I Know What You Eat For Breakfast

I cleaned out my husband's old car today. He's bought a new (old) car for commuting, and I have the Oldsmobile now.

I guess I should be thankful that I'm not married to an overly fastidious neat-freak but as I was sitting there rapidly filling the large trash bag with discarded fast-food wrappers and coffee cups it felt a little sad. I mean, I feed him well. I pack him lunches. There's just no excuse for buying a sausage biscuit sandwich at the gas station (I didn't even know they sell them until I saw the wrapper). I'd make him sausage biscuits for breakfast if I knew he liked them.

Among the items I pulled out of the heaps of trash in the backseat were some lovely coasters (?), a nice-ish dictionary, and a wool sweater from New Zealand that went missing a few years ago. I brought it in and washed it (twice).

"It smelled like a dead animal" I said.
"It is-sheep." He replied.
"They don't kill the sheep for wool-they shear them you idiot. You're Scottish, you should know these things."

As bad as it smelled before washing it was that much worse after, hence the second wash. Wet wool, motor oil and the funky residue of what was probably some other exotic gas station culinary delight. Ick. I think the problem has been solved and it can now go another ten years in the backseat of the car collecting whatever is tossed upon it.

Anyone have a good sausage biscuit recipe?