Black History Month: Diane's Sausage Balls

I call these posts "Black History Month" because I'm Black, and these stories are my history.

When I used to work at another bank, we used to have potlucks all the time. I was the manager of a team in a call center and just about everybody loved me. In addition to my team of 25, I was also de facto manager of another team of directory assistance people. You know the ones that just look up names and transfer you? Anyway, so one day my team and that team got together for a potluck. It was really disorganized. There was soul food, Mexican food, Chinese food, regular old American food. For a greedy man, it would be heaven. Well, let me take that back. I am greedy, but I’m not much for eating other people’s food. It may sound cliché, but I don’t know who’s clean and who’s not. I don’t know who cooks with their cats, or who doesn’t wash their hands after changing their baby’s diapers. People tell me to get over it, but that’s not gonna happen. Diane’s Sausage Balls were enough for me to never eat food from strangers again.

There was a woman on the DA team named Diane. She was a nice enough lady, but she looked a little less than clean. She had stringy hair that always seemed to be shedding, and her desk always had crumbs and coffee stains on it. You may think I’m judging a book by its cover, but how else am I to know if I want to read it… or to mix metaphors, if I want to eat her food. I already decided that I was not going to. Diane came into work with a silver cookie tin with what she called “Sausage Balls.” They were like meatballs, but made with ground sausage. In theory, they sound good, but considering the source, I was just not sure what else was ground up in them. I filled my plate with store bought stuff and food from people I trusted. Unfortunately Diane’s Sausage Balls didn’t quite make the cut.

Apparently everybody else was thinking the same thing too, because 3 hours later, while the rest of the food was only left with remnants, her tin of sausage balls remained virtually untouched. One of her co workers came and told me that she was crying because nobody wanted to try her food. I had a decision to make. Would I be a good manager, even though I wasn’t technically her manager, or should I stick to my guns? My mind and stomach told me that Diane would just have to get over it, but my heart (yes, I have a heart) told me that I should make her feel better by trying them. Guess which one won out? My heart! I tried Diane’s Sausage Balls, and they were pretty good. Not gourmet by any means, but they would do for a potluck. It made her day that I tried her potluck food! Once again, Rashan saved the day.

A little later, I noticed Diane wasn’t at her desk. I was supposed to stay on them to make sure they were answering the phones like they are supposed to. 5 minutes passed, then 10 with no sign of her. Then one of her co workers came to my desk.

“Diane is in the bathroom throwing up.”

WHAT?!? I didn’t care that she was sick, but I was worried about me. I ate those stupid sausage balls against my better judgment and now she got the ebola? My inner circle at work who knew what I did were dying laughing at me.

“That’s what you get for trying to be Super-Manager!”

I started sweating, and all of a sudden I felt light headed. I got up to go outside and get some air. I felt queasy, and my knees buckled a little. I stood outside while I composed myself, belly full and rumbling. I didn’t know what ailment I was getting, but I knew something was coming. I called my boss, and told her that I was leaving and why. She laughed at me. I went to my car and drove home. It was only about 5 minutes away, and I had to go. I just couldn’t stay there at home any longer waiting for the inevitable eruption. At home, I laid down, and next thing I know it was 7pm. I had been gone for 3 hours. I felt okay. I don’t know if it was psychosomatic or something real, but I do know one thing. I’ll never eat Diane’s Sausage Balls ever again!