Saussagio

The first thing you need to know is that the Fredericton Airport only has one gate: Gate 3.

The second thing you need to know is that I have lived in absolute fear of visiting Fredericton since I left for good over a decade ago. So, for the most part, I haven’t. My last time in the province was two years ago. I went for dinner exactly once, and spent the entire meal looking over my shoulder. I spent the two nights hiding at my friend T’s house. Though I had a lovely time with T, the whole experience was akin to being way too high. Minutes were hours were days and when was this gonna be over, man?

Mostly, it’s all because I’ve become really spoiled by the anonymity of big-city living, and feel incredibly put-upon when expected to provide personal information to, essentially, strangers, knowing all the while the judgments they will pass. Our family was ‘from away’, so maybe I just wasn’t bred for Maritime small talk. Who knows?

Anyway, I landed at Gate 3 yesterday.

My friend C (she’s ‘home’ from Toronto for a visit, too) picked me up at the airport, with her delightful baby in tow. We spent the afternoon in and out of C’s in-laws’ pool. At some point, C’s sister-in-law notified us that she would be rather late, and could we cook the sausages in the fridge?

C started the BBQ. Giant flames shot up everywhere. We put the flames out. Once everyone else was safely indoors, I put ten chicken and mozzarella sausages on the BBQ, closed the lid, and walked away for 2 minutes, per the instructions. I should mention at this point that I only had a giant BBQ fork for a utensil.

When I opened the lid two minutes later, all ten sausages were alternately squirting 20-30cm arcs of grease and molten cheese. Some were spinning around like Catherine Wheels (the firework, not the band, though that would have been interesting). It was like the water show at the Bellagio in Vegas. Only, again, with hot grease and molten cheese. Saussagio, if you will. Within seconds, giant flames were again leaping from the grill. Blinded by smoke, I grabbed the BBQ fork to get the sausages off the grill. You see where this is going, yes? I poked huge holes in the sausages. One sausage managed to propel itself off the fork by harnessing the power of a jet of grease and cheese. I got a painful burn on my arm. On the upside, my favourite shirt didn’t get splattered, and I later went for $3 pints with probably the coolest people in town. Day one. Done.