sis ALL ADYSNYMSOO

»
To call this “simply a cookbook” is a de-
plorable understatement. While Richard
Gehman’s imaginative volume holds the
key to delicious dining (as well as blissful
breakfasting, laudable lunching, and sensa-
tional snacking), it is often hilariously
funny as well.
Keeping his tongue firmly planted in his
cheek, Mr. Gehman divulges many of the
age-old secrets of sausagery, enabling hun-
gry readers to prepare their own plump,
redolent sausages. Here are dozens of
never-before-published recipes from the
world’s most esteemed sausage-makers.
In addition to his easy, step-by-step in-
structions for making your own sausages,
Mr. Gehman offers a number of unusual
recipes for using sausages in a mouthwater-
ing array of dishes. Including the “home
style” recipes of Pennsylvania Dutch
housewives, spicy salamis from Italian
kitchens, the hearty specialties of German

(Continued on back flap)

Wie Sausage Book
 BY RICHARD GEHMAN

Novels
A Party at the Buchanan Club
Driven
The Slander of Witches
The Had

Non-Fiction
A Murder in Paradise
How To Write and Sell Magazine Articles
Let My Heart Be Broken
The Barking Rabbit

Collaborations
Sardi’s (with Vincent Sardi, Sr.)
The Jury Is Still Out (with Judge Irwin D. Davidson)
Eddie Condon’s Treasury of Jazz (with Eddie Condon)
A Hell of a Life (with Harry Richman)

Juvenile
The Tall American

Biographies
Sinatra and His Rat Pack
That Kid: The Story of Jerry Lewis
Bogart

Cookbooks
The Haphazard Gourmet
In the Soup, in a Stew
The Sausage Book
The Sausage Book
co
Being a compendium

of

SAUSAGE RECIPES,

: Ways of
making and eating sausage,
accompanying dishes,
and strong waters to be served.
Including many recipes from
Germany, France, and Lancaster County,
Pennsylvania,
and committed toe paper
by

RICHARD GEHMAN
UM

-Weathervane Books + New York

 SEP 1978
The Sausage Book by Richard Gehman
© 1969 by Richard Gehman
Copyright @ MCMLXIX by Richard Gehman
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 71-85001
All rights reserved.
This edition is published by Weathervane Books
a division of Barre Publishing Company, Inc.
by arrangement with Prentice-Hall, Inc.

a bie. ese)

Manufactured in the United States of America

 For Gerald, Margaret,
Sally Dana, Michael E., Robert Dana
and Linda Lestz;
and in the memory of Edith Lestz,
who, before her death put much cheer into the lives
of those ef us who knew and treasured her.
For all these dear people, I dedicate this book,
which in places may not be suitable for the perusal
of the younger ones.

CSD
 CONTENTS

CD
A Sausage by Any Name’ i: eo ce 1

How To Bey our Own Butchers 230 4 wake

GROG CTS so nim nce s\n S Cen ae

BUNROE CUM O = h. al i A ee Se,

Pricking—or Not Pricking—Sausage . . . 17

PCIOS We uae Ae ay hoe Cains BIS, 7 Os e Wits

POStsctip tet er ti se age, We hi e ae Ve

Pee eds Ao Pol ay da eease ee! Sea ener

The Sausage Book
 CD
A Sausage by Any Name
In Greenwich Village, many years ago, I used to know a
man named Charles Caruso, a hard-working Italian with a
bearish, brusque voice that in no way resembled that of the
great Italian tenor of the same last name. Nevertheless, Charles
was every inch the artist that Enrico Caruso was. Nearly every
day around noon, Charles would go into his studio on Carmine
Street and grind up pork butts and scraps, season the grind-
ings with salt and strong black pepper and a couple of herbs—
the names of which he never would divulge—and stuff the
resulting redolent mixture into an animal casing to make
salsiccia dolce, or sweet sausage.
By the time he made about 50 pounds of short, fat sausages,
it would be nearly dusk. Charles carried his sausages, plus
several gallons of stewed peppers, previously prepared by his
wife, out to a large iron-roofed pushcart parked near the curb.
This cart, constructed of sheet metal to his own specifications,
was Charles’ pride and joy. It was equipped with a grill, com-
partments to keep the peppers warm, and a small stove to
relieve Charles’ accursed arthritis in winter. He trundled the
cart a couple of blocks north to the busy subway-stop corner
of West Third Street and Sixth Avenue. There he climbed into
the cart, lighted a fire under his grill, and placed on it a suc-
culent coil of salsiccia dolce.
Within a few seconds, the sausages began to snarl, spit and
buzz, sending out a wonderfully magnetic odor. A customer
would step up and demand one. Charles would cut a single
sausage from the coil, split it neatly in half and press it down
on the grill, browning its insides before placing it on a soft
1
fresh roll. He added a large spoonful of the simmering peppers,
sprinkled the sausage with dried red pepper seeds, wrapped it
neatly in a paper napkin, handed it to the customer and col-
lected 35 cents. Meanwhile, the mingled smell of sausages and
peppers attracted more people. It even drew some of Charles’
neighbors up from Carmine Street. It drew me, too.
I am a sausage fool. A long time ago, I fell shamelessly in
love with this ancient, delicious example of man’s imaginative
mastery of foodstuffs.
Sausage is man’s meat—strong-flavored, full of character,
honestly designed for hearty eaters. It is woman’s meat, too.
The beauty of sausage is that in various forms it can be eaten
almost any time—for breakfast, with eggs; for lunch, with
sauerkraut and mashed or boiled potatoes; for dinner, in a
number of excellent casseroles; and for late night poker games
or pre-bed sandwiches. And, of course, it can be eaten between
meals in the form of the frankfurter. Babe Ruth, according to
legend, frequently knocked off 10 or 12 hot dogs during the
seventh-inning stretch.
During the past years I have been having the time of my life,
eating sausage while researching this book, watching it being
made, and talking to the men who make it. I have watched
these sausage-mixers go furtively into their storerooms with
a small scoop to blend the herbs and spices in utmost secret,
and I have begged sausage recipes from the masters, who are
the Germans. They are considered to be the greatest artists in
this fascinating business.
The Germans do not have a corner on the sausage market.
I have eaten not only German sausage, but also Italian, Ukrain-
ian, Greek, Spanish, Chinese, Dutch and French sausage. I have
eaten sausage dry, cooked and smoked. I have eaten sausages
so moist they could be spread with a pliable knife, and
sausages hard as marbles. I have eaten sausages made of beef,
pork, veal, tongue, liver and other innards, and flavored with
pepper, cumin, dill, fennel, mace, parsley and many other herbs
and spices as well as sausages tinged with orange peel and
steeped in wine.
2
 There are more than 100 varieties of sausage made and eaten
in the United States. Even the big meat manufacturers hesitate
to say exactly how many. E. L. Hecker of Armour Company
told me, “‘We make over 100 different ones ourselves. Most of
our sausage is made in local sausage kitchens, and their prod-
ucts vary to meet local preferences as to style, casing, spicing,
coloring and packaging.” A master sausage maker, Ferdinand
Schaller of New York, estimated that there are more than 500
different kinds of sausage being made and eaten the world
around, and, in the same breath, he admitted that his figure
is probably low.
The reason there are so many kinds lies in the definition of
sausage, which is a loose term. The American Meat Institute
defines it as “A mixture of meat, usually ground, and other
foodstuffs, in a natural or artificial casing or tube.” There are
six major categories of sausage:
4
FresH: Made from meats that have not been cooked or
cured—fresh pork sausage, for example; weisswurst, bratwurst
or bockwurst.
SMOKED: Made from cured meats and other ingredients
and smoked over wood fires. There are two kinds of smoked
sausage, cooked smoked, which includes frankfurters, bologna
and mortadella; and uncooked smoked, which includes smoked
pork sausage and mettwurst.
CookEp: Made from fresh or cured meat and cooked in
the casings—liverwurst, blood sausage, etc.
NEW CONDITIONED: Made of ground meats to which spices
and curing agents are added, after which the sausage is cured
for several days before being smoked. This category includes
cooked salamis, cervelats, and Kosher salamis.
Dry: Made from fresh meats to which spices are added,
after which the sausage is cured for days and then dried in the
air under special conditions for long periods of time. Italian
dry salamis are in this class, plus such German products as
holsteiner, landjaeger and gothaer; also Spanish sausages,
called chorizos.
 COOKED SPECIALTIES: This is the catch-all category, and
includes almost anything that is put in a casing.

Technically speaking, head cheese, which is made of bits of

pig’s head meat cooked and allowed to cool and jell, is sausage
because it is stuffed into a casing or tube. So are blood pud-
dings, popular in many countries, especially in Britain. In
Scotland, blood pudding is made of blood, oatmeal, onions and
other spices, encased in a sheep’s stomach, and called haggis.
So, too, is metzelsuppe (scrap soup), a Pennsylvania Dutch dish
consisting of ground pork scraps, potatoes, cabbage, onions
and bread all crammed into a pig’s stomach, which is baked
or boiled and sliced down for serving. As far as that goes, even
gdnsebrust could be considered a sausage-family member.
Gansebrust is smoked goose breast wrapped with a casing of
goose skin.
The casings, or tubes, into which sausage meat is stuffed are
usually the intestines, or bowels, of sheep, hogs or cattle.
Sausage-makers are remarkably frank in speaking of the cas-
ings. ‘From one steer, I get 30 yards of beef rounds, or in-
testines, 10 yards of the middle intestines, and one yard of
beef bung,” says Ferdinand Schaller.
Beef intestines are used for sausages that require thicker
casings, such as liverwursts and bolognas. Sheep intestines are
used for frankfurters, principally, but, beginning about 30
years ago, the nation’s sheep kill was not equal to the demand
for hot dog casings. Therefore, artificial casings made from
cellulose were introduced. The casings were stripped off after
the frankfurters were precooked by the manufacturers, re-
sulting in the “skinless” frankfurter. The practice grieved the
old-line sausage manufacturers. They state candidly that the
skinless kind are not as good as the “bunged” ones. A sausage,
these craftsmen say, ought to have a natural casing because a
casing keeps in the juices while the meat is being cooked. Also,
intestines add immensely to the flavor of the sausage.
Innards are not the only casings that sausage makers use.
Some bolognas are wrapped in sirong cloth bags which seal in
4
the rich flavor; some are put in skin from which the bristles or
hair has been scraped; and some Italian salamis come to this
country coated by paraffin. Casing is a big business. New York
is not noted for its meat-packing industry, but there are over
40 sausage-casing firms in its classified directory.
Sausage itself is even bigger business. Last year, according
to a spokesman for Swift and Company, Americans wolfed
down over 3,500,000,000 pounds of federally-inspected sausage.
We imported more than 1,500,000 pounds. God alone knows
how many millions of pounds were produced in uninspected
plants. The fact that some plants were not federally inspected
does not mean that their sausage was necessarily impure or
imperfect; it simply means that the law says that uninspected
sausage cannot be transported across state lines. Some of the
best and purest pork sausage made comes from small country
butcher shops that turn out only a couple of hundred pounds
per week. While not federally inspected, they are supervised
closely by state or municipal authorities.
Right here, let us get rid of the old, mistaken notion that
sausage is made from undesirable parts of meat, cast-off scraps,
sweepings or leavings.
This nonsense amuses or enrages the average sausage-maker,
depending upon his temperament. It is true that meat cutters
have a hell of a time properly cutting out meat from shoulders,
rumps, etc., used in sausage. But most of the time, they cut
those small pieces from extra-high-quality parts. Sausage-
makers select their meat with the same loving care that the
proprietor of a first-class steak house uses to get sirloins that
can be cut with a butter knife. But what is high-quality for
ordinary consumption is not necessarily high-quality for sau-
sage. When you eat a steak, you try to get one that comes from
a steer. When you eat beef sausage, you are eating meat from
a tough, ornery bull. Steer meat—grassfed—is too soft for
sausage. Bull meat is more fibrous. The two are indistinguish-
able as to flavor but you can chew steer meat more easily. You
can chew bull meat easily, too, once it’s been ground up and
made into sausage.
 Sensitive people sometimes object to sausage because they
feel that it’s made from “castoff”’ parts of an animal. Blood,
intestines, liver, various other innards, plus tongue and foot
and cheek meat are used commonly in many varieties of sau-
sage. But all sausage shops, as noted above, are regulated by
rigid sanitary codes, and every sausage-maker I’ve ever met—
and I’ve met scores—takes pride in the excellence of his work
and the quality of his product. Actually, sausage is one of the
few food products that is almost totally edible, with no waste.
It is not expensive, but, because it is all edible, it is one of the
most economical of all foods as well as one of the tastiest.
We like frankfurters best in America. After them, we like
bologna best. Then, fresh pork sausage, meat loaves of various
kinds, liverwurst, salami and other dry sausages, in that order.
Sausage is one of the oldest foods known to man. Nobody
knows who first thought of stuffing ground-up meat into a
sheath, but Homer sang of sausage in the Odyssey, which was
written (they say) about 850 B.c. The Babylonians made and
ate it, too. The word ‘salami’ supposedly comes from the
Greek island of Salamis, where that variety is said to have
originated. Our word sausage stems from the Latin salsus, the
word for salted or preserved meat. The Romans had a sausage
made of ground pork and pine nuts, which they especially en-
joyed during the Lupercalia and the Floralia, two pagan orgies
of feasting, boozing and wenching which so shocked the pious
Constantine, the first Christian emperor, that he banned both
holidays and the sausage as well. Even in those days, no em-
peror’s edict could stop a sausage lover and Roman sausage
bootleggers sold their wares despite the ban.
Historians state that sausage-making really came into flower
along with knighthood, in the Middle Ages. Sausages peculiar to
certain cities were named after them: Bologna, from Bologna,
Italy; Gothaer, from Gotha, Germany; Romano, from Rome,
and so on. When the first colonists got to America, they dis-
covered that the Indians had discovered sausage all by them-
selves. They had mixed chopped and dried meat with dried
berries and pressed the mixture into a cake, which they then
6
smoked and dried further and stacked away against days of
hunger.
To the serious sausage student, the makers’ silence may be
both unscientific and reprehensible, but it is understandable.
Sausage-makers are constantly trying to copy their rivals’ prod-
ucts—as witness the war between Christ Kunzler, a Lancaster,
Pennsylvania, manufacturer, and Eugene Strabley, a Dallas-
town, Pennsylvania, butcher. The latter had devised an all-beef
bologna, long-cured and smoked and spiced with pepper and
other condiments, which he called York County Butcher
Bologna. Kunzler and his employees spent 25 years trying to
duplicate the recipe. They even bought cows from Strabley’s
neighborhood. Old Strabley sat over there in York cocking a
snook. Eventually his health forced him to retire. Hats in
hands, the Kunzler people asked him to sell his secret, which
he was glad to do for something like $25,000.
The Kunzler firm has a recipe of its own that none of its
Lancaster County rivals has ever been able to reproduce satis-
factorily—the formula for bockwurst, a white German sausage
made from fine-ground beef, pork and veal, blended with eggs
and milk and flavored heavily with chives.
Christ Kunzler brought the recipe with him from Baden-
Baden, Germany, over 60 years ago. The secret, Christ Jr.,
hinted to me, is in knowing how to put in the chives, and he
implied that there was something special about the chives
themselves, which he grows in his own hothouse.
Most sausage-makers take great pride in their work. “I am
artiste,’ said Platon Stasiuk, who ran a pork store at 124 First
Avenue in New York. Stasiuk, a small man with bristling, close-
cut gray hair, came from Eastern Galicia in 1912. He made
Ukrainian, Polish and Russian sausages. He also made elab-
orate window displays. His American flag was magnificent.
“From meat! Round steak for red stripes, suet for white stripes
and stars, and blue-dyed pork jelly for field. Is artistic?”
Was artistic, I agreed. Later, when Stasiuk gave me some of
his krakowska to taste, I agreed even more heartily. Krakowska
is one of the best cold sausages I ever have tasted. Ukrainian
7
in origin, it is made from the tenderest meat on a pork shoul-
der; even the most monstrous pig does not have more than five
or six pounds of this tender meat on him. Stasiuk flavored the
meat with pepper, salt, mace, caraway seeds and garlic powder.
Then he smoked it in his huge ovens for several days. What
came out was unbelievable. With thin-sliced salted rye bread,
krakowska can be one of the great hors d’oeuvres of all time.
After I communicated my feverish respect for the krakowska,
Stasiuk put on a furry gray felt hat and, with pride increasing
with his every deliberate step, he led me downstairs to his cold-
storage room. Here, pork shoulders and sides of bacon lay in
a curing brine in huge barrels, awaiting their turns in the smok-
ing ovens. On racks before me were hundreds of orange-red
sausages that looked like two-foot hot dogs.
“This is good,” said Stasiuk positively, pulling down one of
the long sausages. “Is called kabanos. Is Polish and Ukrainian.
Mainly smoked pork, a little beef mixed in. Also wery good
with cocktails.” He broke off a piece and handed it to me, and
I savored the mace and garlic. ‘‘And this,” he said, taking down
a wrist-thick, horseshoe-shaped sausage, “is sardelowa. Is also
Polish. Seventy-five percent pork, rest beef and veal. You eat
it hot. Steam it in a pot, with a little water, not too much or
she absorbs the taste. A half-inch of water only. Good with
sauerkraut or potatoes.”
I asked Stasiuk why some sausages are slightly curved, some
curved like horseshoes, and some almost straight.
“Depends on casing,” he said. “Casing from beef rounds,
pork rounds, upper part of intestines—it curves naturally.
Lower intestines are straighter for some reason. Also, tying at
the ends has something to do with it. Tighter they tied, more
they curve. Smoked sausages are tied tighter than fresh to
keep juices in during smoking.”
“Who determines the shapes?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Were determined by sausage-makers hundreds
of years ago. Is general rule, better a sausage keeps, bigger its
shape. You can keep big bologna or big salami long time, so is
made big. Small fresh sausage, wery perishable, is made small.
Same way with frankfurters.”
8
 We started upstairs and passed a room where thick, shiny
black sausages were hanging. “Is kishka,” Stasiuk said. “Rus-
sian. Made of fat trimmings, groats, salt and pepper, chopped
onions and, mainly, blood. You need strong stomach for that.
Myself, I prefer honest piece of meat. But kishka is cheap, and
lots of people like.” We had some. It is a strong-tasting sausage,
salty with blood, the kind of meat that sticks to the teeth and
makes the eater believe he is getting stronger as it goes down
his throat.
“Now, let me tell you something,” Stasiuk continued. ‘‘My-
self, I am good sausage-maker. I learn from my father. He from
his. I know how to butcher, to cut up meat, to build fires in
smokehouse, and how to eat. Making sausage is art. But if you
want to talk to real sausage-makers, go up to Yorkville and see
the Germans.”
After eating his krakowska, I would have gone to Malaya if
he had asked mes But before going to Yorkville, I stopped by
to see some friends, the Manganaro brothers, who run the old-
est Italian delicatessen in New York City, at 488 Ninth Avenue.
They handle 25 or 30 varieties of Italian sausages and salamis,
some imported and some domestic.
Vince Manganaro spouted information rapidly. “Most fresh
Italian sausage is made in three-inch lengths—sweet and hot,”
he said. ‘Very perishable. Most Italian delicatessens or pork
stores or groceries make their own, a little at a time. That’s the
kind your pal in the Village, Caruso, makes. Italian salami is
mostly lean pork, chopped coarsely, with some lean beef,
chopped finely, and whole grains of pepper added, then dried
for many weeks. That, too, is often made at home, but the big
companies like Hormel can make it so you can’t tell the dif-
ference.
“Then, there’s capicolla, sometimes spelled cappo collo,
which is boneless pork shoulder, spiced with red pepper and
put in a casing—not chopped, but pressed. Very popular, very
tasty. The third major type is mortadella—well-chopped cubes
of beef and pork with fat added. Oh, I forgot pepperoni—like
salami, but with more pork, dried a very long time, in small
thin strips. And with more spices.”
 Vince paused. “I' tell you what,” he said, echoing Platon
Stasiuk, “If you want to talk to somebody who knows sausage,
go talk to the Germans. The French are supposed to be the best
cooks in the world, and they have a pretty good sausage made
out of white meat of chicken, yolk of eggs, crumbs, salt and
pepper and parsley and chives. They boil that in the casing,
then grill or broil it. They call it boudin blanc. But for the best
sausage, you got to go to the Germans.”
That was what I did.
I went to the corner of 86th Street and Second Avenue, to
the magnificent shop called Schaller and Weber. It is a small
room, measuring only about 12 by 18 feet. The visitor, entering,
is first assailed by a delicious smoky haze so strong it will be
clinging to his clothes when he leaves. Then he sees the sau-
sages themselves, row upon tantalizing row of them, hanging
from the ceiling, from iron crossbars, from the walls. Fat little
russet bauernwurst and knockwurst hanging in strings, great
long braunschweiger leberwurst, hard thin ropes of red-brown
landjaeger. And, in the two glass cases, are piles upon piles of
fresh pink pork sausages, white veal sausages, three varieties
of frankfurters, head cheeses, liverwursts, blutwursts, bock-
wursts, wursts of every size and description. The shop offers
52 varieties, all made in the kitchen in the rear.
Between 15 and 20 men work in the kitchen, depending upon
the season. Christmas is Schaller and Weber’s big rush period,
and then there may be as many as 30 men in the large, tile-
floored room. These men, expert as surgeons, can bone a ham
in less than one minute and cut up a shoulder into sausage-
meat parts in less than two. They are huge, cheerful men with
knotty muscles in their arms and flecks of fresh animal blood
on their faces and white aprons. Most of them learned their
trade from their fathers and are contemptuous of butcher-
schools.
Ferdinand Schaller, born in Stuttgart, Germany, about sixty
years ago, began making sausages when he was fourteen. “I
first worked as an apprentice,” he said, “‘and got paid one mark
for the first year, two for the second, three for the third.”
Schaller was a husky man with a mane of gray hair and clear
10
blue eyes—the picture of the jolly, affable butcher. He opened
the store 20 years ago in partnership with Anton Weber, whom
he met when they were both working for the large sausage
products concern, Stahl-Meyer. They started modestly, but in
no time at all they were making more than 25 varieties, all
from recipes they had brought from Germany. A few years ago,
Weber sold out to Schaller, but the latter continued to expand
and now owns five branch stores and a plant on Long Island.
Schaller personally selects all his own meat for the 20,000
pounds of sausage he makes each week. He rises at 4 A.M. two
days each week and goes to market. When he returns he takes
a hand in all preparations—grinding, chopping, mixing, flavor-
ing with herbs and spices, and cooking the sausages that must
be cooked. He also personally eats a good deal of his own
products. Each day around noon, he and his meat cutters and
clerks sit down to a huge round platter of sausage, fresh from
the cavernous refrigerated rooms. They eat heartily, piling the
meat on slabs of pumpernickel and washing it down with great
gulps of dark Wurzburger which they bring in from the brau-
haus next door.
One day as I was sitting with Ferdinand, eating a tremendous
sandwich of braunsweiger leberwurst mit speck (liverwurst
flecked with bits of fat), I remarked that it struck me as un-
usual to find makers of food products eating it themselves with
such relish. In Fulton Fish Market, I pointed out, the mongers
would rather die than eat the fish they handle all day long.
“Ja, that would be true of some foods,” Schaller said, ‘but
not of sausage.” He speared a piece of kolbase, a cold pork
sausage of Hungarian origin, tinged red by paprika. “With
sausage, it is different. Once a man gets the taste, he never
loses it. We have people come in here who have been coming
in every day since we opened.” He ate a piece of kalbsrouladen
(chopped veal, pork and tongue). Then he continued, “I tell
you a story about how a taste for sausage stays with a man.
Years ago I had here a bologna-maker who was not a good
worker. When others were busy he was wasting time. I expect
a man to work for his pay. I told him, ‘Work or go.’ He would
not work. Finally I fired him.”
11
 He paused again,’ surveyed the huge platter, and selected a
slice of oldenburg leberwurst (chopped liver and pork).
“You would think,” he said, “that a man I fired would be
mad at me and stay mad. You would think he would go some-
where else to buy sausage. No. Today he still comes to me to
buy. In fact, he is one of my best customers.”
A man does not have to live near a great sausage store like
Schaller and Weber in order to enjoy fine sausage. Schaller,
himself, will be glad to supply a list of those he can ship, and
so will Manganaro’s grocery. Even mail order isn’t necessary
these days. The big companies—Armour, Swift, Cudahy, Stahl-
Meyer—make excellent sausage which is sold throughout the
country. Hormel alone makes over nineteen different dry,
Italian-style sausages. Any local grocer or butcher will usually
be willing to order sausage specialties. Finally, if wurst comes
to wurst, it is even possible to make sausage at home. I made
some not long ago and it was great. But then, I am prejudiced.
I think all sausage is great.
But sausage-making is not necessarily fun at home. It re-
quires strong wrists, patience, and a nose oblivious to the stinks
that may arise from the pot. It is not for maidens, maiden |
aunts, or wives still pretending to be maidenly. It is for men,
probably on a wet day, when they know the fish or deer will
not be running.

