I once made the mistake of looking into a sausage. I will
never forget that fateful day.
Previously, I had enjoyed sausages in many forms… veal and
pork sliced on the bias with peppers and onions, Italian style; Polish kielbasa
with noodles; chicken with apple and onion with sweet potato; pepperoni pizza;
eggs with chorizo; little breakfast links alongside pancakes, dippable in maple
syrup; beef, pork, turkey, and even chicken tube steak nestled within soft buns.
I think I even tried a bison sausage once (it was tough, not tender). But this
was different.
I had been at a celebratory outdoor meal hosted by my
workplace, beautifully served, with a variety of choice foodstuffs available
amongst many tables set in a grassy quad. It was fresh off the grate, which had
been added to my patiently waiting plate by a cheerful grillmaster. O, tumescent
was the sausage; gleaming with heat; thick and tempting; crispy and crackling.
And then, instead of simply spearing it, lifting to my mouth,
and biting, I decided to be an adult and cut into it. You know, with a knife
and fork, since we were sitting at a table and not strolling our way through a
carnival or fair.
Urk! To my stomach-churning dismay there was practically no plain
meat inside – but fennel seeds amidst pockets of half-melted fat, and
unidentifiable pink and white meat-like bits abounded. I sliced again… maybe I
had simply found a super-fatty section. But no. Cross-section after cross-section
of sausage littered my plate as I finally gave up slicing. I tried to separate
some of the pinkish morsels from the whiter stuff and tasted it, but in my mind’s
eye I could see nothing but slippery, opaque fat coating my poor tongue and had
to spit it out. I couldn’t even eat the rest of the food on my plate, having
been contaminated by the sausage’s innards.
Ever since then I have been incredibly wary of sausages… so
much so that I still get the willies when I recall the moment.
So why recall the moment at all?
Well, I had to. An old friend of D’s hosted a Hofftoberfest
last night – sausages and beer, in the style of David Hasselhoff. Ain’t no fest
like a Hofftoberfest, ‘cuz a Hofftoberfest has the Hoff. *grin* I had been disappointed that D
didn’t wear a half-unzipped leather jacket to display his wide and manly chest
(mmmmmm)… but the host did wear lederhosen and the lady of the house had styled
her hair in braids, so that was a fun surprise.
I had a moment of self-discovery when D, looking adorable as
he does, leaned in to kiss me after downing a sausage off a pointy fork and
swilling some beer. I felt myself begin to sweat, steeled myself for the taste
of sausage, and then blurted out the question of the night. “Wait! Are you
going to taste like sausage???” He considered, forehead wrinkling. “Uhhh,
probably more like beer.” “Ok then.” And he kissed me and it truly was more
beer-y than sausage-y and a lovely kiss as his kisses always are but I could still
smell the sausage on the plate. And it made me sad.
“Wow, you really don’t like sausage, do you?” All I could do
was shake my head pitifully and reach for a macaron (no, not the right country,
but where else can I enjoy those, if not at a party?) Over the course of the
evening I had three: one pink with fig, one yellow with vanilla, and a whitish
one with sticky smooth coconut. My beer-drinking was limited to the ingestion of
a fancy-schmancy doondut coated in a sweet vanilla beer glaze. It was a yummy
little pillow of heaven! (And not overly large.)
But I have not renounced all sausage, oh, no! I have
discovered a smoked turkey sausage with no “funny” bits in, low in fat, and
high in flavor. It’s Eckrich Turkey Smoked Sausage and it’s wonderful. Basically,
this sausage and I now have an understanding, and I would have been able to bring
them had they been in stock at my local market! Stupid market!!! I also eat
vegetarian sausage, and pepperoni crisped up in a pan. I have actually begun to
prefer turkey pepperoni to regular because of the chewiness factor.
