Chilean poet Pablo Neruda’s food poetry is some of the most beautiful ever written. He transformed tomatoes into heavenly beings. His ode to wine should be every serious vintner’s mantra. Even ordinary and unpoetic subjects—the artichoke or conger chowder—receive his divine dressings. But as far as my searches have revealed, Neruda seems to have skipped the sausage. Does the tubular treat filled with tasty meat offend? Does it lack in characteristics worth lauding? Is the sausage so unapologetically phallic as to render sausage prose better suited to public bathroom walls than to literary antiquity? Still, I feel Neruda was remiss in ignoring the opportunity to glorify one of the most prolific foods created by man.
Strange and ugly though it may be—with its pale skin and lumpy contents—the sausage is something most people would rather not do without. What would summer be without a tasty bratwurst? Some of us can’t enjoy a ballpark game without a jumbo frank. Even the health-conscious have a hard time turning down the occasional link when cruising the brunch buffet. How can you not love a slice of something named mortadella, the sausage of death? A food adopted by almost every culture and created over and over with differing shapes, flavors and techniques, defined by the people who love it, deserves some consideration. I think it was Jimmy Dean who said, “My sausage, my country.”
Sausage is more or less a minced-meat mix stuffed into a tubular casing, and the practice of making it is thought to have originated with the concept of “saving the rest of the pig to eat later.” So winning did the technique prove that it was soon adapted for different situations, thereby changing the definition of a sausage and its composition.
First the filling. We may think first of pork or beef, but fish sausages have been around just as long. (And the sausage-loving Brits make one filled with cheese and leeks but no meat.) Second, sausage isn’t always tubular. That Scottish dare of a delicacy, haggis, is round, since its casing is usually the sheep’s stomach. And casing itself is the third factor. Natural casing may come from various areas of the animals interior, not just the intestines. Artificial casing can come from animals or plants. And some sausages are made with no casing at all, formed into a cohesive shape held together by composition.
These variables contribute to a complex and fascinating world of portable treats, but most sausages can be lumped into one of three categories. Fresh sausages are made of raw meat and need to be cooked before eating. Cured sausages have some raw meat, but have been dried or cured and are intended for keeping and slicing (think salami). And last, cooked or partially cooked sausages are either sliced and eaten cold or heated.
But, let’s face it, casing or no, jumbo salami or lil’ smokie, it’s what’s inside that counts. It’s the red pepper flakes or touch of fennel, the mingling of veal and pork or trace of cumin that create sausage memories—and distinct sausagieres. At Kramarczuk Sausage Co. in northeast Minneapolis, the deli case is jammed with sausages made from traditional methods passed down from one family member to another. On Saturday mornings you can wait in line for hunks of samples of their amazing meats, but you should definitely walk away with the garlic sausage—which will have you reeking pleasantly for the rest of the day. Or sit and gnaw on a sandwich while the smells blend with accordion music and Slavic banter from behind the counter.
Tradition merged with innovation and a healthy sense of humor might be the best way to handle sausage-making. If that be true, then the folks at Sausage Sister & Me have found the key. Armed with time-tested techniques and recipes from their German Poppa Joe, Cherie Peterson and Merry Barry decided to create a sausage company based in Old World tradition and contemporary fun. Instead of going for the straight-faced and serious sausage-as-artesinal-art shtick, their sausage ingredients are zippy and the names even zippier. Try their Leave it to Cleaver (a.k.a Minnesota Nice) made with pork, wild rice, grated carrot, and onions, or Ring-A-Ding Risotto made with chicken, rice, artichokes, mushrooms, and parmesan cheese. You may have caught the two siblings hawking their Twisted Sister (porketta sausage wrapped in a twist of dough on a stick) at the State Fair last year. If not, you can catch them at the Minneapolis Farmer’s Market. Maybe sausage shouldn’t be the subject of an artful ode. Maybe it lends itself better to something more fun, more lively. I feel a limerick coming on…
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