And I ignore the option of the resealable bag. Nothing will stop me from wolfing the whole thing down in less than three minutes flat. And I do.
from the sea
today the rain
comes in waves
Hungry Writing Prompts
- Write about eating something secretly.
- Write about missing a deadline or an appointment.
- Write a list of things that mean a lot to you.
- Write about a long drive.
- Write about rain.