How To Be Your Own Butcher

Some people like to make their own sausage from their own
hogs. I don’t, because I have been frightened off by Farmers’
Bulletin No. 2138, of the U. S. Department of Agriculture, en-
titled “Slaughtering, Cutting and Processing PORK on The
Farm.” This is a pamphlet that ought to be read after dinner,
or perhaps not read at all. It is lavishly illustrated with photo-
graphs that would make Hieronymus Bosch, if he were alive,
quaver a bit. I know gangsters in Chicago who would turn
their faces away from it, and a few in New York and London,
as well.
12
 The miniature book (it is only 48 pages long) tells you ex-
actly what to do when you have raised a pig and want to send
him to his doom. It tells about the tools that should be bought,
about the block and tackle for hauling up the animal, about
the care of hogs just before you slaughter them, about sticking
them, about scalding and scraping, about removing internal
organs, and about chilling the carcass. After that it gets into
cutting the carcass, trimming pork cuts, processing, freezing,
curing, dry curing, sweet-pickle curing, preparing for smoking,
smokehouses, smoking cured pork, and testing smoked meat.
This is only up to Page 33. There is more pig information in
here than even a pig alienist would need to know. Almost every-
body but a 4-H Club boy would find it a trifle tedious, for it
goes from wrapping and storing smoked meat to skipper flies,
to refrigerated storage, to mold growth, to aged or Smithfield-
style pork, to canning, to lard rendering, and finally, to pre-
paring sausage. The writers must have spent a long time in
Iowa and other hog states.
(Pigs make wonderful pets. Some authorities have rated
them as the most intelligent of the beasts. The only problem a
pet pig presents to a man living in the city is finding a suitable
mudhole for him. Wives are almost never receptive to the idea.)
Back to sausage preparation.
The booklet says: “Desirable sausage can be made only from
sound, high-quality materials. Shoulders, bacon strips, and even
the loins and hams often are made into sausage along with
the trimmings... .”
The book then gives us all some diagrams for (a) a barrel
for smoking, (b) a frame-construction smokehouse, and (c) a
cement-block one.
Presently, it gets around to the sausage itself:
You take 4 pounds of pork trimmings, 5 teaspoonfuls of salt,
4 of ground sage, 2 of ground pepper, % teaspoonful of ground
cloves, or 1 tablespoonful of ground nutmeg. This all should be
mixed together and then put through the fine blade of the
grinder, and then ground through again. The sausage then
should be stuffed into beef bung at once.
13
 The Agriculture Department people now get down to busi-
ness, telling us all how to make Bologna Sausage. It is no small
undertaking:
You take 60 pounds of beef and 40 pounds of pork trim-
mings. Grind the beef in a coarse grinder and add 19 ounces
of salt. Let this cool for 48 hours. The next night, add 19 ounces
of salt to the pork, and grind it. Put the two together and allow
to stand overnight.
Now grind the two meats ee add 1 ounce of saltpeter,
4 ounces of black pepper, 1% ounces of coriander, and 1 ounce
of mace.
Put this in a pot with 10 quarts of cold water. Mix it well.
Put it through the grinder again. ‘Add spices .. . and mix until
the mass is sticky,” says the Department.
This sausage mixture should be stuffed either into bung,
which I do not think is much good, or into muslin bags, which
you can either buy or make yourself. It should be set aside to
cool and dry overnight. Then it should be put in the smoke-
house or hung over coals in the fireplace, as so many other
sausages are.
“The sausage should take on a rich mahogany brown in about
2 hours’ smoking,” says the Dep’t.
Then: “Immediately put the hot, freshly smoked sausage
into water heated to 160° to 175° F., and cook it until it
squeaks when the pressure of the thumb and finger on the
casings is suddenly released. The usual cooking time for sau-
sages stuffed in beef ‘rounds’ is 15 to 30 minutes; for larger’
casings, 60 to 90 minutes. Plunge the sausage into cold water
to chill it. Hang it in a cool place.”
Now lie down and take a nap.
You can get this book, and know how to be your own hog
butcher, not to the world, but to your own family, by sending
twenty cents to the Superintendent of Documents, U. S. Gov-
ernment Printing Office, Washington, D. C. 20402. In at least
a month and a half, they will send it, in a plain, brown wrap-
per, if you so request.
14
 Grinders

No, no, here we are not talking about submarine sandwiches

which are called “grinders,” for some reason, in Connecticut
and Massachusetts. We are talking about meat grinders, which
no home should be without. If you are going to be a sausage
cook, you must have a grinder. If you and your husband or
wife do the cooking together, you probably ought to have two
grinders. Grinding meat is one of mankind’s true pleasures.
If you are very serious about sausage-making, you no doubt
will want to invest about $43 in the Rival Grind-O-Matic, once
you have stopped shuddering at its name. This is a portable
electric grinder, tastefully designed. It has a little brother, a
non-electric, hand-operated model, which sells for around
$10.00. This is eminently serviceable.
From the Universal Chopper Division, Union Manufacturing
Company of New Britain, Connecticut, you can get three sep-
arate grinders. No. 1 is the small economy size, so designated
by the company. It goes for about $6. No. 2 is a bit larger.
“For people with small restaurants or large families,” my scout
said when turning in his report. It sells for about $7. No. 3 is
an enormous grinder, suitable mainly for owners of large res-
taurants or butcher stores. It sells for around $12.
These grinders have attachments which will enable the aspir-
ing wienermeister to tuck his meat into the bung with ease.
The attachments cost about $2.25 apiece, and are heartily rec-
ommended for the home wurstmacher. In fact, no sausage-
eating home should be without one. Not all three have casing-
making attachments, however. The smaller, No. 1, does not
come with one.
The Enterprise Manufacturing Company of Philadelphia,
~ makes the Enterprise Grinder. Fortunately for us all, it does
not come in the shape of William Penn. It is just a simple
grinder, with a detachable handle, which rests on four rubber
pads on the side of your sink, table, or whatever you are using
to grind on. “This looks like a good one.if you have no surface
15
to clamp a Universal to,” said Dr. Hawkeye in his report. “But
I think the Universals are the best. Universal is the oldest
grindermaker in the country. It was founded in 1897.”
Before 1897, people no doubt used ricers to make sausage.
A ricer is a small but utilitarian instrument. It has a plunger
with which you squeeze down soft meat, which then comes out
of many hundreds of holes in its sides—or side, for a ricer is
circular. This kitchen tool dates back to fifteenth-century Eng-
land, I am told, but I do not believe it. I think it was invented
by Tom Swift just after Mr. Damon had said, “Bless my ricer
holes!”
Anyhow, ricers can be obtained from the Rovel, not the Rival,
Company, Long Island City, New York 11101, for about $2.50.
I have a Rovel ricer and use it all the time. It is good for mak-
ing mashed potatoes, by the way. Smashes hell out of them.
A good use to which the ricer can be put—and all the grind-
ers, as well—is making a mess out of macaroni. The pasta
should be cooked until it is just al dente, and then squeezed
through the ricer and cooked in butter, or with butter on top.
I have known Italian families who have fried macaroni until
crisp.
Now that I remember it, there is another use to which
grinders and ricers can be put. Tomatoes, onions, peppers and
fines herbes can be put through them; also garlic, shallots,
cabbage, turnips, carrots, and even watercress.
There is an old daybreak-bright saying from the uncollected
works of Samuel Joseph Boal, the poet and philosopher and
sometime writer, which I feel is apt to close this small chapter:

“What good doth a sausage-maker do

Unless he doth use a grinder?”

What good, indeed? A grinder, or a ricer, is indispensable to

a sausage-maker. Choose your grinder carefully in the hard-
ware store. Do not settle on the cheap ones. Get one you can
screw on the wall so that it will always be in service—prefer-
ably one with an attachment for casings.
16
 Bung or Casing

A bung may mean a stopper for a cask or keg, or a lie, or—

in the words of Shakespeare—as a synonym for both a purse
and the pickpocket who steals same. “To bung up,” according
to Webster, means “to bruise and put out of action.”
In this book, bung means the casings in which sausages are
stuffed. Bung means intestines of steer, veal, sheep, goat and
even turkey or chicken. It especially and most often refers to
pork bung, which is favored by most farmers in making sau-
sage.
Bung should be immersed in water for about three hours.
Salted water, changed every now and then. Oh, every hour or
so. Sometimes it will have fatty matter in it. Some people like
to leave it in, some like to scrape it out. If the beast who gave
up his bung had small intestines, the latter can often be a
problem, which is solved only by turning the bung inside out,
being careful not to tear it in the process.
The string used to tie off bung should be the kind ordinarily
used for flying kites.

Pricking—or Not Pricking—Sausage

There are always a good many arguments over sausage

whenever folks of good will get together. One is whether or
not to prick sausage. Another is where one will insist that the
sausage made in his home county is the best on earth. Another
will disagree, and the next thing will be that the two of them
will be behaving like rival bourbon whiskey manufacturers,
neither ever having made a sausage in his life.
“My butcher puts fennel in mine,” one will say.
“Fennel in sausage?” the other man will say.
“Yes, fennel in sausage.” There is menace in the tone.
“You're nit-witted,” says the second.
Within five seconds, the pair will be rolling around on the
17
floor, and, in the main, behaving like the climax to a Jerry
Lewis film. When the fighting is all over, they will each ask the
other to come and have another drink. Then they will have
another fight over who gets to pay for the round.
This fight, which occurs fairly frequently among sausage-
lovers, is nothing to that which occurs whenever the question
comes up of Whether or Not You Prick Sausages. Generally,
the pricking rules are these:

1. If the sausage is being started as it comes from its

package or wrapping, without being steamed or par-
boiled, prick it with three stabs of a fork. But turn the
heat down low. The pricking releases the grease inside,
which flows into the pan and imparts a nice brown-tan
color to the casing and to the meat itself. This applies
mainly to plain pork sausages, and to certain home-made
Italian ones.
2. A hard sausage should never be pricked. For that
matter, it seldom should be cooked. Hard sausage should
be eaten hard and cold.
3. It is almost always the rule to prick a white veal
sausage—weisswurst, bockwurst, et al.
4. Stomachs of pigs, goose liver sausage, and other sau-
sages contained in various thick innards should never be
pricked.
5. Tiny Viennese sausages should never be pricked. But
then—they should never be eaten.
6. Some people prick frankfurters. They are wrong to
do so. It just makes them wrinkle like skin that’s been in a
hot bath too long.
7. The huge French sausage called saucisson should
never under any conditions be pricked. It is boiled, and
the heavy casing in which it comes keeps it moist inside.

Those seven points make up the sum of what I have to say

on the matter. If you do prick sausage, have a slotted spoon
hard by for the skimming. Nobody loves an unskimmed boiled
sausage.
18
iS)
A. AND SAUSAGES. Before you get too far into
this book, resign yourself to the fact that most sausage recipes
are preposterously caressing to the chef’s disposition and
hands. Some of them may take a good deal of time, but most
of them give the cook a chance to, oh, shoot some pool, play
a game of chess, or even decorate a Christmas tree—or learn a
new piece on the piano, or guitar or the Ungeheuer. (Where
you are going to get an Ungeheuer, I cannot tell—but try.)
Get yourself some small link sausages, prick them with a
fork, dump about ‘two tablespoonfuls of butter into an iron.
skillet, and let them sputter and suzzle (suzzling is harder than
sizzling) until they are brown and a bit crusty. Now pour on a
can of Ballantine ale, or a bottle of Ballantine’s India ale. Be
patient while it comes to a boil, and then cover it and forget
it for about a half-hour.
Cooking with them, if they are in season, I would have some
poke greens, provided the poke is very young and tender. The
greens should be served in a separate dish. If there is no poke,
spinach will do. Or mustard greens. Or any greens you feel
like serving. Or wilted lettuce, touched with garlic, come to
think of it.

