Mother Nature had other plans.
In Colorado Springs, we have so little rain that I usually can’t remember the last time it rained. So when it does blow up a storm (we often have dry storms come summer) and then drizzles all day, I must be grateful. Even if I can’t cook on the grill.
So I had some chicken apple sausage, which, to my not-very-sausage-saavy-palate, tastes a lot like brats. A fraction of the fat. They’re pretty versatile. Already fully-cooked, you can grill them and eat them on a roll, slice them into a salad, put them in bean soup, or chop them up into scrambled eggs. Lots. Friday night, I said, “Ok, if the grill won’t come to me, I’ll come to the fireplace.” Or something like it. We dug out the wienie forks from the dusty camp kitchen stored in the garage, and while I heated up some soup I’d frozen last month, grilled onions and buns, Dave built a fire. When it was ready, we roasted wienies in the basement. Tucker, of course, wanted some. No way.