When I was growing up, way back when, sausage meant three choices: Puerto Rican chorizo canned in solid orange fat, Polish kielbasa, or sagey breakfast sausages from Jimmy Dean. In the 70's I moved to Omaha and craved the apple potato ones from Stoysich House of Sausage. Forty years later and the current varieties contain a conglomeration of ingredients equalling complete meals in a casing:
Although I've lived over half my life in Canada, there is something about US Thanksgiving that throws me into fits of nostalgia. As it's always a work day for me, each Thanksgiving, about 30 minutes prior to quitting time I'm planing for quick cooking turkey legs and stove top stuffing or turkey dinner at Canada's White Spot.
Too fried from meeting deadlines to face going out to dinner on a wet and dreary Pacific Northwest night, I stopped in at the grocery store to find NO turkey legs. The butcher offered me two choices: come back tomorrow or buy sausages on special. My decision, after whining "But Thanksgiving is todaaaaay," included a lamb steak, and three varieties of sausages: blueberry and maple (looking somewhat coagulated), kelly green chicken kale and feta, and red hot chorizo.
It wasn't turkey, but it was the colour of autumn leaf centerpieces the kids in my family used to make for the table, gathering the leaves while the turkey was cooking and returning to a deliciously sage scented house. I realize now that's the origin our family tradition of talking a long walk, soon after the turkey hits the oven. I love that wall of flavour that hits the senses when walking in the door.
Upon hearing the details, my husband, who knows me all to well said "What, did you pick them up in the clearance bin?" No, as a matter of fact, I didn't. These are of the gourmet variety and are quite in demand. And as it turned out, the mixed grill made it a special, albeit odd, Thanksgiving dinner.
Update: one handed blogging ahead! I've been given a time for the surgery mentioned in my last post, this coming Thursday.