ANDOUILLES. Ido not know how to pronounce the word

properly, nor do I know its origin, but it sounds almost exactly
like ennui. I suspect—and this is only intuitional hindsight, if
there is such a thing—that it came from Provence. There is a
recipe for this delicious sausage, in fact, there are two of them,
in Dumas pére’s masterwork, Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine.
All interested in-sausage are urged to try them.
To make pork andouilles, get some pork bung and cut it into
the length you need. Soak it in a marinade of white wine, the
19
dry kind, into which you have whisked pinches of basil, thyme
and two cloves of smashed or pressed garlic. Marinate about
six hours. A longer time will do. Let this stand overnight, if
you will.
Now. Cut strips of fresh pork, some pork fat, and some of
the casings. Mix them all together with salt, fines herbes, and
a generous amount of crushed anise with a “portar and
mestle.”
Remove the rest of the pork casings from the marinade and
fill them with this engaging mixture. Save marinade. Go away
somewhere. The idea is to let it stand for a time. When you
can no longer bear the separation, go back to it, pick it up,
give each tied-off link its own kiss.
Now you are ready for the drowning ceremony.
A bouquet garni should be lain in the reserved marinade
along with one-half of a bay leaf, a little more salt, some
pepper, and a hunk of pork which is approximately the size of
the hunk of pork you always wish were to be found in cans
of baked beans and never is. Pere Dumas says you should let
the andouilles cook in this bath and then let them cool. He is
right, for I have tried it, and it is eminently palatable. Now,
disagreement.
Dumas recommends that you prick. I do not. Let the un-
pricked and pristine sausages brown gently in a bittering of
butter, take them out, and serve them with their heat within,
along with some orange marmalade.
Beef andouilles are done similarly. Beef bung is used, of
course. Tripe and ox palates should be used, about a pound of
them, well chopped or put through a grinder. Calf’s udder
should be added, and some ground-up bacon. These items
should all be parboiled until they are just about non-resistant
to the fork. Then there should be some chopped onion, cooked
in butter until transparent but not golden. Four egg yolks,
fines herbes, salt, and hard cracked pepper now go in.
Stuff the casings and tie each end with sturdy string. Boil
these gentlemen in a pint of dry white wine, along with a
bouquet of scallions and parsley tied together, several pieces
of garlic, one-half of a bayleaf, a pinch or two of basil, three
20
or four cloves, salt, pepper, one chopped carrot and one large
chopped onion. Boil them for about one hour. Take them out,
drain off all the other stuff, and simmer them in a skillet in
butter until they are browned and ready to eat.
Andouilles may also be made with veal substituted for beef.
Various other parts of the animal may be added: heart, liver,
kidneys, etc.
Andouilles should be served with home-fried potatoes, or
mashed potatoes, over which the leftover butter from the pan
has been poured. Along with this, serve horseradish to which
beets, some vinegar, and possibly some kosher dill pickle have
been added—all having first been crushed and forced through
a ricer.
For some reason, no doubt hidden in my subconscious, I like
to get bagels to go with andouilles, although there is no record
in Bocca, Dumas, or any other authority that bagels are re-
quired. The sausages do not have to be simmered, by the way.
They are perfectly good when eaten just out of the pot.

APPLES AND SAUSAGE. Frankly, all you good people

out in cookbookland, I prefer sausage in a casing, but there
are many pleasant ways to prepare uncased or loose sausage.
One of them is this, which is a cinch.
Shape a pound of sausage meat into hamburger-like patties.
Eight of them. Add a little dry red wine to the mixture before
shaping up the cakes. Now mix one-quarter of a teaspoonful of
sugar and about two tablespoonfuls of flour, and roll the
sausage patties around in the mixture. Cut up four good stout
apples—Winesaps, McIntoshes, Greenings, Jonathans, or any of
the many varieties of winter fruit. Naturally, you will first have
decored and dewormed them.
While you are cutting the apples, you should have a sugar
syrup boiling on the stove; one-half cup of sugar, one cup of
water, to which you will add a bit of butter roughly the size
of a two-year-old’s building block. Put the apples into this
syrup and let them go for between ten and twelve minutes, or
until they are just soft enough not to resist a poking fork.
Now put the sausage cakes on a baking-rack, or pan, or
21
cookie sheet, or whatever you use in your oven, and let them
broil under a rather gentle flame for another ten or twelve
minutes. This may also be done on an outdoor grill, in which
case the sausages should be turned frequently—with a pitcher
of water handy so that the grease dripping down onto the coals
can be prevented from burning up everything.
The dish, whether broiled indoors or barbecued out, should
be garnished with generous sprinklings of parsley, and served
with Chianti, Chilean red wine, or any of the superb California
wines. You eat the apples on the side. If you do the job inside,
use the drippings to make a gravy and serve it over dependable
mashed potatoes. This gravy should be poked up a bit with
Maggi’s seasoning or with some of the red wine mentioned
above, salted and peppered and sprinkled with a little dry
mustard. Otherwise, the sausage flavor will be overpowering
and you and your guests will be depressed about the whole
endeavor. This recipe will take care of four very nicely indeed.
Another apples-and-sausage dish is just as simple. Boil five
or six sweet potatoes. Peel and slice them. Peel, core, and slice
up five or six apples. Do not make the slices too thin.
Take a commodious casserole and coat it with oil or butter.
Do not use bacon fat; if you do, you risk making the whole
thing too demonstrative in asserting its porkiness. About half
the sweet potato slices should go on the bottom of the bowl.
Over them go four good-sized sausageburgers. And over those
four lads, ladle the raw apple slices. Sprinkle all this mess
gently with salt and brown sugar in about equal proportions.
Now pile on the rest of the sweet potatoes, throw on a little
water, and add some more brown sugar. Not too much, please.
Put the casserole in the oven and bake it for about an hour and
a half at around 350°. This is a good dish, but I hardly ever
cook it because I don’t much like sweet potatoes, except when
they are baked in their khakis.
A third sausage-and-apple trick is to boil cored and peeled
apples. Slice them and use these slices as the centers of sausage-
burgers. These things can be broiled or fried, preferably the
former, until the sausage meat is sizzlingly brown. Again, gar-
22
nish with parsley. Serve with chutney on the side, or with sour
pickle relish, and trot out the mashed potatoes or French-fried
parsnips.
The reverse of this is obvious. Core six or eight apples, with
one apple to a guest. Leave the skins on, except for about a
half-inch of naked apple around the top. Stuff each apple with
either loose sausage meat or a small link, the fatter the better.
Use salt and brown sugar, sprinkling all the little sentinels
lightly with same. Put them in a baking pan with about a half-
inch of water and lemon juice. Turn the oven to 350° and cook
until a fork will penetrate the apples easily. This will be about
an hour or perhaps an hour and a half. Flog onto the table the
ubiquitous mashed potatoes and give each serving a liberal
application of butter.
I once knew a lady who brushed these sausage-stuffed apples
with honey. Too sweet for my taste, but some families have
sweeter teeth than I’do. If you are tired of mashed potatoes, or
simply not in the mood for them, zucchini, boiled, not fried,
makes a good substitute. Or, at least, an adequate one. The
warning here is: do not overcook. Again, the drippings from the
sausage and the water in the pan can be used to make a de-
licious gravy, if it is seasoned with a drop or two of Tabasco
and Lea & Perrins, salted, celery-salted, peppered, and given
a taste of dry mustard. Parsley, one more time, is the garnish.
On the potatoes, too.

APPLE-AND-SAUSAGE CASSEROLE. This is one of the

many dishes in which apples and sausages will spend many
naughty prenuptial nights together.
Take as many sausages as you think you will need to keep
your guests happy and satisfied. I would estimate this to be
about three three-inch pork links per person. Or possibly four,
if you live in a neighborhood where the old nosebag is put on
regularly three times a day.
Grease a casserole, lightly. Lay down some sausages. Slice a
couple of apples-very thinly, the greener the better. Slice an
onion very thinly. Put a layer of the sliced apples over the
23
sausages, and a layer of the sliced onions over them. Now put
in another layer of sausages, so that this orgy may come to its
Walpurgisnachtian climax. Add one cup of water. Cover the
casserole and set it into an oven and bake it all at 350° for
about one hour.
Remove the cover when the hour has gone off into eternity,
and thicken the whole thing with about a teaspoonful of flour
and cornstarch which you have mated in a copper drinking-cup
of lukewarm water. Breed them with a whisk. Pour them, in
their water, into the sausage-onion-apple thing. Speak to them,
or sing them a chorus of Peoria.
This dish, says Mrs. Ruth Luecke, its creator, is best served
with hot buttered beets, and I believe her. I have no intention
of telling how to make hot buttered beets; you can get that
from Mrs. Irma S. Rombauer’s cookbook, or from Fannie
Farmer, or from Good Housekeeping. Oh, perhaps, I will relent.
You make buttered beets by boiling them until they will take
a fork through nicely, and then taking them out of their boiling-
pot and skinning them. Now they are put in a very small
amount of salted water along with about an eighth of a pound
of butter, and allowed to heat until the butter is melted. Salt,
pepper, and an almost infinitesimal pinch of thyme may be
added. You need no onion with these beets. There already is
some in the casserole, remember?
Some people I know like to top buttered beets with a couple
of tablespoonfuls of sour cream. Some even put sweet cream
into the butter-water mixture the parboiled beets are swimming
in. Some have been known to add one teaspoonful of horse-
radish to a pot of beets. I regard all these maneuvers as dan-
gerously uncivilized. A beet is a beet is a beet, I say, in the
manner of that grand old man Gertrude Stein, and better off
not messing with it.
If beets are not to your taste, you can try boiling turnips to
go along with this casserole, or even radishes. They get the
same treatment as beets: boiled first, then more or less steamed
with a small quantity of butter and water. Naturally, both
should be peeled first; turnips, being a stored-in-the-root-cellar
24
vegetable, may take issue at being peeled and resist. Radishes
should be scraped well beforehand and the green tops should
be consigned to the garbage pail. Radishes will not put up any
resistance, you will notice. In the house of my boyhood, rad-
ishes were never eaten any way but raw. It was not until I got
to Provence, in my late thirties, that I learned that they could
be cooked. In Montreal, some resourceful French Canadians
sauté them in almost-black butter. Up there, they use tiny ones,
the size of the shot that Montcalm’s men must have used.
Leeks also go well with this dish, provided that they are
washed thoroughly and simply steamed, having been sprinkled
a bit with parsley before being plunged into their submarine
graves. Braised tomatoes also can be called into service. The
braiseder, the better.
Do not mix any of these vegetables with the casserole. Use
them as side dishes, Please, and use them carefully, gently, and
restrainedly.

25
Cs
lb vere AND SAUSAGES. Sounds outrageous. It
isn’t. It’s delicious. Take six bananas and slit them lengthwise
after having cut off the ends about one-half inch. Do not remove
the skins. Force two small link sausages into the slit of each
banana, and put them on a baking-sheet, or in a baking pan, or
on aluminum foil, and let them go in a 375° oven for, oh, about
twenty-five minutes. If the bananas aren’t browned by then, let
the broiler work on them for about two minutes. I would serve
this with the estimable Major Grey’s Chutney.

BARBECUED SAUSAGE BALLS. This recipe was printed

in The Nebraska Centennial First Ladies’ Cookbook, compiled
by Maxine Morrison and edited by Catherine J. Hillegass, two
ladies who ought to be called to the White House and given
medals. This remarkable book, printed on the occasion of
Nebraska’s centennial, contains the favorite recipes of the first
ladies of towns, cities, and state, and some who are first ladies
only in their families.
Mrs. Dave Novotny’s barbecued sausage balls are especially
good, and are easy to make. About a pound of loose pork sau-
sage should be mixed with a beaten egg, salt and pepper and
approximately one-third a cup of bread crumbs.
The sausage-bread crumb-egg mixture should be shaped into
balls about one-and-one-half inches in circumference, and these
small spheroids then should be browned slowly in an un-
greased skillet for about fifteen minutes. While they are sizzling
away, you can be making a sauce of one-half cup of catsup (or
do you spell it ketchup? I never know. I think it depends on
what company you are loyal to). Add salt and pepper, two
tablespoons of brown sugar, one of vinegar, and one of soy
26
sauce. Pour all this over the balls when they are nicely
browned. Cover the spider and simmer the balls for about
thirty minutes, whisking around occasionally. If you like a
sauce hotter than the above, add four or five drops of Mc-
Ilhenny’s superb product. No other hot pepper sauce will do.
A good accompaniment for these sausage balls, would be
either turnips or kohlrabi served in a separate dish. They
should be stewed or steamed and buttered and salted and pep-
pered. Serve red wine, good crusty bread, and there is a fine
meal from Nebraska.

BASCOM’S STUFF. J. Bascom Wright of Knoxville, Ten-

nessee, is a gourmet and architect of various sauces and pow-
dered herbs which go well with sausages of all kinds. He is 61,
married, has three grown daughters and two grandchildren,
and, along with being devoted to his family, he has been de-
voted to cooking all his life.
His sauces—Bascom’s Steak Sauce, Bascom’s Beef Sauce,
Bascom’s Lamb Sauce, Bascom’s Fish Sauce, Bascom’s Pork
Sauce, and Bascom’s Picnic Sauce—are all not just good, they
are great, and worth asking for at your friendly neighborhood
gourmet shop.
The business, which Bascom developed when he came home
from the Army in 1946, has grown to a point where it grosses
around $750,000 a year and has earned a Culinary Merit Award
from the New York City Gourmet Society. Bascom now makes
about 260 products. “All the formulas are mine,” he declares.
“I developed them over long periods of time.”
Unfortunately for his friends, Bascom’s secret ingredients are
not revealed on his sauce labels. As might be expected, the best
one to use with sausage is Bascom’s Pork Sauce. The label on
this one says: “A table sauce for pork roast, chops, fried
chicken, veal.” The ingredients are listed as: “A secret blend of
tomato puree, vinegar, salt, spices, soy, and 1/10 per cent of
sodium benzoate.”
What you do with Bascom’s sauces is relatively simple.
First, you try to find them. Then you try to open the bottles.
27
This is difficult. Before writing this less-than-ageless epic to
Bascom, I spent nearly fifteen minutes trying to get open one
of the packaged bottles he uses and I have the damaged fingers
to prove it.
Now pan-boil, and then pan-fry some ordinary small link
sausages. Or some loose sausage made into small patties. Do
them on low heat. Wait until they are about half-done, and then
put them into some vessel and set them in the oven, at about
250°.
While they’re cooking, get out some of the Bascom’s Picnic
Sauce, and then the Bascom’s Pork Sauce. Take two jiggers
(two-ounce jiggers) and pour them into a saucepan. Two
jiggers of each. Into this mixture, when it is simmering away
pleasantly, chop some of the green tops of scallions, and shake
in some parsley and a pinch or two of oregano. Parboil a few
onions.
Take out the now pleasantly-cooked sausages and put them
on some sort of a platter. Drain them first, so that they will
not be too greasy. Throw a few of the parboiled onions, sliced,
into the Bascom’s sauce that has been simmering away. You
might also put in some watercress.
Toast some corn muffins. Lay two or three sausages on each
half muffin. Over this, spoon a goodly portion of the Bascom
stuff that has been simmering on the stove. The sauced sausage
should be garnished with more chopped scallions, or possibly
some finely minced onions. Just before serving, the host should
raise a glass of wine to Bascom, a noble man whose name will
go down in the lexicon of great chefs.
This sausage recipe, by the way, does not have to be laid on
corn muffins or corn bread. It can be put on well-toasted
English muffins, or just plain bread that has been run through
the toaster twice.

BOB EVANS FARMS. There are hundreds upon hun-

dreds of small sausage producers in the United States. Among
the most prominent, in terms of sales volume, is Bob Evans’s,
which is in a town with the unlikely name of Gallipolis, Ohio.
28
 In 1967, Bob Evans Farms, Inc., did $9,966,198 in sales. Its
new development, in 1967, was The Bob Evans Farms Sausage
Pattie which is exceptionally good. The hogs who met their
dooms to make these patties should be immortalized in song,
story, poem, hymn, and spoken ode.
The patties can be fried, charcoal-broiled, broiled in the
oven, or dumped into a pan with sauerkraut and done the usual
way. They can be served on rolls like hamburgers, along with
onions and pickles and mustard or ketchup. They can be
broiled and trotted out with baked beans—preferably B & M—
and they can be mixed up with grated water chestnuts and then
steamed, thereby giving the diner a Gallipolis, Ohio, version of
Chinese steamed pork and water chestnuts.
The best way I know to do these patties—I shudder when-
ever I write that word, so let’s call them sausage cakes—is as
follows: A
Get one or two for each guest. Broil them on each side for
about six minutes. Now take slices of sharp cheddar cheese—
Swiss or even Roquefort or Bleu will do—turn the sausages
and put the cheese on top.
The cheese will begin to melt soon, whether you are broiling
the sausage cakes or frying them. As soon as it begins this soft
and inoffensive behavior, put two slices of Mrs. Fanning’s
bread-and-butter pickles on the top of the cheese. Sprinkle each
sausage-cheese-pickle thing with paprika. Now take some pre-
viously-grated onion and sprinkle that on rather liberally. If
Uncle Rodney, the one with the bad stomach, happens to be on
the premises, go easy with the onions on his.
Most guests will want two of these things. They should be
served in buttered and toasted hamburger rolls after having
been sprinkled lightly with dill and dried parsley and the
slightest pinches of sage, oregano, and rosemary. Ketchup
and/or mustard should be provided, and—for those who are
not Uncle Rodney—grated horseradish.
Some nice beans should be served. Just plain beans, boiled
with a little grated garlic and some parsley. To make the beans
more interesting, you might break up one of the Bob Evans
29
Farms sausage cakes into them while they are cooking. Green
string beans also go well with these sausageburgers and so do
limas. I have known people who have used sliced dills instead
of the bread-and-butter pickles.
At the side, there should be nothing but raw onions and
sliced tomatoes, touched only with salt, pepper, oil and vinegar
to each guest’s taste. Oh, perhaps some lettuce. I hardly ever
use lettuce because I hate lettuce. Another good vegetable to
serve along with this simple sausageburger meal would be cold
cauliflower, laved over with whatever dressing the guest might
like to contrive for him or herself. Or cold asparagus. Or
braised celery, served in its own dressing. Or parsnips, boiled
and given forth with a nice sauce of butter. Cranberries—
warm, not cold—also go happily on the side of this sandwich.
BOCKWURST. It used to be that bockwurst was obtain-
able only in the spring. Housewives who knew about it were
always somewhat nervous when they bought it and took it
home, for this sausage had the reputation of spoiling easily.
The ladies thought it had to be cooked almost as soon as it was
taken out of the market basket or the carryall bag, and if they
allowed one bockwurst to remain in the refrigerator overnight,
they threw it into the garbage or broke it up and gave it to the
dog, who ate it with relish.
This is no longer the case. Today we can eat bockwurst with-
out fear practically the whole year around, thanks to improved
methods of packaging (most of which make it all but impos-
sible to get at the wurst one is hungry for); freezing (show me
a man who freezes food, and I’ll show you a man who would
freeze his mother); and canning. But the national demand for
bockwurst has placed it in good supply throughout the country.
Nobody will tell me how to make bockwurst at home. There
must be a conspiracy afoot. The undercover agents, no doubt,
are handing customers leaflets saying KEEP GEHMAN FROM
KNOWING. I have asked the estimable Christ Kunzler, Jr., and
he has said, “Well, that’s one recipe we don’t give out.” I have
asked Ferdinand Schaller, and he has replied by showing me
pictures of his three sons and himself on horseback. All the
30
big meat packers have replied with a press release saying, “We
are sorry, but we do not give out information of this kind.”
It does no good whatever to say, “Look, pal, I’m not thinking
of going into competition with you.”
Tobin’s, the fine Albany, New York, firm that makes so many
good sausage products, at least has the candor to put the in-
gredients on the label of its bockwurst. But it is a little hesi-
tant about the proper proportions. It says that its bockwurst
is composed of “Veal and pork, water, nonfat dry milk, pork
fat, milk, eggs, salt, onions, spices, parsley, leeks, flavorings,
monosodium glutamaté.”
“Spices” has me baffled. So does “flavorings.” One night I
caught a Lancaster butcher off his guard, and he whispered to
me that “spices” meant “chives.” “Ve all are gerputten der
chivenhaben into der bockvurst,” he said. ‘‘What else?” I asked.
He clammed—or sausaged—up.
If I were trying “to make bockwurst at home, I would use
three-quarters of veal to one quarter of pork. The poundage
would be your own choice. I would then add one egg per pound
of meat, about a cupful of milk, one well-chopped leek or one
smallish onion, about one tablespoonful of well-chopped pars-
ley, a macerated clove, just enough pepper to make a skye
terrier sneeze, and about a teaspoonful of monosodium gluta-
mate. I do not know what the Tobin people refer to when they
say “flavorings.”
The bockwurst mixture ought to be mixed and mixed and
mixed until you are so weary you are ready to forget the whole
thing. It should all be ground together, smelled for the season-
ings (you might want to add more chives here), and then put
through the grinder one more time. At this time, you should
lug out the casings you have bought at the butcher shop, soak
them for a few minutes in salted water, and stuff them with
the white mixture—white and green-flecked from the chives.
Tie the sausages off. They should be about the length of
frankfurters. They need not be linked together. Do not smoke
them. Half the fun of a bockwurst is its fresh, pungent flavor.
To cook this gentleman, boil some water until it is so furious
31
it is ready to take on the Caronia and put her on her side. Take
the boiling mess off the stove, and steep the bockwurst in it
after the water has calmed down. Let the villain go for seven
or eight minutes. Remove the wurst with tongs, and, if you're
going to eat it now, put the wurst into a frying pan that is
already being made miserable by the ignominy of having butter
melt on its bottom. Take that pan off the heat, too, and set it
aside for a moment. Now put it back on a simmering flame and,
having sprinkled the bockwurst with a cut-up raw onion, which
is not really meant to be eaten, let the sausage links go until
they are warmly brown all over. One or two may burst open.
Be firm with them. Press them down until the insides are
brown, too. I do not believe I have ever cooked a mess of
bockwurst in which there was not one that did not indicate its
intransigeance by splitting open and causing a general commo-
tion in the frying pan.
Bockwurst goes well in bean dishes, especially cassoulet. It
can be boiled gently, fried gently, and a cluster of it dumped
into baked beans, preferably B & M. It can be eaten for break-
fast with Jim Dandy grits on the side. It can be sauerkrauted,
or steamed-cabbaged, or red-cabbaged. It is willing to be put
on a board, cut up into inch-long slices, and served atop boiled
rice, the two of them liberally rained with soy sauce, and
Chinese vegetables. It can be kept, after it has been cooked and
allowed to cool, and served with mustard as a kind of cold hot
dog. Beef stew will not protest its presence provided it has
been cut in small sections. Neither will clam chowder. Veal
stew will love it, for veal is, after all, the father of this sausage.

