Angela Dove: Award-Winning Writer

A personal moment of sausage-induced humiliation results in a letter to Applegate Farms.

Dear Applegate Farms:

I recently purchased a package of your “Organic Italian-style Turkey Sausage.” I am writing to tell you that description is entirely unsatisfactory. A more appropriate label would read: “Organic Hellfire disguised as a Sausage”

I was cooking dinner for my husband and children. I do not mention myself because I am one of those cooks who nibbles throughout the entire cooking process, so that by the time the plates are on the table I am often ready for my after-dinner tea. Recently I concluded that it would be more pleasant to dine with the rest of my family, as opposed to waiting for my tea to steep and watching everybody else eat. But on this particular night, I am very thankful that I nibbled.

However, the timing could have been better.

I was on the phone with my mother, cradling the receiver next to my ear as I tested the firmness of the broccoli in the steamer basket and stirred chunks of gouda cheese into the grits. The Kielbasa was nicely browned and smelled heavily, but I had promised myself that wouldn’t try it.

“How’s the roof holding up?” my mom asked.

Our hillside house is constantly buffeted by wind. A storm the week prior had lifted up several shingles and made our attic look, briefly, like a too-cluttered version of the Rain Forest Café.

“Fine,” I replied, pulling two plastic plates for the kids out of the cabinet. Tonight’s dining companions: Cinderella and Winnie the Pooh. “Ira got up there yesterday with some kind of patching goop. I checked about an hour after is started raining today and the attic looked dry.” I speared the sausage and put it on the cutting board, then started slicing it into bite size pieces.

“Mom! Torin keeps messing up my beach party!” That was Nina, whose three-year-old brother has recently moved up to Advanced Sister Annoyance. “He keeps stealing the umbrella!”

“My turn!” Torin yelled from the next room, then started singing, “Wain, wain, go away, come again another day!”

Distracted from my resolve not to snack before dinner, I popped a piece of sausage into my mouth and dumped a generous amount on Cinderella’s ball gown. “Torin,” I called, “don’t—ack—argh—Holy—“

I dropped the phone and gagged as my tonsils spontaneously combusted. My daughter watched in amazement as I spit sausage into my hand and ran to the sink. Water. I’d never needed water so badly in my life. I grabbed a dirty cup by the sink—who cared?—and got enough water in there to make for a few swallows.

“Hello?” came a voice from the floor. “Angela? What’s wrong? Angela!”

I swallowed the water, which anyone with half a brain (or experience with an oil slick) can tell you is the best way to spread pepper oil throughout your mouth and in a fiery track down your throat. I reached for the phone, aware that my mother was panicking. “I’m alright. I ate something spicy.”

That’s what I tried to say, anyway. What came out was “Awwa thaaa pikk.”

This pronouncement did little to allay my mother’s concern. I tried again. “SPICY!” I yelled. Then I hung up and ran to the fridge for milk, since a new tongue and throat were not immediately available.

Torin rounded the corner, swinging my World Wildlife Fund umbrella dangerously from side to side. He stopped dead at the sight of his mother fumbling with the top of the milk carton and making noises reminiscent of a cat with a hairball.

I rinsed. I spit. I gargled. I wiped tears from my eyes while deftly knocking a piece of your kielbasa out of my son’s hand before it got to his mouth. The phone rang. It was probably my mother, calling back before she jumped into her car and headed to our house. I picked up the phone.

“I’m OK,” I said, then went into a huge coughing fit.

“Hello? Angela? This is Steve, returning your call.”

Oh. Right. I had accidentally called Steve’s pager hours earlier, then hung up when I realized my mistake. Stupid caller ID.

“Steve, can I—" (pause for more hacking, swallowing of milk) "— I just ate something really spicy.” I heard the words and knew I sounded like a dork. Oh well. Too late now. I’d already hung up on the guy.

Then I called my mom, who was in the process of walking out the door, car keys in hand. You gotta love a mom who leaps to the worst possible conclusion, then decides that conclusion is highly unlikely but she better check it out just to be sure. “What just happened? Are you OK?”

“I ate a piece of spicy sausage.” Yep. Still dorky.

“Oh.”

“Now I have to go call someone who returned a wrong number and I just hung up on him because I was still choking down milk . . .” There was really no way to recover any dignity during this ordeal.

And so, Customer Service Representative, I am writing to say that your product has caused me a considerable amount of oral and tracheal trauma, and has made me look like a goober to at least two people. Plus my son now thinks it’s extremely funny to spit food into his hand and gag down a beverage while shouting, “Look! I’m Mommy!” I kindly request that you put some sort of warning on your sausage, as “Italian-Style” clearly fails to identify the hazards of consuming your lava-like sausage product.

Most sincerely,

Angela Dove