BOLOGNA SAUSAGE. According to Mrs. Dr. S., as she is

identified in Housekeeping In Old Virginia, there is only one
method of making bologna sausage. It is one that even the
most simple-minded housewife could make without difficulty.
All she would need would be a pair of strong arms, for this
recipe, like so many that go to make up sausage, asks for a
good deal of meat.
Mrs. Dr. S.’s rules shout out for ten pounds of beef and four
32

rr
pounds of pork, two-thirds of the latter to be lean and one-
third fat. All this should be run through the grinder, along with
salt, sage, cayenne pepper, some ground black pepper, and
perhaps a pinch or two of saltpeter. Choose your own casing.
There is a kind of bologna that is encased in bung and an-
other kind that is merely wrapped in string, and yet a third
kind that is done up in cheesecloth. The bung-encased and the
stringed-up varieties are about two inches in diameter; the
cheesecloth-enclosed kind is thick enough so that when sliced
and laid on ordinary-sized slices of bread it will stick out on
all four sides. This is-Lebanon bologna as it is sold in the
markets in Lancaster, Bucks, Berks, and Montgomery counties
in Eastern Pennsylvania. But I have seen Lebanon in the Far-
mers’ Market in Los Angeles and even in a market I visited in
Denver one dismal weekend I spent there. I confess I never
have seen it in Cheyenne, Wyoming, or Kathmandu, Nepal, but
this may have beer because I was not looking for it in those
places; I had my mind on indigenous products.
Bologna originally came from Bologna, Italy. Lebanon bo-
logna was the Pennsylvania Dutch’s way of showing the Italians
who was boss. The good people of Lebanon County simply re-
fined the sausage until it was more to their local taste. It has
a strong yet sweet flavor, yet it is not so sweet that it would
repel a man who likes an affirmative taste in his meat. My
mother used to send me off to school with bologna sandwiches
so thick that if I had had the horse I wanted I could have
choked him with them.
Upon the half-inch slices of bologna, she would lay slivers of
either plain Lancaster County “sharp” cheese, or Amish-made
Swiss cheese, and she would lave the entire thing with mustard.
As I grew older, she added raw onions, or would chop up eggs
that had been pickled in beet juice, or pickles she had made
herself in a gigantic crock in the cellar. Even, sometimes, some
sauerkraut, which she also had set in the crock herself. Not in
the same crock.
One final note of advice, perhaps gratuitous: Lebanon bo-
logna should never be cooked, unless it is to be laid over fresh
BIS)
shad or salmon, and then it should be slivered, rinded, and
sautéed gently. It should never be scrambled with eggs or
heated up with poached or soft-boiled ones. It is best served as
it comes—smoked, cold, and speaking its own mind.

BOYD’S SAUSAGE. I never knew Wesley R. Boyd, my

maternal grandfather, who was, in order, a farmer, a breeder
of trotting horses, a consumer of the crayther, and an all-
around nice man, I am assured. In buthering ceaston, which
most of his descendants spell ‘butchering season,” he would
kill his own pigs and make sausage. I daresay that pleased his
progeny more than it did him, for he was more interested in
his trotters than he was in the pigs.
My mother has sent me W. R. Boyd’s sausage-making rule,
which goes as follows:
“Grind all pork parts except ribs and hams real fine. Season
well with pepper and salt. Mix for about 15 minutes. If you
care to, you can grind several pounds of beef to add to this,
but I never liked it that way. It’s better all made of pork. If
you have a sausage maker, put in a container of stuffing. Put
the casing in the small pipe of the sausage maker, press the
sausage in and fill up the casing. Or pack it in a pan and sell
it as sausage meat.”
To this, I would add some sage and some thyme, but who am
I to disagree with my mother? When the old lady says “pork
parts,” she means the ears, the jowls, the neck meat, and
almost everything else except the eyes.

BREAD-ENCASED SAUSAGE. It came to me, while I

was writing this no doubt exhausting book, that sausage does
not necessarily have to be in a bung or in an artificial casing.
Bread will do. Provided it is Italian or French. It can even be
Greek or Jewish. All it need be is long and have a good stout
crust.
The McCormick people of Baltimore, one of the oldest herb-
spice companies in the nation, are also of this persuasion. The
recipe to follow is one of theirs.
34
 Get a long loaf of French or Italian bread. Slit it in two
lengthwise, at about one-third of its thickness. Set the two
pieces of bread aside, first having hollowed a good deal of the
bread out of the larger bottom half. You can do this with your
knife or your cooking fork or your fingers. Save approximately
one cup of bread for crumbing. Set aside in a dry place, or, if
very fresh, dry in oven.
Now take one cup of finely minced ham and/or Spam. Do
not scoff at Hormel’s Spam, please. It is better than World War
II GIs thought. What they called Spam is not the Spam we
know today. Put the Spam or ham through your grinder with
the fine blade in action. Then grate one cupful of Cheddar
cheese. If you want to be daring, use Swiss.
More work is on its way. I don’t know why I don’t stick to
simple recipes. But this really is not so labyrinthine. It only
sounds that way.
Dump into a bowl one quarter cup of melted butter, the
same amount of well-chopped black or green olives, two table-
spoons of instant minced onions, and a quarter of a tablespoon
of Colman’s dry mustard. You may use well-minced fresh onion
if you so desire—and I hope you so desire. Add some coarsely
ground black pepper, a dash of ginger, the minced ham or
Spam, and the grated cheese. Then mix it all until your wrists
are ready to allow your hands to fall off.
Haul out a wooden spoon. Ladle a tiny bit of dry white wine
into the bowl and mix a bit more with hands or spoon. (I
assume you will have ground up cooked or smoked Virginia,
Kentucky, or Tennessee hams so that trichinosis will be out
of the question. There is no danger of trichinosis whatever
from Spam.) When this whole bowlful is nicely muddled and
seasoned to your taste, add the bread crumbs. Mix it together
again. I said this was going to take some time.
Then spoon the mixture into the lower two-thirds of the loaf
of bread. Now set the top part on it. Get out some foil and
wrap the whole thing up, twisting the end. Use heavy duty foil,
please. Get the oven up to about 350°.
This monstrous bread sausage may be helped along with the
35
addition of tomatoes, although they are not necessary. The
ham or Spam will supply enough salt so you will not need that.
The thing should be baked for about 30 minutes by which time
the cheese will have melted and all the things inside will have
become as close as Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin were at one
time.
I serve cranberry sauce with this sausage. Or some cabbage
slaw. Or some sauerkraut. It really is nothing much more than
a better-than-usual submarine sandwich, but if you open the
foil toward the end of the cooking, and let it get good and
brown, it looks like a sausage, and may convince some people
that it is one.

BUBBLE-AND-SQUEAK. This is a famous English dish

first introduced to your respondent here by the famous British
bank robber and double agent, Eddie Chapman, in a pub in
Knightsbridge. We were making the traditional Sunday noon-
time pub crawl, and after about eleven gins apiece we felt
hungry. “I know of a place where the bubble-and-squeak isn’t
bad by ’arf,” Eddie said, and forthwith led me out to it.
The place was small. I forget its name; it was something like
The Queen’s Elbow. It was in a mews in a building that had
been standing for at least two hundred years, slanting off to
the side like its drunken customers after they left at night.
There was a buzz as Chapman and I entered, for everybody
recognized him. Before the war, he had been wanted by every
policeman and detective in the British Isles, and had been
accused of forty-odd bank robberies.
During the war, they gave him a chance to get out—provided
he would attempt to parachute into France, offer his services
to the Nazis, and then, pretending to act as their man, would
blow up a huge industrial establishment. “Anything to blow
out of stir,” he said to me. “So I took the barstards up on
their offers.”
The war over, Chapman went completely straight, wrote a
couple of books, and launched himself into the real estate busi-
aess. If I had not known something of his background, I never
36
would have believed, that day in the pub, that he once had
been England’s No. 1 Wanted Man.
“Try some of this, old cock,” he said, handing me a dish of
bubble-and-squeak. It was greenish, and looked like something
the hungriest pig in the world would have turned down.
“You must be joking,” I said.
“Try it,’ Chapman said, rather sternly. I tried it, and it
turned out to be delicious. I ate two whole portions, washing
it down with some Whitbread’s.
When I got home, I tried to make it in my own kitchen. The
effort was not successful. I could not duplicate the flavor the
dish had had in The King’s Truss, or whatever that pub was
called.
One day some material arrived from Jones Dairy Farm. In
it was a recipe for bubble-and-squeak. I had been fighting the
bubble-and-squeak battle for so long I had become convinced
I would never be &ble to master it. Tastebud memories from
the Chapman lunch haunted me, however, and I decided to try
the Jones rule. It turned out to be authentic, exactly as I re-
membered the dish at The Prince’s Kidney, or whatever that
tiny place was called.
Here is how it is made. Crumble one and one-half cupfuls
of cold, loose, previously-fried sausage meat. While the sausage
is frying, boil one head of cabbage, the dimensions of a koala
bear’s head. Cook it in furiously boiling water and take it out
and chop it up until you get an amount that equals the sausage
you are browning. Sometime during these two processes, you
should be making a white sauce, seasoning it with salt and
pepper, a drop or two of Tabasco, and a dash of garlic powder
—but only a dash.
Put this all in a baking dish and mix it well with a wooden
spoon. Cover it with bread crumbs, preferably home-made.
Bake it in an oven at about 250° until the sausage bubbles and
squeaks up through the crumbs. You will need no side dish
for this meal. For dessert, you will want a well-ripened Brie.
Since the day Chapman introduced me to it, I have had
bubble-and-squeak in many a pub in London and other English
37
towns. It is served both hot and cold. I must say I prefer the
hot. A bit of cucumber salad on the side does go well, or some
raw tomatoes. Thank you, Eddie Chapman, the nicest and most
hospitable bank robber I ever have known.

BUCKWHEAT CAKES AND SAUSAGES. I never much

liked pancakes and I don’t like the kind that are to be found
in those pancake houses that have sprung up all over the
country. For one thing, I cannot stand the prose that appears
on their menus. Good God, even Clementine Paddleford wrote
better than the people who write that copy. But I do like buck-
wheat cakes with sausage, and an aging relative of mine, a Miss
Finetta Q. Stoneborough, once taught me to make them.
Do this the night before—just about the time Johnny Carson
comes on the‘television. This batter, having been well-mixed
with a wooden spoon during Carson’s monologue, should be
permitted to rise overnight.
Get two cupfuls of buckwheat flour, preferably bought from
a country miller. One yeast cake should now be smashed in,
and one tablespoonful of salt, plus two of brown sugar, and
two cupfuls of buttermilk. Go to bed or watch TV.
In the morning, get some sausages on the stove to boil away
their half-inch of water and then to sizzle in their own grease.
The batter, meanwhile, has risen along with other members of
the household. Take another frying pan, grease it, and drop
spoonfuls of the batter in it while the sausage is frying away.
When the sausages seem to be done inside and on both sides,
put them in a covered dish in the oven to keep warm. Put ina
dish or a pie tin for the buckwheat cakes, too. Serve these
items with gooseberry or currant jelly on the side. Some peo-
ple like Vermont maple syrup, and some like old-fashioned
molasses. Others have been known to eat apple butter with
these cakes. Other hearty trenchermen have been known to
add slices of hard red Kentucky-cured ham to the sausages. If
ham is cooked along with the sausages, it should be well-
minced.
After it, and the sausages, have been removed from the pan,
38
a fine gravy may be made with the addition, of more of the
buckwheat flour—about two tablespoonfuls, plus a drop or
two of Maggi’s Seasoning and one drop only of Tabasco.

39
Com
C= AND SAUSAGE. Some lady who evidently
is too modest to sign her name sent me this fine recipe. The
postmark said Mount Joy, Pennsylvania, and that is all I know
about her whereabouts. She may be a shy minister’s daughter.
I like to think of her as involved with the choir director, or
possibly the organist.
In the kitchen, it is plain from her prose, she is involved
with good stout cooking. First she cooks one cupful of raw rice.
She takes one pound of sausage, and, having drained the rice,
mixes them together. While the rice and sausage are cooking
in an iron skillet, she wilts a good-sized head of cabbage in hot
water. Then she strips off the bigger leaves and lays them aside
on paper towels so that they can drain. Next she salts and pep-
pers the sausage and rice, and adds about two tablespoonfuls
of this mixture to as many cabbage leaves as she wishes to
serve. Generally, I tie this leaf-roll up with string, but it can
be secured with toothpicks, which is hard on the absent-minded
eater’s mouth-roof.
No, she doesn’t use either string or picks. “Place end down
so it doesn’t unravel,” she says in her letter. “Unravel”? That
sounds like my mother saying, “Outen the light.”
Now the lady places the sausage-stuffed cabbage leaves in a
large kettle, one layer after the other. She then pours in two
cans of tomato paste with about a quart of water, covers it,
and lets it simmer for a little over an hour.
“Good heated over,” she says. And I am prepared to believe
her.

CABBAGE AND SAUSAGE, NO. II. One of the most won-

derful summers I ever spent was at Pine Lake, Wisconsin. Each
40
morning, I would take my small typewriter out, along with a
large envelope full of paper and carbon paper, get into a row-
boat, and let myself drift in the boat to wherever the water and
wind felt like carrying it and me. The boat did most of the
work. I sat in it and let it bear me, and I typed on my novel.
I used to take a sandwich out on the boat, and sometimes a
small thermos bottle of chilled martinis, but by the time I
returned at about 6 p.M., I was ravenous. The lady who ran the
house where I was staying was a cook such as I have seldom
known any lady to be. When she went to her kitchen, it became
a fort. I was allowed in there one day when she was busy with
her stuffed cabbage. It is substantially the same, in the making,
as the one given in the previous recipe, but the sauce is dif-
ferent. I watched her make the sausages rolled up in cabbage
with awe.
First she fried loose sausage meat, sprinkling it with cumin,
poppy seeds, macé, garlic salt, red pepper and black pepper,
and coarsely ground salt. When she turned off the flame under
the burner and drained the fat, she turned to the cabbage that
she had been wilting in boiling water. This cabbage had ex-
tremely sturdy leaves and made excellent casings for the
sausage, which she folded into forms about one-half the size
of the average frankfurter. She folded each cabbage leaf around
one of these small sausage forms and permitted me to tie each
one with a length of kite string.
As I finished each little cabbage and sausage bundle, it was
thrown into a frying pan that was sizzling with melted lard.
The cabbage rolls were browned on both sides but not allowed
to blacken.
As the sausages finished their lard bath, the lady removed
them one by one and put them on paper towels to drain. She
took a little grease out of the pan and threw it away, added a
half-bottle of German beer to the remaining grease, plus about
a tablespoonful of carroway seeds. With the remaining beer
from the bottle, she made a roux with flour, and added that to
the pan as well, all the time stirring as though she were bent
on giving herself a crippled arm.
41
 After the saucepan had become a receptacle for a nicely
thickened but not too thick gravy, she restored the little
sausage bundles. Then she quartered six tomatoes and turned
them in, and dashed the mixture with rosemary and basil,
stirring all the while. At the last minute the whole thing re-
ceived a cut-up onion and a dash of sherry; then it was con-
signed to the oven. Needless to say, the skillet was an iron one.
These sausage-and-cabbage bundles can be served with
mashed potatoes, but most people feel that the latter are a
little much. Kohlrabi is better, if you can get it. It need only
be cut up, steamed and served as it comes out of the pot. The
gravy will make it taste better than it already does. It needs
no butter and no salt.

CASSOULET. Eight or nine French chefs have given me

their own special recipes for this marvelous casserole, and I
have more or less Waringized them into one of my own.
Soak some beans—Great Northern, Maine pea beans, black-
eyes, limas, and some red kidneys for color, and some chick
peas (garbanzos) overnight. About a quarter of a pound of
each kind. More, if you are expecting a good many people.
Allow about an eighth of a pound of each for each person.
There is much, much more to come.
Take some small link sausages—one for each expected guest,
and three or four more for the pot. Sauté them gently until
they are brown all around. Remove them and set them aside
with tenderness. Now, take a cut-up chicken and let it cook in
the sausage grease until it, too, is brown. There again, you
should provide one hunk of chicken for each guest, plus a few
more for the pot.
In the same dish, skillet, or whatever you are using, brown
some cubed lamb-shoulder, or anything the butcher is using
as customer-bait that day. Do not bone the lamb. Just cut it
into good-sized cubes. Take it out when it is brown and set it
aside along with its future partners in this polygamous mar-
riage of many flavors.
Get a good-sized earthen pot, preferably one made in France.
42
One about eight inches deep and ten or twelve inches in
diameter. Grease it with whatever is left over from that endless
sautéing you have been doing. Pour the rest of the grease into
the bottom of the pot.
Take the beans that have been soaking, put them into a
colander and wash them, picking them over as you do.
Get a slice of pepperoni, that hard and obdurate sausage
which is attributed to the Italians but which actually was in-
vented by the Chinese who, in their Oriental modesty, would
never claim credit for it. Coin the pepperoni—about an eight-
een-inch slice—and have it on hand to be spread through the
various layers and also put on top of the whole thing.
Now. Put a layer of beans on the bottom of the pot. Slice a
tomato, a good-sized one, about as big as a ball of knitting
yarn, and throw the slices atop the beans. Strew about half
the lamb over the tomatoes, and cover it all with another layer
of beans. (Remember to be interspersing your coins of pep-
peroni.) Now, in goes some of the chicken—about half, again.
More beans. Six or seven strips of bacon, each cut in half.
The rest of the chicken, beans once more, and a couple of
slivers of green pepper. A bay leaf. No. Half a bay leaf will be
enough. The rest of the lamb and beans on top of it. This ges-
ture ought to get rid of all the beans.
Pour in about four ounces of dry red wine, or Chianti, or, if
you are pressed for supplies, sherry. Simple cooking sherry
will do, but this dish tastes better if red wine is used.
Lay the sausages on top of the whole thing. Try to arrange
them in the design one sees on hex signs in Lancaster County—
that is, a whorled design. If there are any beans left over, put
them atop the sausages.
Now slice another tomato and put it on. Lay about eight
strips of bacon, cut up into two-inch lengths, all over this so
that it resembles a circus big top. Spread over the whole mix-
ture some of what I call John Cassavetes Seeds, principally be-
cause I can never remember the word carroway. Poppy seeds
will do well, too.
Set the pot in an oven turned on to about 300°. Keep it at
43
that temperature for about one hour and then turn it back to
250°. Some people like to lay more slices of tomato on top of
the topping bacon, but others feel that this makes the dish, in
the argot of housewives, “too tomatoey.”
While the pot is in the oven, you ought to be cutting about
six slices of bread into half-inch-square cubes. Fry them in but-
ter and permit them to stand for about three hours or until
they are good and dry. Do not permit them to sit in the butter;
take them out and drain them on paper towels. Set them aside.
Approximately at the second hour of cooking, spread them lib-
erally atop the dish. Add good sprinklings of salt and pepper,
plus another dash of wine.
At this point, some folks I know add some poultry seasoning,
as well, but I feel this is superfluous. A tiny pinch of sage or
thyme, one or the other, will do. Poultry seasoning, which is
composed of both, is a bit too much.
The cassoulet should cook all day long. It then should be
taken out of the oven and be given the liberty of cooling itself.
If you put it in at 9 a.M., it should cook until about 7 P.M.
Then it should be set aside. It can be eaten then, but it will be
far better if it is refrigerated and then eaten, heated, of course,
the next day.
During the course of the reheating process, another jigger or
two of wine—this time, white—can be added. It should be
poured in carefully, so as not to make the croutons—the fried
bread—soggy. The Thing, as I call it, because it is a taxing
monster, ought to be served with a garnish of parsley or water-
cress.
There are those who have been known to put diced new
potatoes in this mixture, adding a layer of them around the
middle. In my view, it is starchy enough as it is. Potatoes are
not necessary. If they are added, they ought to be pre-fried in
the form of cubes before they are added. Some chefs add onion
slices to their cassoulet. Others add a clove of garlic or garlic
powder.
Serve this Tyrannosaurus with a very simple lettuce salad,
allowing each guest to mix his own dressing at the table. Then
44
give the people halved pears filled with about a jigger of brandy
apiece. The people will leave your house dancing, making up
songs to honor you, and most probably getting arrested for
drunken driving.

CERVELAT. “Do you ever have sausage around the

house?” I once asked my half-cousin, Tony Marshall, who was
then living with his parents in Westfield, New York.
“Oh, yes, we cervelat,” he said, causing his mother to give
him a left hook to the left end of his mouth.
Cervelat is a thick sausage of which many Europeans and
European-Americans are extremely fond. It is made with prop-
erly-prepared pork and can also be made with fish. Sometimes
it is not so thick. The thickness it has depends mainly on the
casings at hand.
Dumas pére, in his monumental Grand Dictionnaire de
Cuisine, offered many ways of preparing cervelat, which, in
reality, is nothing much more than a rather more spiced-up
version of Lebanon bologna. But, fish or meat, it is worth going
to the trouble to make, if only because it will taste a bit better
than the product turned out by most of the big packing houses.
To make cervelat at home, first procure about four pounds
of pork and about two feet of pork bung. Clean the pork, taking
out all the sinews and the fat. Put it into your grinder and add
some finely chopped smoked bacon and some chopped parsley.
To this add pinches of the green parts of scallions (only about
one-half of a tablespoonful), a tiny bit of thyme and basil, and
perhaps a macerated clove or two. Maybe some nutmeg.
All this should be stuffed unto its death in the casing, tied off
in the lengths you desire, and then hung up either in the cellar
or chimney for three or four days. This cervelat is cooked in
beef bouillon when you finally haul it down. It is cooked for a
long time—three hours, at the least—along with salt, black
pepper, thyme, more basil, bay leaf, parsley and more chopped
scallions. Some like to eat it hot. To my taste, it is much better
when cooled. -
There is a kind of cervelat they make in Lyon, France, which
45
is delightful. They take equal quantities of lean pork, lean beef
and bacon, and put all three of them together through a
grinder. This is seasoned with salt to taste, coarsely ground
peppercorns, shallots which have been smashed with the flat
side of a cleaver, a couple of cloves of garlic which have been
maltreated the same way, and a bit of saltpeter. This is sup-
posed to be mixed thoroughly and set aside for at least two
days, after which it is to be stuffed into large bungs, tied into
links, and allowed to hang for about one and one-half weeks.
After the drying period, the cervelat should be hung in the
chimney, assuming you have one, for another two weeks. I have
the feeling that I am putting all readers off making cervelat
for the rest of their lives.
Take the sausages down, pull their strings up tight, and cover
them all over, rubbing hard, with a mixture of thyme, sage, and
bay leaf, which previously has been boiled in white wine. Dry
the sausages one more time. This will be approximately the
time you will require to have a huge drunk-making drink,
which you most certainly will need. Have it. When the sausages
are dried again, wrap them in paper and put them away. Dumas
pére recommended covering them with dry ashes. I do not
recommend that. For one thing, you would not have the
strength.

CHEF’S SALAD WITH SAUSAGE. It ought to be made

clear here that I dislike salad. Who wants to eat the stuff I
fed my rabbits when I was nine? Who wants to eat something
eaten by women in flowered hats? Salad, my foot.
Yet it is possible, I have found, to make a fairly passable
chef’s salad with sausage. Most people put bits of chicken,
tongue, ham, and sometimes even veal, into a chef’s salad,
overlooking the delights that sausage can offer.
Pan-broil, or pan-fry, several smallish links, and when they
are brown, set them into the refrigerator to cool. While the
sausages are simmering, make the standard dressing: one
tablespoonful of vinegar and about one-quarter cupful of olive
oil. Grind some pepper into this, and add one section of finely-
46
minced garlic. Salt it lightly, and add some Colman’s mustard.
Bruise everything together with the back of a spoon, then give
it a whisk treatment. When you have completed that operation,
place the bowl containing the dressing in the back of the re-
frigerator. Let it cool.
Then, put the cooled dressing into a salad bowl and tear
into it shreds of iceberg lettuce, or Romaine, or endive, or
chicory, or raw, well-washed spinach, or beet greens, or water-
cress, or cabbage, or artichoke hearts, or cold asparagus, or
cold Brussels sprouts, or avocado, or thin-sliced cauliflower, or
cucumber, or raw mushrooms, or olives, or some anchovy filets,
or cut-up scallions, or sliced radishes, or celery cut on the bias
the way the Chinese do it, or Chinese cabbage, or finnochio, or
little hunks of any kind of cheese, or crumbled bits of crisp
bacon, or, finally, chopped hard-boiled eggs. You can be as
daring as you wish. The more daring, the better.
Take out the sausages and slice them length-wise or into one-
half inch hunks. Drop them into whatever vegetables you have
decided to use. Take a small slice of hard salami, about two
inches of it, slice it thinly, then sliver it and put it in.
The next move depends on how hungry you are. If you wish,
you can cut in slivers of other kinds of sausage or bologna,
even adding some head cheese.
Now toss the salad lightly, so that each leaf gets coated with
the dressing, and all the meat bits too. Set the bowl in the
refrigerator, get another bowl, and muddle together two raw
eggs. Set them aside for the moment. Cube three pieces of
bread, melt about one tablespoonful of salted butter in a frying
pan, and allow the cubes, which should be about one-half inch
square, to get nearly blackened.
Remove the salad bowl again. Pour in the raw eggs, and toss
the whole thing yet one more time. Take the fried bread cubes
off the stove, drain them on paper or cloth towels, and add
them to the salad.
Now is the time you must toss like mad. While you are toss-
ing, sprinkle the whole thing liberally with grated Parmesan
or Romano cheese or even with grated American cheese.
47
 The experienced cook will recognize that this is not much
more than a Caesar Salad made with sausage. Any kind of
sausage can be used: Thuringer, blutwurst, Lebanon bologna,
cooked and chilled weisswurst, cooked salami, and most of
the other popular varieties.
To make this chef’s salad an even more substantial repast
than it already has become, a can of red or white kidney beans,
which have been drained and then washed in cold water, may
be added. Or garbanzos which have also been given the same
treatment. Or both the kidneys and the garbanzos.
The question of what is to be eaten along with this salad is
an interesting one. A variety of pickles is my choice, or chow
chow, or well-pickled beets, unless you’ve already put some into
the salad.

CHICKEN SAUSAGE HYMAN GOLDBERG. That jovial

and somewhat Jovian gnome, Mr. Hyman Goldberg, who once
volunteered his services to the Hearst organization as Prudence
Penny, but who refused to work in women’s clothes, always
comes up first with a fairly repeatable joke and then with a
good recipe. Goldberg, who is about as high as the average
stove, attributes his success as a chef to (a) clean living, (b)
total abstinence from spirituous liquors, (c) early classes in
Sunday shul, and (d) his mother. His ordinary aspect, as he
faces the world, is that of a man who just has emerged from
bed. His eyes are blue saucers waiting to take in the day. Al-
_ ways nicely turned out on the streets, he spends his days insult-
ing his friends and then goes home to Brooklyn, where he puts
on the uniform of a sous-chef and begins to work on various
cookery inventions which alarm his friends and usually delight
his neighbors.
The author of Our Man In The Kitchen put all this into 411
recipes, each of which was preceded by a joke more terrible
than the one that went before. I will spare readers the joke that
preceded his recipe for chicken sausages.
Cut the meat from one and one-half pounds of cooked chicken
breasts. Put it, with one-half pound of boiled ham, through the
grinder, using the smallest blade. Now take one-quarter pound
48
of chicken livers, boil them in water with one-quarter teaspoon-
ful of salt for five minutes, and then drain them and chop them
fine. Three whisked eggs should be added to the chopped liver,
plus a good-sized pinch of nutmeg, about the same amount of
pepper, and one-half a tablespoonful of salt.
This all should be mixed together with the ground-up chicken
and ham. Into the mixture should go three tablespoonfuls of
cracker crumbs which you will have been making while the
chicken livers have been boiling.
The whole thing should be put on a sheet of wax paper, or
on a more-or-less greased board, and should be shaped, says
Goldberg, into a roll about twelve inches long and two and one-
half inches thick. Then it should be covered with more bread
crumbs and dipped into three more beaten or whisked eggs.
After this egg bath, it should be covered with more crumbs,
treated to a second bath, and dipped again.
By this time you will be singing several choruses of I Hate
You, Hyman Goldberg, and not even the canary will protest.
There is more to come. Get some cheesecloth, wrap the
sausage-like thing in it, roll the cloth up and tie the ends with
good stout string or twine.
Still more work lies ahead of you. A stock should be made
from the chicken bones you have left over. About five quarts of
water, plus about five tablespoonfuls of salt, all in a pot large
enough to hold your sausage. When the salty chicken stock
seems to be done, immerse the sausage. Cook it for at least an
hour. Take it out of the stock, Goldberg advises, and let it
cool for one day. Remove the cloth, he dictates. Refrigerate it
overnight. Serve it on toast, cold, sliced thinly.
The sausage may be eaten hot, but it is not as good as when
it is cold. There ought to be some cold cranberries on the side,
whether it is eaten hot or cold. Or, perhaps, some blackberry
preserves.

CHICKEN STEAMED WITH SAUSAGE. Princess Gar-

den, in Hong Kong, is one of those restaurants that haunt you
for days, weeks, months, and years afterward. Sometimes you
awaken, 9,000 miles away, to the bleak realization that you
49
will be able to go down the street to the local beanery for lunch
and will not be able to get to the Princess Garden. It is not a
large place, and it is decorated in a taste that might be de-
scribed as Early Aw Boon Haw.
They have a dish at the Princess Garden, steamed pork and
water chestnuts, that I have tried to duplicate at home many
times, only to meet my usual defeat when trying to cook
Chinese food. The minced pork is pressed into a flat cake,
somehow, and then minced water chestnuts are forced into it.
This sounds reasonably easy to do, but it is not easy at all.
My pork keeps crumbling. For a while, I tried adding a beaten
egg. The whole mess came out looking like Egg Foo Yung.
I have given up and have switched to another version of this
delicacy, one I made up on an afternoon when I was in the
United States, thinking wistfully of Princess Garden.
I got some loose sausage and about a half dozen chicken legs,
and, after boiling and deboning the legs, I ground the two
together. I added one beaten egg and the chopped tops of about
four scallions, plus some parsley (also chopped) and some dry
mustard. All this enabled me to shape it into a cake that just
fits the bottom of my eight-inch iron frying pan, the one that
has a lid.
I poured on water that barely covered the cake, turned the
heat up high (it is difficult not to turn the heat up high when
one is dealing with an electric stove, as I was), put the lid on,
and sat down to have a cigarette and a drink. Then I remem-
bered. I had forgotten to pour a little soy sauce on my simmer-
ing cake. Removing the lid, I put about ten or twelve drops of
soy sauce on the cake. Then, as an afterthought, I cut up the
tops of two more scallions and put them on.
Within five minutes, the kitchen was smelling the way the
Princess Garden does. More or less. It was not quite the same,
but it was a gratifying approximation. I assured myself that
this was going to be one of my winners.
Ah, false courage! Ah, false pride!
I had forgotten to put in the can of water chestnuts I had
opened and chopped.
50
 It is advisable for anybody who wants to make this dish to
attempt not to duplicate my omission. Steamed pork and water
chestnuts somehow lose something when the water chestnuts
are left out, and even the chicken does not help enough.
Later I made it again, this time not forgetting the water
chestnuts, and it was even better, although I forgot to pour on,
or dash on, the soy sauce. However, that item can be added at
the table, as well as some more scallions, and all that is needed
to go with this dish is a bowl of rice on the side, or possibly
some fried noodles. Because I am wild about soy sauce, I like
to make little side dishes of it with equal parts of Colman’s
mustard. This sauce must be used sparingly if you expect to
talk an hour after it is eaten, for it is so hot it singes the tongue.

CHIPOLATA. A small Spanish sausage, differing from

chorizos in that it is soft, not as hard as the latter. Its texture
is more that of the ‘hot dog or the old-fashioned Pennsylvania
Dutch country sausage. Legend has it that the Moors brought
it to Spain, which I doubt, for it mainly is made of the unclean
pig. The way to serve it is as follows:
Chopped carrots, turnips, roasted and shelled chestnuts, and
scallions should be cooked—without boiling—in a beef stock
which has been doused with about two tablespoonfuls of sugar.
If you are serving six people, you then should put in twelve
chipolatas, and, possibly, add a glassful of water. In go four or
five slices of bacon, preferably smoked. All this, when the
vegetables are soft, should go into a pot with artichoke hearts,
mushroom caps, and sliced, destringed, diced celery. It should
be allowed to go until most of the water has cooked away.
When the sauce is reasonably thick, cooked chicken or veal
may be added, or kidneys, or brains, or possibly even unpickled,
parboiled tripe.
The chipolatas may also be used as a garnish on various
roasts, chops, or poultry.

CHORIZOS. Chorizos are a bit like Italian sausages.

Some are very, very hot; others have a pleasant garlic flavor,
ey|
indeed a most pronounced one. Their companion sausages are
called Jonganiza, which are hotter throughout. They may be
obtained in most groceries that cater to the Spanish-Puerto
Rican-Cuban trade.
One afternoon, I visited La Ideal Market at 166 Eighth Ave-
nue in New York, bought some chorizos, and used them in a
recipe I made up as I went along. Pepperoni could be used in
this haphazard dish.
Chorizos are about three inches long. First I sliced them in
coins of about three-eighths of an inch, put them in a skillet and
let them simmer gently in the fat the heat drew from them.
Then I added one onion and one green pepper, both chopped,
and when the little chunks of sausage were nicely browned, I
dumped in a can of El Paso Mexe-Beans. Plain kidney beans,
sprinkled with dried red pepper, would do just as well. As the
beans began to bubble, I sprinkled the whole thing with chili
powder, black pepper, and salt, and while all those things were
raising hell in the pan, I sat down and opened a bottle of
Tequila I had brought from Mexico several months before.
I quartered a lime, took a pinch of salt for the tip of my
tongue, bit into one lime quarter, and tossed off the Tequila.
Soon the aromas rising from the chorizos and beans were more
than I could bear, so I called a friend of mine, told him to get
over to my place as fast as he could, and to get a loaf of French
bread on the way. He brought not just bread, but Chianti, plus
some black olives.
We had a few more Tequilas, toasting everyone Spanish we
could think of except Franco. We opened the wine. The stove
continued to send up inflaming odors, and I wished we had
had a couple of sombreros to wear. Presently we began to play
pool. This was a mistake, for in the middle of the second go
at nine-ball, the stuff on the stove began to burn. I ignored it,
thinking that some of the beans were just sticking to the
bottom of the pot. I was wrong. Oh, how wrong I was. We had
to go out and get some hamburgers.
A couple of weeks later I tried my chili again. This time it
was fine, for by then the Tequila was all gone.
52
 CORN AND SAUSAGE STUFFING FOR POULTRY. There
are so many ways to do a stuffing for poultry, it seems gra-
tuitous of me to hand one out. This one is especially good, I
think, and ought to be shared.
Two boxes of frozen corn, or the equivalent of fresh, or two
cupfuls of John Cope’s dried corn, are cooked and then drained.
About a pound of loose sausage is cooked until brown but not
crusty. Take out the sausage and leave some of the drippings
in the skillet—about one-quarter cupful. Add one cupful of
chopped onion and cook until golden. Now, add the cooked
corn and the sausage, and mix everything together with a
wooden spoon, adding salt, pepper, and one and a quarter
teaspoonfuls of poultry seasoning. This ought to make enough
to stuff a 14-to-18-pound turkey.
A sausage stuffing without corn, but with bread crumbs, can
also be made, using roughly the same rule. I know one lady
who, to my delight, used lima beans instead of corn. Another
used chunks of hominy grits, and yet another put hunks of
pineapple in with the meat mixture.
A note of caution: Italian and Chinese sausage do not go
very well as stuffing material unless the bird is a duck. And
then you have the grease problem. .

COUNTRY SAUSAGES AS MADE BY MRS. JOHN M.

MOORE. As I quickly learned when I began my blundering
inquiries into sausage-making, there are more ways to do it
than I ever had imagined. Sausage-makers seldom agree on
what to put in. For example, Christ Kunzler probably would
not agree with Ferdinand Schaller, and it is probable that
neither of them would agree with sausage-makers in Cincinnati
or Phoenix or Chicago.
The home recipes are the best for the home cooks, and I have
one here in a letter sent along by Mrs. John M. Moore of
Lancaster.
Mrs. Moore says: “Take six pounds of Jean fresh pork, three
£

pounds of chine fat...” and there she lost me. What is “chine”
53
fat? I wondered, and forthwith looked it up, to find that it is
fat around animals’ backbones.
To the pork and chine (sounds like an old-time vaudeville
duo), add three tablespoonfuls of salt, two of black pepper,
four of pounded and sifted sage (you can use powdered), and
two of summer savory. The meat should be chopped finely or
ground, along with the seasonings.
“Mix it with your hands. Taste it to see if it has the right
flavor.”’ I think that’s risking a disease my mother used to call
“trichiny,” which was her family’s Safe Harbor way of pro-
nouncing “‘trichinosis.” Instead of tasting, I would smell it.
Next comes Operation Bung or Bag. “Each bung or cheese-
cloth bag should be filled with enough sausage to make one
family dish,” says Mrs. Moore. The bungs or bags should then
be dipped in melted lard and put on hooks or nails in a cool,
dry place.
Mrs. Moore says, ““Some prefer to pack the meat in jars,
pouring melted lard over it, to be taken out with the hands as
wanted and moulded into small patties. Many like other spices
added—cloves, mace and nutmeg.” I would go easy on these
additives, putting in only pinches of same.
If you have one of those small smokehouses, available for
about forty dollars from such New York stores as Abercrombie
and Fitch or Hammacher Schlemmer, or possibly even from
your local hardware store, you might try smoking some of your
bung- or cheesecloth-encased sausages. They will last longer if
you smoke them.
If you haven’t got a tiny smokehouse tool, you can build a
fire in the outdoor barbecue and stand by with a bucket of
water, dousing the coals liberally to send smoke up to the
sausages on the grill. After each dousing, the coals will quickly
revive, and the smell may send you dancing all over the lawn,
singing every last verse and chorus of Shall We Gather at the
River? or possibly, This Is Your Last Chance, Clancy. Men
should wear derbies during this ceremony, and there should
be liberal quantities of malmsey or mead.
Once Mrs. Moore has made her sausages, she cooks them in
34
a manner that brings out their true flavor. She puts a small
piece of lard or butter into a large skillet. By “small piece” I
believe she means about a tablespoonful-and-a-half. Lard is
better, if you can find lard, which has become increasingly dif-
ficult in these addlepated years.
We come now to the eternal do-you-prick-or-don’t-you? ques-
tion. Mrs. Moore advises pricking with fork, or, if you can find
one, ice pick. “Lay the sausages in the melted grease, keep
moving them about, turning them frequently to prevent burst-
ing. In ten or twelve minutes they will be sufficiently browned
and cooked.”
This is not enough time, in my opinion.
“Another sure way to prevent the cases from bursting is to
cover them with cold water and let it come to the boiling point.
Pour off the water and fry them. Sausages also can be nicely
cooked by putting them in a baking-pan and browning them
in the oven, turningsthem once or twice.” For this process, I
would recommend heat of about 300°. “In this way you will
avoid all smoke and disagreeable odor. A pound will cook
brown in ten minutes in a hot oven,” says Mrs. Moore.
Sausages done this simple way are best served with grits
(Jim Dandy—what other kind?) and some scrambled eggs
done in the sausage grease. They should be accompanied by a
slice or two of tomato—very thin slices—and perhaps some
onion—also sliced very thin. There should be toast so bur-
dened by butter that it looks as though it might come apart,
and there ought to be some fine English marmalade to accom-
pany the toast. Some people might like to fry slivers of Ken-
tucky ham, or Smithfield ham, or any dried and cured smoked
ham, in a separate pan alongside the sausages. Some might
want to supplement the sausage with strips of smoked bacon,
preferably the product of Jordan’s Old Virginia Smoke House,
established at Smithfield, Virginia, in 1840.
I thank you, Mrs. John M. Moore.

CRANBERRY-SAUSAGE CASSEROLE. There was an old

Bob and Ray radio routine in which Bob, playing the part of
35)
Wally Ballew, “the winner of many television and radio
awards,” interviewed a Cape Cod cranberry farmer.
The farmer was surprised to learn that cranberries could be
used in cranberry sauce, cranberry juice, and other ways. Ray,
playing the farmer, said: “To tell the truth, cranberries don’t
move very fast. People don’t seem to like them.” And, farmer-
Ray added: “I’ve got to write all this down. Cranberry juice,
you say? Tell me, are there two i’s in juice?”
The “farmer” would probably have been amused to learn
that there is a wonderful dish that can be made with cranber-
ries and sausage.
Wash and pick over, or cull, two cups of fresh cranberries.
Turn the oven to 350°. Put the cranberries, and about one cup
of granulated brown sugar into a commodious casserole. Stir
the sugar and the cranberries until they are so close that if
they were human, they would feel like exchanging Shrine fezzes.
Boil for a bit, but not long, four or five sweet potatoes. Peel
and slice them. Add about a half-cup of water to the cranberry-
brown sugar mixture, and put the sweet potato slices over the
berries. Now, take about, oh, a dozen links and put them on
top. Salt and pepper them liberally.
Italian sausages may be substituted for fresh or smoked pork
links. The casserole should be baked for about one and one-half
hours, after which the cover should be removed and the whole
thing should be allowed to go in the oven until the sausages
are brown all over. Turn them occasionally, if you wish, trying
not to prick them. Use a wooden spoon.
The casserole is good all by itself, but it can be improved
by the serving of fresh peas or corn on the side, along with
some coleslaw or some of Fanning’s delightful bread-and-butter
pickles. Along with it should go some crusty French or Italian
bread, so you can mop up either while you are eating or after-
ward. The bread should be fresh, and never, under any con-
ditions, toasted.
Wear a NEW YORK TIMES apron while doing this dish. It
is a ripe green, approximately the color of those apples that
used to give little boys stomach cramps, and may be obtained
56
at this writing at a cost of about $2 from Nat Goldstein, Promo-
tion Manager, New York Times, Times Square, New York. If
you invite Goldstein over to your house to sample your cas-
serole, you may get one free.

CREAMED POTATOES AND SAUSAGE. Mrs. Diane Shif-

let, of Bareville, Pennsylvania, is not a friend of mine, but I
hope she will be one day.
She takes a pound of sausage, either loose or cut out of the
casings, or cut in one-half-inch pieces, while still in the cas-
ings, chops an onion fine, and fries the sausage and onion
together until the sausage is slightly brown. I do not know
what she means by “slightly” brown, but I suppose most house-
wives will understand that. Set aside about two tablespoonfuls
of the sausage grease for later use. She now adds water to
cover the sausage and onions forgets them for ten minutes,
having first turned down the heat a bit.
While the sausage and onion are bubbling along together,
Mrs. Shiflet takes four or five potatoes, cuts them in quarters,
and adds the pieces to the sausage and onion, salting and pep-
pering in approximately the following proportion: one and one-
quarter teaspoonful of salt and one-quarter teaspoonful of
pepper. She covers her skillet and lets the whole glorious mess
cook until the potatoes will just about break apart at the
touch of a fork. This is kind of a boiled hash.
No, it is not. It is a little more complicated than that.
A roux now must be made, consisting of one cup of gently-
warmed milk and two tablespoonfuls of flour. This should be
added to the ssausage-and-potato bits and cooked until it is
thickened.
“Parsley may be added to the mixture to add color,” Mrs.
Shiflet wrote me. They—fresh parsley sprigs or parsley flakes—
also add some flavor, I maintain.

CUCKOLDS. For this recipe, the late Gerald Kersh used

three ounces of suet, one onion, eight ounces of venison, three
ounces of oatmeal, and salt and pepper.’
57
 Before blending the above ingredients, Kersh would take a
number of venison tripe skins, meaning the stomachs of deer.
“Wash the tripe skins and turn inside out,” he wrote. “Do not
remove the fat on the inside. Mix together the venison, which
you will have chopped finely, the suet, also chopped, the oat-
meal, salt, and pepper. Fill the skins loosely with this mixture
and prick the skins. Tie them at both ends. Boil for about
forty-five minutes. When wanted for use, fry them in a little
hot fat until browned or grill them for fifteen minutes. Should
be served hot.”

58
CD
D UTCH SAUSAGE WITH GRAVY. For Dutch sau-
sage, the cook must first take at least one pound of loose pork
sausage. This loose meat is fried in however much Crisco, or
ham fat, or bacon fat, or even oil of some kind, as the cook
thinks it needs to get brown.
The rest of this is so simple that it could be done by an
escaped convict hiding out in a mountain cabin, Humphrey
Bogart style, provided he had brought along the ingredients.
When the sausage is brown, it should be removed from the
pan and set in an oven-proof dish of some kind, and put into a
350° oven. At the same time, put in one split English muffin for
each guest.
Work swiftly, now. Pour half the grease away from the sau-
sage pan. Use enough flour to make a roux with the remaining
grease. While you are whisking that roux, add equal parts of
water and milk, very gradually. Pour in one capful of Kitchen
Bouquet, and whisk that around. By now the English muffins
will be toasted. Spoon about two tablespoonfuls of sausage on
each English muffin half and pour over it some of the thickened
gravy, approximately one teaspoonful of sausage, some mono-
sodium glutamate, and perhaps some garlic salt, plus, of course,
salt and pepper and a bit of celery salt.
If you are serving this for breakfast, put some kind of po-
tatoes on the side. Home-fried or raw-fried, preferably. If you
are doing it for lunch, raw cucumbers and tomatoes with an
oil and vinegar dressing. If it is for dinner, serve the cucumbers
and tomatoes and add a baked potato with plenty of butter on
the top. Or set out some lima beans, fresh or frozen, or some
Cope’s corn. —~
Alongside should go some Pennsylvania Dutch coleslaw,
oe,
which is made by chopping green peppers and cabbage until
the bits are about one quarter of an inch square, and then
immersing them in about one cupful of white vinegar, one-half
cupful of water, 2 teaspoonfuls of sugar, and about one-half
teaspoonful of salt. Pepper it if you wish. It doesn’t really
need it.

DUTCHMAN’S STEW. A good many of the recipes in this

book came to me after I wrote a letter to the newspapers in
Lancaster, Pennsylvania, asking for new or old, interesting or
unusual ways of preparing sausage. Mrs. Mildred M. Bahn gave
me this one.
Mrs. Bahn takes 1 pound of smoked link sausage and 3
medium-sized potatoes, pared and cut into quarters. She then
gets a good-sized head of cabbage, cores it, and cuts it into
what she calls ‘‘small wedges.”
In a pot, she brings 3 cupfuls of water to a treacherous boil,
meanwhile cutting her sausage links into two-inch pieces. The
sausage is put in when the water is boiling like crazy, and then
the potatoes and cabbage are added.
After that, she turns down the heat and simmers this whole
delicious concoction for between 15 and 20 minutes, or until
the potatoes and cabbage are tender. It should be lightly salted
and peppered, I can attest, for I tried it one night without using
salt and pepper, and the arm movements of my guests made
them all look like a convention of weight-lifters.
Stewed tomatoes go well on the side of this stew, or Cope’s
corn, or steamed cauliflower.

60
SD
E GGS AND SAUSAGES. There is no trick to this
dish. There are two rules to follow:
1. You do sausages in a skillet or, if you wish, a spider, until
they are nicely browned, pricking them or not pricking them,
as you wish.
2. You make some eggs—sunnyside up, over easy, scrambled,
whatever way you like.
With toast or an English muffin on the side, and possibly a
garnish of watercress and a side dish of home-fried potatoes,
this makes as enjoyable a breakfast as any person possibly
could want. A little orange marmalade on the side, perhaps, but
only a little.
There are variations. Sausages can be broiled until they are
dark, dark brown and then put through your grinder, skins and
all, with a medium sized onion or two, and then strewn into
eggs, which you already have beaten with a whisk. The eggs
should have two tablespoonfuls of water for each two eggs.
Aliso, a pinch of parsley such as a two-months-old baby might
be able to get between his thumb and forefinger.
If you are fortunate enough to get to England, buy an egg
coddler for each and every member of your family. Buy the
two-egg size. Broil or fry some sausages, drain them, chop them
into coins, and go as follows: two or three coins on the bottom
of the coddler, one egg broken over that, some more coins,
another egg broken, and a few sausages on the top. Screw the
lids of the coddlers on as tight as you can get them, and drop
them gently into water that is boiling as though it were the
sea that put Ulysses and his men amongst Miss Circe and her
ladies. About four minutes of immersion should do. Take the
61
whole mess out of the coddlers and serve each portion on dry
toast. Dash with Tabasco, but only a drop or two.
A man I know, Elwood P. Fenstermacher (as God is my
Judge, that is his name), bought an egg-poacher in a store near
Wheelwright, Ohio. One morning, while poaching eggs in this
pan, he dropped a small piece of sausage into each one, dotted
it with salt and pepper, and pronounced the resulting egg dish
superb. Fenstermacher may have been carried away by the
pride of his new possession, but I have tried out this recipe
and it is superb.
Sometimes eggs are improved by being basted with sausage
grease. But, most often, it is better to cook the sausages sep-
arately and then pour a little grease on the eggs later. No cooks
ever agree about this matter.

ELLA’S SAUSAGE AND NOODLE DISH. Two close, old,

dear friends of mine are Ella Fraunfelter and her son, Robert,
who live together in Lancaster, where the farm markets have
taught them how to live extremely well. Fraunfelter, at this
moment in history, must weigh at least 598 pounds. He is al-
ways shaking his head over his girth. He, himself, does not
much mind the crane he must hire to get him into his car in
the mornings, but it makes an obscene racket in the neighbor-
hood. Dogs bark at it, and the neighbors sometimes send him
notes containing pure irritation.
Here I have been exaggerating. Fraunfelter only weighs about
453 pounds. He attributes his modest, sylphlike frame to good
habits and the cooking of his mother.
Ella and Robert Fraunfelter eat well, not to say frequently,
except on Friday and Saturday nights, when Ella repairs to
some local shebeen, and, after some hoisting of the Gambrinian
(as Col. John R. Stingo used to call it), cocks her hat on the
side of her pretty head and sings a chorus or two of I'll Be
Glad When You're Dead, You Rascal You. This generally is
followed with a touching rendition of Jesus Wants Me for a
Sunbeam, during which one of her friends does a remurkable
imitation of a pipe organ in the background.
62
 During the weekdays, Ella is remarkably, or at least notice-
ably, restrained. She is a first-rate cook, and one of the things
she makes for the behemoth she has spawned is a sausage and
noodle dish.
Ella takes one pound of loose sausage meat and browns it in
a pan with a chopped onion that previously had been the size
of her son’s ears bunched together. She drains off the excess
fat, adds about six ounces of uncooked noodles or macaroni,
plus two cans of tomato paste and two cupfuls of water. ‘Cover
and cook slowly about twenty-five minutes,” she admonishes.
“Bob and I like this dish very much. It is real tasty and very
filling. With it, I serve Harvard beets and a tossed salad and
apple pie for dessert.”
Ella does not mention the herbs that go into this creation of
hers. I would think a small pinch of oregano, a very small sliver
of bay leaf, and the usual salt and pepper, along with a dash
or two of monosodium glutamate. All that is up to the cook.
If the cook happens to be Ella, the whole thing will turn out
to be just fine, except on Fridays and Saturdays.

ESCAROLE SAUSAGE. It sounds ridiculous. Go ahead

and let it sound ridiculous to you. The fact remains, there is a
sausage that can be made with a casing of escarole, and a de-
licious one at that.
Take three-quarters of a pound of sweet Italian sausage and
one-half pound of hot. Decase it, and brown it gently in some
olive oil. I don’t know how much. This was fairly greasy sau-
sage, so I didn’t need much. If you can’t get Italian sausage,
ground chuck will do, by the way.
Next, I put together, in a pot, two heads of escarole, first
tearing off the bad leaves of this member of the chicory family.
I blanch these heads. Then, drain the water from the pot, put
on a pair of gloves and tear the largest leaves off the two heads.
Now I go back to the sausage that has been simmering, and
add to it one can of flat-out anchovies, a crushed clove of garlic,
enough parsley to choke a rabbit, about one cupful pitted black
and green olives, one-half cupful bread crumbs, and two table-
63
spoonfuls of pignola (pine nuts). Salt and pepper also goes in,
and I always add oregano.
An old Italian chef taught me how to do this. How furiously
he stirred it! Toscanini himself never used his hands with such
furious grace. This gentleman, a certain Mario Ferrari, worked
in a restaurant in the Mulberry Street section of New York
City, cursing all the while. His help did not like him much, for
he was always brandishing knives. I liked him because he
taught me so much of the little I know about cooking.
“Looka here,’ Mario would say, ripping the biggest leaves off
the escarole. “You do thisa.”’ He laid two leaves side by side,
overlapping one over the other by an inch and a half.
Mario took some of the sausage mixture and folded the
escarole leaves over it, making a neat little sausage. He then
tied this with string, wrapping it around the leaves, first hori-
zontally and then vertically. He put a little more oil on each
of the little sausages he made and put them all in a skillet
along with some beef stock, covered it, and simmered it for
about one-half an hour.
“You gotta add some more watta if you want it to be done
nice,’ Mario said.
This serves as many people as you want it to. Make two per
person. It’s one hell of a chore to tie up all those leaves, but
it’s worth it. The Italian name for this dish is Escarola Imbot-
tita. It should be served with Chianti, and perhaps some cur-
rant jelly. No coleslaw, please. The casing of this small sausage
serves well for the greens. You can, if you wish, serve some
steamed lima beans with it, or some corn.

64
CD
F ERHOODLED SAUSAGE. I do not know Mrs. J.
Henry Herr, of 2064 New Holland Pike, Lancaster, Pennsyl-
vania, but I wish I did: At least I wish I could get to call her
up some time when I am in Lancaster and say something like
“Say, Mrs. Herr, when are you going to make some ferhoodled
sausages and invite me out to your house?”
It should be explained to all those who do not live in the
area of true civilization, the Pennsylvania Dutch country, that
“ferhoodled” means “‘all mixed up,” or, sometimes, “demented.”
Mrs. Herr’s sausage recipe is ferhoodled, all right, but it is not
that of a demented lady. It comes from a cook who knows
exactly what she is doing.
It requires about one-and-one-half pounds of loose sausage
which must first be crumbled and browned in a skillet. After
it is browned, the fat should be poured off and the heat turned
down. Add one large chopped pepper, two or three celery stalks,
destringed and chopped, one cup of uncooked rice (not the
instant kind), two chopped scallions and one cup of cold water
to the meat. Turn this down to low heat, ladies, and go to your
crewel work for at least half an hour. Then add to the sausage
one tablespoonful of Lea & Perrins and salt to taste. Get back
to your crewel work, or your silver polishing, or whatever it is
you are doing, for a final thirty minutes.
It strikes me that carrots cooked first in butter and allowed
to get politely, not demonstratively, brown would go well with
this. I have an old carrot trick I do with the skill of a Harry
Blackstone. After the carrots are just about done in their bath
of melted butter, I pour a shot of bourbon or brandy. I do not
pour this into my stomach. Instead, I put it on the carrots,
sprinkle them with sugar, and set fire to them with an old-
65
fashioned match. The brandy flame goes practically to the
ceiling. The bourbon does not go quite as high, but if this stunt
is performed, it is provident to remove all the nylon or organza
or cotton net curtains in the kitchen, or else invite the local
fire chief for dinner.
Cold cucumbers, chopped in thin slices, laid on a plate al-
ternated with quite thin onion slices, go well with this, too, as
long as they are covered with a fairly mild dressing composed
of nothing but olive oil and a mild vinegar. At the end, a French
or Danish Brie. With it all, either beer or a good cheap red
wine, Italian or domestic.
If you invite me, Mrs. J. Henry Herr, I'll bring the wine. I
may even bring you a new crewel needle.

FRANKFURTERS, OR THE NOBLE HOT DOG. The his-

tory of the noble hot dog—that is, it is noble if it is prepared
and served properly—is clouded with confusion and contra-
dictions. It is generally agreed that this sausage originated in
the city that gave it the name, Frankfurt-am-Main, Germany.
Nobody can say with certainty who invented it. The American
Meat Institute says it was introduced into the United States by
a Bavarian peddler in St. Louis, Missouri, named Anton Ludwig
Feuchtwanger, around 1876. This enterprising gentleman had
been handing his customers gloves to handle his hot sausages
without burning their fingers, and one day, according to the
Institute line, he hit upon the idea of wrapping his frankfurters
in buns. Actually, frankfurters in buns were being sold in New
York City as early as 1871. The AMI story is a lot of bologna.
Another AMI story says that purveyors at the Chicago Colum-
bian Exposition of 1893 established the frankfurter, which I
also doubt, because Usinger’s of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, were
making them back as far as 1870. It is doubtful if the origins
ever have been traced successfully.
On the other hand, who cares? The hot dog is America’s fa-
vorite food. We eat about eight billion of these wurst per year.
The expression “hot dog!” has become synonymous with enthu-
siasm, not only here, but in England, France, Germany and
Italy.
66
 T. A. Dorgan, the newspaper cartoonist, is generally credited
with coining the phrase. Originally, frankfurters were called
“Dachshund sausages “because of their shape—roughly that of
the beloved badger hound. Dorgan used to draw little frank-
furters walking about, playing tricks on each other, comment-
ing on politics and social customs, fashions, morals, etc.
It is most likely that Charles Feltman, the Coney Island
butcher credited with making the first all-beef frankfurter, and
his imitators out there, were responsible for the frankfurter
becoming known as the Coney Island Red Hot. These delicious
items are sold under that name everywhere in the country.
Nathan’s, of Coney Island, has established a frankfurter repu-
tation that is worldwide. Nathan’s sells about a million pounds
a year.
Nobody from Nathan’s, not even a defector who has moved
into the city, will give out the recipe for the Red Hot Sauce.
It consists of ketchup, Tabasco, onion juice, mustard, pepper
and salt, with some powdered cloves and nutmeg, both in
pinches, and some sprigs of parsley which will disintegrate as
the sauce simmers—and it should simmer for around two
hours.
Instead of ketchup, I like to use a combination of half fresh
tomatoes and half ketchup. I use more Tabasco than probably
is necessary. I like onions with my hot dogs, chopped until
they are about the size of large diamonds. Sometimes I like
sauerkraut, sometimes not. It depends upon the day and the
condition of my stomach.
The frankfurter is indeed a noble beast, measuring about five
and one-half inches long by about three-quarters of an inch
in diameter, unless you are talking about the king-sized ones,
which are twelve inches long and made by men who are in-
terested more in novelties than in food.
The standard one usually has 4.5 grams of proteins, large
quantities of vitamin B and iron, and carries only around 140
calories. According to the label of the Tobin Company of Al-
bany, New York, in addition to beef and pork, it is composed
of pork fat, water, corn syrup, salt, dextrose, spices (the com-
pany does not say which spices), flavorings (the company does
67
not say what flavorings), monosodium glutamate, sodium ery-
thorbate, and the sodiums nitrate and nitrite. This Tobin frank-
furter, called “frankfurt” by its mother company, is as good as
those of Usinger’s and Kunzler’s and Schaller und Weber’s, and
it can be ordered from Tobin because it is INSPECTED AND
PASSED by the U.S. Dept. of Agriculture, and Tobin therefore
can send it through the U.S. mail.
Frankfurters are usually made by combining sixty per cent
beef and forty per cent pork, although fifty years ago the pro-
portion was the other way around. Kosher hot dogs are all beef
and, to my taste, are terrible. Most hot dogs are seasoned with
crushed garlic and a number of herbs which no sensible sau-
sage maker will reveal. There are three great places in the
United States to buy them: Usinger’s in Milwaukee, Schaller
und Weber in‘New York, and Kunzler’s in Lancaster.
I understand that there are good frankfurter shops in St.
Louis, but I never have gone hunting for them in that city.
Some restaurants of the soiled-fork persuasion keep them sim-
mering constantly on the grills, but it is my view that, unless
they are skinless, which tends to make them taste less good
than the bung-encased ones, they should not be grilled. The
outside of a frankfurter ought to be so soft it can be cut with
a fork or with the teeth.
Indeed, there is only one way to do a frankfurter properly.
Boil about one quart of water. When it is boiling like the sea
that wrecked the Hesperus, throw in about one tablespoonful
of salt, and take the pot off the stove if you have an electric
one—and if you do, you and I hereby part company. If you
have a logical, functional gas stove, simply turn down the
flame. Take out six or eight frankfurters. Do not toast the buns,
unless you have had them around for three or four days, in
which case you probably ought to split them, butter them, and
place them for a minute or two under the broiler, crust side
down.
When the boiling salted water has calmed, the frankfurters
should be added and the pan covered. They should be permitted
to remain submerged for no more than seven minutes, and then
68
they should be removed, snuggled into a towel, paper or cloth,
to dry them, and placed instantly on their buns, served on
paper plates, surrounded by stuffed green and plain black
olives, Fanning’s bread and butter pickles, slivers of Kosher
pickles, dabs of mustard and ketchup, and sprigs of parsley.
A large bowl of chopped onions should be placed at hand. Some
people like sweet relish; they are barbarians. There should be
paper napkins beyond the dreams of the manufacturer’s ava-
rice, or paper towels, or bathroom paper. For very small chil-
dren, there should be enormous bibs, and the hot dogs should
be cut in thirds.
Some people serve side dishes, such as canned baked beans,
on the paper plates beside the frankfurters. Baked beans are
fine, but only if they are those put up by B&M. Some of the
other brands do not seem as satisfactory as they did to me in
my boyhood.
Before offering ‘a series of frankfurter recipes, a sausage
sometimes called ‘‘wienies,” “wieners” or “weenies,” let me
offer a few tips:
1. Never buy canned frankfurters if you can help it.
2. Always try to get fresh ones from a German butcher.
3. Do not buy them at a ball park if the man selling them
wears a moustache.
4. Do not fly to Milwaukee to buy them at Usinger’s, for the
chances are that if you arrive there after noon, that superb
shop will have sold out its supply by 11 a.m.
Now for variations on the hot dog theme.
The simplest way is to cut frankfurters in about two-inch
lengths, douse them briefly in the previously-boiled water, and
then open a can of beans and let them both get hot together.
Fresh raw onion, chopped or cut into rings, may be put on
top just before serving. A few springs of parsley and a tiny
pinch of oregano.
This dish can be enhanced by fresh or smoked pork links,
previously browned or parboiled, and cut the same size as the
frankfurter sausages. I would add some more ketchup, and
possibly a dash or two of vermouth. A wild friend of mine once
69
poured in some bourbon. It was not much good, except to him,
but then, he was from Louisville. Red wine is fine, but only a
dash.
Cut-up frankfurters can be added to pea soup with good re-
sults. Beforehand, fry some croutons, but they should be put in
only after the frankfurters have been steeping for a while.
Then the croutons can be sprinkled across the top of the pea
soup. This must be done at the last half-minute before serving;
otherwise, the bits of bread will get soggy.
Need I mention that a splendid dish can be made with frank-
furters and sauerkraut? All that is needed is one-half’a handful
of carroway seeds, a cut-up and cored apple, and an onion.
Some add white wine to this. I have known cooks who have
added red wine, and I have made it a point to avoid their
tables. The wine must be white, dry, and harmless, and there
must not be too much of it.
Pigs in blankets, frankfurters that have been encased in
dough and baked, are favored only by women who got their
cooking instructions from magazines edited by people who
know less about cooking than I know about the Stanley
Steamer.
The recipe for them is not hard. You take a frankfurter and
wrap it in Bisquick dough and put it in the oven. Then set that
oven for about 350° and try to forget the whole thing. Kids like
this stuff sometimes, but not often.
It can be improved slightly, if the pigs in their dough blan-
kets are brushed with butter and sprinkled with parsley. But
not much improved. This recipe was invented by some frantic
lady dietician working for one of the meat companies, a big
packager, who insisted that she come up with something new
if she wished to hang onto her job. Melted cheese poured over
it will not help it. Neither will the Red Hot sauce mentioned
before. If you want to keep whatever reputation you have as
a cook, you will never serve it except to children.
Frankfurters may be placed in split Shredded Wheat bis-
cuits, after they first have been browned in a skillet and the
Shredded Wheat pillows have been toasted in the oven. Two
70
of the wieners to each split hunk of biscuit. The tops should
be served with butter and put on the table with maple syrup
or molasses. A good breakfast dish. I serve home-fried potatoes
on the side.
Another baked dish for which this most serviceable wurst
may be called up involves gashing them lengthwise with a
knife and filling the slit with mashed potatoes. This is topped
with some crumbled or grated cheese and a sprinkling of
onions. It is baked in an oven that has achieved a climax of
about 400°. It is fine for lunch, especially if you happen to be
not especially hungry but need something sustaining.
Frankfurters are sometimes used in poultry stuffing. The
housewife coins them and adds the coins to her ordinary stuff-
ing, which is, according to her family’s taste, enhanced by
them. Other cooks I have known have sliced them lengthwise
and filled them with the standard poultry stuffing, then baked
them. Not a great“tantalizer. One night I opened a can of lima
beans and sliced some frankfurters into the stewpot, added
some onion and salt and pepper and a sprinkle of sage, and
the thing came out surprisingly good.
Apples go well with the complaisant hot dog, especially if
they are first browned in butter, chopped a bit, and then richo-
cheted into the steaming frankfurter bath. This must be done
with a certain deftness that only the experienced chef can
summon.
Strangely enough, even Southerners eat hot dogs from time
to time, but in my view they do them oddly.
They take an onion, a half-cupful of sliced or chopped pep-
per, and an equal amount of cut-up celery which has been
destringed, and they sauté all that together. To this is added
eight or nine frankfurters—two per person—cut up in rather
generous pieces, about two inches long. Then, in go two-and-
one-half to three cups of canned or fresh tomatoes. The toma-
toes and frankfurters are dusted—only dusted—with oregano
and thyme, and everything is simmered in the pan for about
ten minutes, after which it is put in a casserole and let go for
a little while. Now a piecrust topping, made of corn bread from
wa
Jim Dandy, is put on the top of it, and the whole thing is baked
until this topping is brown. This takes between twenty and
thirty minutes.
Another recipe that can be done with corn meal involves
making a package of the Jim Dandy kind without following the
directions on the label, which call for a cup of corn meal and
a cup of water.
A better recipe is to take two cups of milk and a cup of Jim
Dandy in a double boiler, stirring as long as your arm can sur-
vive. This fatiguing process should go on for nearly half an
hour. Now, add one tablespoonful of butter, three-quarters of
a cup of grated cheddar or Gouda, and keep churning with
your wooden spoon until the cheese has vanished into the whole
thing. While you are spraining your arm, be cutting the frank-
furters in half lengthwise, one or two for each person you are
planning to serve.
Two eggs should now be hauled out of the refrigerator,
opened and separated. The yolks should be beaten at a mod-
erate pace while some of the corn meal batter is being beaten
in—enough to make a fairly stiff paste. The egg whites should
be beaten more rapidly, and, when they are a little stiffer than
the yolks, they should be folded into the corn meal on top of
the double boiler. The whole lot—milk, corn meal, egg yolks
and whites—now should be mixed together and poured out
into a good-sized pie plate. Fry the frankfurters gently in butter,
place as many as you think you will need on top of the pie-to-be,
and place them on top. Bake it at 350° until it is golden.
One weenie recipe that makes a good lunch or supper dish
is a casserole made by taking four of the sausages cut in good-
sized two-inch pieces, one-half cupful of chopped onions and
the same amount of chopped pepper, and combining all these
ingredients in a stew pan with about three tablespoonfuls of
butter. Some flour should be added. Enough to thicken the
whole thing. Two cups of milk, while your stirring-arm is
getting even stiffer than it was in the last recipe. Pretty soon it
will get thick. Turn off the stove for the moment.
Meanwhile, be getting out one container of creamed cottage
te
cheese and one cup of pre-cooked macaroni. Be stern about
getting them to know each other by stirring them into the stew
pan mixture. Take two more frankfurters and cut them first
lengthwise in half, then crosswise at their centers. Arrange
these pieces as though you were inventing the spoked wheel
and bake the whole thing at about 350° for something under
an hour.
The great thing, apart from its flavor, about the frankfurter
is that it can be pressed into service very quickly and will per-
form like a member of Henry IV’s private guard.
Cut up eight or ten slices of bacon with the kitchen shears.
Take four lengthwise-sliced frankfurters and cook them with
the bacon until the latter is crisp. Spoon off some fat and throw
in one-half of a cupful of well-diced onion. Pour in a can of
chicken broth, and approximately one teaspoonful of celery
salt. Now, add a package of French’s or Betty Crocker’s dehy-
drated potatoes—the cubed kind, not the mashed. Stir in one
can of whole kernel corn and add about one and one-half cups
of milk. Stir together and let it heat to the boiling point, but
do not allow it to boil. Serve it as close to the boiling point as
you can.
There is a second quick soup that the ingenious wife, or even
the ingenious bride, or even one of those ingenious bachelor
girls whom Helen Gurley Brown is always advising to lead a
swinging sex life, can put together with practically no trouble.
Take two cans of beef broth and one can of water, two
minced cloves of garlic, two tablespoonfuls of butter, about a
tablespoonful of dried basil, salt and pepper, three good-sized
julienned carrots, and two small onions, each about the size of
a balled-up handkerchief in the pocket of a first grader.
Simmer this, and while it is trying to find out what it is, cut
up four frankfurters and about a pound of zucchini. Cut the
frankfurters rather more thickly than the squash. Quarter four
or five tomatoes. Do not bother to peel them. You may seed
them, if you wish, but both seeding and peeling tomatoes are
time-wasting endeavors. The skin of the tomatoes will fall off
eventually, and you can pull it out of the pot with a fork or
73
tweezers. After this soup has simmered for about twenty min-
utes, add the frankfurters and tomatoes and zucchini and stay
away from it for another ten or fifteen minutes. Add one
chicken bouillon cube, if you wish.
A lady I know has an even quicker method for the hallowed
wurst in soup. She opens a can of Campbell’s bean-and-bacon,
adds a can of water, and slices in four or five frankfurters.
Before serving, she shoots it through with dashes of Lea &
Perrins. After she has done this, I hit my own portion with
the Tabasco, a dash or two. Not everybody likes Tabasco as
much as I do, and so I generally just pass the bottle when it
is time to sit around the mildly complaining board.
Yet another fast dish, a rather more substantial one, can be
made and done in roughly the time it takes to decide you are
weary of Huntley and Brinkley—about three to ten minutes.
Shred or grate a head of cabbage, put it in a skillet with butter
or lard until it gets brownish, and add to it one-third of a cup
of white vinegar and one-quarter of a cup of brown sugar, plus
two teaspoonfuls of carroway seed and two of celery salt and
one of plain old salt. Stir all this into the cabbage. Put eight
frankfurters or more on top. Cover the dish and let it go for
less than ten minutes. It may be garnished with celery leaves
or parsley. I like to shower mine with soy sauce, using a heavy
hand.
On nights when neither husband nor wife nor child feels like
cooking, macaroni and frankfurters may be trotted out. The
macaroni, elbow kind, is cooked first and put in a greased
baking dish. One-half of a cup of milk is blended with one
teaspoonful of Lea & Perrins, and this is poured over. Then
add one can of Campbell’s cheddar cheese soup. There should
be two or three frankfurters which have been cut into very thin
slices. Put the slices of frankfurters on top of the soup. This
is known, God help us all, as Polka-Dotted Macaroni and
Cheese. It came out of the Betty Crocker Kitchen, and some-
times I wish the name had not. But it really is quite good.
A little more expensive and a little slower to make, is a dish
called Frankly Peppered Potato Bake. (They get pretty fly
74
around the General Mills plants out there in Minneapolis,
Minnesota.)
Cook one cup of chopped onion in three tablespoonfuls of
butter. Add a teaspoonful of garlic powder or a smashed garlic
clove, three cupfuls of peeled and diced potatoes, two teaspoon-
fuls of carroway seeds, the same amount of paprika, as much
salt as you feel you need (about one teaspoonful ought to do),
one can of tomato soup, and, finally, one pound of frankfurters,
each cut into one-half inch slices. Put all this into a baking dish,
cover it with aluminum foil, and bake at 350° for about one and
one-quarter hours.
Mexican frankfurters are not much good unless they are im-
ported from the U.S., but the Mexicans know how to do them
if they can get their hands on some of the better products.
They combine about one-third of a cup of chili sauce, and
either one tablespoonful of chili peppers, the dried kind, or a
couple of dashes of*Tabasco, and consign that to a stewpan on
the stove. While that is heating, they cook the frankfurters in
water that has been boiling-point-heated and turned off. They
drain the frankfurters and put them in buns that have been
toasted gently. Pour over them the sauce and shredded lettuce
and cheese—Swiss, Cheddar or Gouda. Be more generous to
your dachshunds with the cheese than with the lettuce. Some
grated onion goes well, too, and perhaps some grated black
olives. With this, I would serve forth some Mexe-Beans, El] Paso
brand.
Another bean and frankfurter dish with a southwestern fla-
vor involves four or six or eight or ten or ten to fourteen
frankfurters done the usual boiling-point way.
Combine a large can of lima beans and their liquid with a
large can of kidney beans, also with their liquid. Parboil and
chop one cupful of shredded cheese, either Cheddar, or of all
things, Roquefort. If you use the latter, use only one-half cupful.
Cover the bottom of a casserole with some of the bean mix-
ture. Gently muddle around with a wooden spoon. Put some
frankfurters over the bottom layer of the mixed beans, add
another layer of beans, more frankfurter pieces, and more
75
beans again, and wind up with frankfurters on top. Bake, un-
covered, for about thirty minutes at 250° by which time the
beans will be bubbling and the frankfurters will be brown.
Some people like to top this with grated cheese. I don’t. If
you must use cheese, use the ever-popular Cheddar on top. Do
not use Roquefort or Parmesan, please. Roquefort is fine in the
casserole, but it is just too assertive on top.
Will these bean-frankfurter recipes never end? It seems to
me that I have been writing them since puberty. Yet more are
to come.
The Hebrew National people, who make all-beef frankfurters
which are pretty good, if you like that kind, and whose wares
are under the supervision of Rabbi Juda Altusky, have a pam-
phlet they will send if you write to 172-184 South Elliott Place,
Brooklyn, New York 11217. Here are two of my favorites out
of the pamphlet.

FRANKFURTER CoRNSTICKS: All you do is pour a cornpone

batter in a lengthwise cornpone pan, slit the frankfurters
lengthwise, top the batter with them, and then cover with the
rest of the batter. Relatives from the Deep South will like this
one.
Pronto Docs: This recipe advises you to dip frankfur-
ters into a mixture of one cupful of pancake mix and three-
quarters of a cupful of water, and fry them in deep fat until
they are brown. The dogs should be served hot, according to
the pamphlet, which evidently was written for brides. I can’t
imagine serving them cold.

A nice variation on this consists of breaking four or five eggs

into a bowl and whisking them well. Now, take a platter and
put about a can of Progresso Bread Crumbs on it. These bread
crumbs are made of toasted bread crumbs flavored with im-
ported Italian cheese (Romano, if my palate is reliable), spices
(the label doesn’t say what kind), parsley, rare herbs (the label
is mum about them, too, but I can detect oregano and thyme,
which are hardly rare), and monosodium glutamate.
76
 Dip the dogs into the eggs—to which you can add about four
tablespoonfuls of milk, whisking again—then roll them in the
crumbs, dip them into the egg mixture again, and roll them
again in the crumbs. Place on waxed paper on another platter.
Put about one cupful of Crisco or Wesson oil or any other re-
liable oil—with olive oil being the best—into a skillet and heat
until the oil is hot. Let the dogs get brown all over, but not too
brown. Goes well with tossed salad.
Back to ordinary pork-and-beef frankfurters. There are some
really elaborate dishes that can be made with the utilitarian
and versatile little hund, among them a kind of Americanized
paella. This one takes real work. Well, a certain amount of it.
Chop one-half pound of fresh pork butt or lean bacon and
add at least one pound of frankfurters which have been sim-
mered for, oh, ten minutes, in water and then sliced about one
inch. Put these in a large skillet, at least a 10-or-12 inch one,
and pour two tabléspoonfuls of oil, olive if you have it, over
the ingredients. Sauté the pork and chopped frankfurters until
they are nicely browned.
Fat will come out of the bacon, and some may ooze from the
sausages. Pour this fat into a large flameproof casserole. Slice
one large onion and two large green peppers, and set them
aside. In the fat, brown eight chicken drumstcks, or four drum-
sticks, and four thighs. Brown very slowly, turning them often.
When you think they have browned enough, throw in the
onions and peppers, cover the casserole, and cook until the
vegetables are tender. This takes about ten minutes.
Now add four-and-a-quarter cupfuls of either beef or chicken
stock, made with cubes—the stock can be half chicken and half
beef. Add the sliced frankfurters and chopped pork or bacon,
and also pour in one-half cupful of very dry white wine. To this
add two or three cloves of garlic, smashed to bits with the side
of your cleaver on a chopping board, one teaspoonful of pap-
rika, one-quarter teaspoonful of ground coriander, one bay leaf,
one-half teaspoonful of thyme and the same amount of sage,
and three-quarters of a teaspoonful of saffron.
To all this may be added one pound ‘of boiled and shelled
TT
shrimp, one tablespoonful of lemon juice, salt and pepper, two
or three medium-sized tomatoes, quartered, two cups of green
peas (use fresh ones, if possible, but canned will do), a can of
drained pimentoes, a can of drained chick peas and, if you’re
really going all-out, about two dozen cherrystone clams. Do not
open the clams.
Boil all this for about ten minutes, and then put in, spoonful
by spoonful, two cupfuls of rice. Italian or Spanish rice are
preferred by paella cooks, and the real nuts on the subject also
add about two dozen mussels. Turn down the heat a little, so
that the liquid is just simmering, and the rice is absorbing it.
Do not stir too often. When the liquid is just about used up,
the dish is ready. Carry it to the table in the casserole, and
garnish the top of it with lemon wedges and parsley. You might
sprinkle some paprika on it, as well.
This is a variation of a recipe devised by that empress of the
kitchen nonpareil, Julia Child, and I have somewhat simplified
it for you, although you will not notice the simplification, I
am afraid, while you are putting it together. Takes time—
you'd better allow yourself two hours.
For those whose appetite for the frankfurter is such that
there are not enough recipes for preparing it in here, there is
an excellent book called The Hot Dog Cookbook. It came out
some years ago, but is still in print. It recommends, as I do,
that frankfurters be obtained, if possible, from small establish-
ments that make their own and do not ship them. That is not
to say, as I most emphatically do not, that those put out and
shipped all across the country and abroad by the big packing
companies—Swift, Armour, Hormel, Cudahy, and the lot—are
not good. They are very good indeed, hot or cold—plain coins of
hot dogs on saltines, perhaps sprinkled with cheese—grated—
or topped with an anchovy, make excellent hors d'oeuvres.

FRENCH TOAST AND SAUSAGE. A young man of my

acquaintance, Rodney Chapman by name, came to my home
after school at 3:30 and could not wait for dinner, which I like
to eat anywhere between 8 and 10—sometimes, even 11, for I
78
have Spanish blood. He decided to make himself some French
toast and forthwith mixed the standard batter: two eggs, one-
half teaspoonful of salt, one tablespoonful of sugar, and one-
quarter cupful of milk, all of which he mixed in a shallow bowl
with a whisk, meanwhile browning some butter in a skillet.
“Want some?” he asked. I said “No,” then reconsidered.
He was browning his French toast in the butter, and when
he turned the slices of bread over, they looked so good I
changed my mind. I got another skillet, took two Jones Farm
sausages, and split them lengthwise. While they were browning
in my skillet, I took two slices of bread and dipped them in
the boy’s batter and fried them in his skillet. He already
was eating his with the avidity of a black panther devouring
a hartebeest.
When my French toast was done, I took it out and set it on
a plate, both slices, side by side. The sausages were done. I took
them and laid them on one of the slices, went to the refrigerator
and found some cranberry sauce, and put that sparingly over
the sausages. Other preserves could be used. So could a banana,
sliced lengthwise.
Now, I covered the first slice with the second and put tooth-
picks in the sandwich to secure it.
Dipping it all in the batter again, I then went on to frying it
gently on both sides, just as the boy had done. This gave me
a double-thick coating of the delightful French toast mixture,
and it was, in sum, nothing short of delicious.
This sandwich could be made with loose sausage as well as
links. It also could be enhanced, and made into a mountainous
edifice, by the addition of a layer of grated cheese—Cheddar,
preferably sharp, or Edam, or Swiss. Sometimes I consider
getting some Stilton and adding it, for I am certain that the
flavors of the sausage and that noble English cheese would go
very well together.
Raw tomatoes, sliced very thin, and onions, also sliced thin,
could go nicely on the plate, but if the tomatoes are added, with
or without the onions, another slice of French toast should be
added to make the sandwich a three-decker.
79
 When I began experimenting with this sandwich I thought of
numerous other things to add to it. Sometimes I behave the
way Dagwood used to behave in the old comic strip. I get car-
ried away by the contents of the refrigerator, and my quest for
culinary experimentation rivals that of Bell, Edison, and other
innovators, although from what I have read of their lives, I
gather that none of those pioneers ever ate much. Anchovies
would taste good if put beneath the tomato-onion third slice of
toast. So would a good hearty slice of Lebanon bologna. So,
for that matter, would a couple of slices of prosciutto, that
marvelous Italian pepper-encrusted ham, or Smithfield ham, or
Kentucky ham.
The whole thing, however, boils down to at sausage taste, or
fries down to it, as you wish. Pimentoes may be laid over the
sausages, if you are making the simple two-decker. So may
black olives. And now that we’re talking of olives, the whole
thing can take on a faintly Moorish-Spanish-Italian flavor if
cooked in olive oil rather than butter. If you do do it in this
oil, make sure the oil does not get too hot before you put in
the French toast sandwich.

80
S23
Ges. BROTCHEN. The Viennese eat a great
deal of sausage, but it is not always encased in intestines.
Sometimes, as the size of so many men walking the streets
amply demonstrates, the sausage is encased in rich, fattening
bread.
This item, which is one of those brétchen specialties of Alt
Wien, makes a fine lunch, one that is so easy to prepare it
makes its maker want to stand up and do a waltz, possibly
The Skaters’. ,
Take a long roll of crusty bread and cut off both noses. Save
them to dice later and use either as croutons or stuffing. Hol-
low out the bread either with a long slicing knife or a narrow
spoon. Put anchovy paste in the cave you have made, having
mixed the paste first with generous teaspoonfuls of butter. I
cannot give exact proportions here because I do not know what
size roll you are going to use.
The buttered rolls, or loaf, should be set in the refrigerator
and allowed to remain there for about an hour. While it is in
there, shivering and wishing it were back in the bakery, you
can be getting on with the rest of the proceedings.
In the grinder, force out about a pound of cooked or smoked
ham, fat included, the same amount of roast veal, and the same
amount of smoked tongue. Now grind these members of the
wedding together, or mix them in a bowl with a heavy wooden
spoon.
Meanwhile, be frying three or four slices of bacon which
have come from some reliable purveyor. Fry them until they
are crisp and can be crumbled. Reduce three hard-cooked eggs
to a pulp, mercilessly, and do the same thing to a large dill
81
pickle, one which a sensitive, God-fearing nose could detect a
mile away, so strong will the garlic be. Open a can of Portu-
guese sardines and pulp them with your mortar and pestle.
Chop about one-quarter of a cupful of pistacchio nuts. Now
mix all the ingredients and put them through the grinder again,
and then stuff the bread tubes, or the rolls, with what comes
out. Pack the stuffing in tightly, and if you have any left over,
hollow out another piece of bread.
Wrap these bread-encased sausages in wax paper, Saran
Wrap, or foil, and put them back in the refrigerator for about
one hour before you are planning to eat them.
Sometimes, when making this, I have added mustard, usually
dry. Not too much—only a pinch or two. As much salt and
pepper as I think the mixture needs.
Practically speaking, short rolls, about four inches long, are
better than a long loaf of bread, for the rolls are easier to
hollow out. A long loaf may be sliced, however, and because it
is wider than a roll, will give you more room for the stuffing.
The proportions of the ingredients may be increased as you
judge you will need them: two hardboiled eggs, two dill pickles,
more meat, etc.
A good side dish to Gefiilte Brétchen can be made as follows.
After you have hollowed out the bread and put it in the re-
frigerator the first time, and while the bacon is getting itself
crisp, open a large can of kidney beans. Put the beans in a
colander and let cold water sparkle over them. Wait until the
water has drained out of the colander and then let the beans
dry a bit. Into an earthen casserole put one-half cupful of olive
oil and one of wine vinegar, a crushed bayleaf, two cloves of
garlic forced through a press, salt and pepper, some thyme and
some parsley sprigs. Muddle the ingredients well with a wooden
spoon, then add the beans and gently work the marinade in and
around them. Add some more sprigs of parsley, and forget it
for about a half hour. Then put it into the refrigerator until
you are ready to serve the Brétchen.
When the Brotchen is nicely chilled, take it out and put it
on a plate. Arrange a spoonful of kidney beans on a leaf of
82
lettuce on the side. You need nothing more for a festive lunch,
except something to drink.

GREEN BEANS AND SAUSAGE. It is hard to keep Mrs.

Oscar Luecke, of Columbia, Pennsylvania, out of this book. She
is in it the way marbling is in a good piece of beef. She is in it
so much, other housewives in the Pennsylvania Dutch area are
going to go up and paint hex signs on her house.
One of the best recipes she sent me was this one, which asks
you to combine about one and one-half pounds of loose sausage,
one chopped onion about the size of an old-fashioned glass
paperweight, a chopped pepper about the same size, and one-
half cup of chopped celery which you have previously stripped
with that kitchen tool, the name of which I always forget.
Form all this into inch-and-a-quarter balls and brown them in
a casserole.
Pour off a little of the fat which the sausages will sweat out.
Add one-and-one-half cups of fresh tomatoes, cut into quarters,
or one large can, liquid and all. Add two pounds of destringed
green beans. Also, eight small, preferably new, potatoes.
Cover the pot and put on the stove top. It will require at
least forty-five minutes to get itself done, but while that is
happening you can take a short nap, meanwhile wondering if
you should have added one-half cup of water. I daresay you
should have, especially if you have not used canned tomatoes.
The fresh ones carry a good deal of water, but not that much.
In this dish, broccoli could be substituted for the green
beans. Or cauliflower. I would serve it with some crusty mop-up
bread, the thicker the better. Afterward, I would put out some
sort of fruit compote, touched with champagne or a sparkling
white wine, and then I would pass around cigars to the men
and hie the ladies off to their own corner of the room to talk
about their plans for governing the world.

83
oS
ee DINNER. One day in Mexico, I hap-
pened into a tiny town, where I asked a man the name of the
place to get the best chili. “El Paso, Texas,” he said. That night
I fell in with a group of laborers hanging around a bar. Having
not had time to go to El Paso, let alone to Cuernavaca, which
was my destination, I asked one of them to direct me to a place
where I could get some good Mexican food.
“Come home with me,” he said. “My wife will make you
something to eat.”
We had what my new friend called a hacienda dinner. It was
something that anybody in the United States, or any other
country for that matter, could duplicate without undue exer-
tion. The recipe goes roughly as follows:
Brown about a pound of loose sausage and then drain off
some of the grease. Add one cupful each of chopped onion and
chopped green pepper. Add to that one large can of tomatoes,
preferably Italian ones, and one-half cupful of some kind of
barbecue sauce or A-1 Sauce.
Now take one package of Kraft, if you will excuse the ex-
pression, Dinner, available in most supermarkets and grocery
stores. Empty this into the sausage-and-onion mixture, which
by this time should be as angry as a Van Nuys, California, citi-
zen who has just been bilked again by one of the local used
car dealers. Do not cook the Kraft Dinner first. Dump it right
in. Cover it and simmer it for about twenty minutes. This recipe
does not call for stock but, if I were you, I would put in a
bouillon cube or two and perhaps a cupful of milk, rather than
water. The milk, you might find upon experimentation, may
make this a little thicker than you wish. If so, next time stick
84
to water and add about one-half to three-quarters of a teaspoon
of cornstarch.
This dish requires nothing on the side except, possibly, a
shaker of chili powder, some salt and pepper, and a bowlful
of raw onions and tomatoes, and a large slice of orange for each
plate. If you can find some hot green or red peppers, they go
well with it, especially if you have marinated them in some old
vinegar for three or four days.
Link sausage will do well enough for this dish, but not as
well as the loose. Ordinary elbow macaroni will do as well as
Kraft Dinner, and you can use any packaged or freshly-grated
parmesan cheese along with it.
You can do this up in true Mexican style by taking a can of
drained kidney beans, or pinto beans, lacing them liberally with
some red wine, putting them into a skillet, and crushing them
with the heel or back of a spatula. The beans then ought to be
refried until they are as pulpy as Carmine Basilio’s face used
to be after one of his more arduous matches. On the other
hand, a firm called Old El Paso makes canned refried beans,
which—if you can find them—will save you all the trouble.
The refried beans are served as a side dish. They are enhanced
by grated cheese, as well. This lunch, or breakfast, or whatever,
certainly is going to give your cheese grater a workout, which
ought to make it grateful. (Oooh.)

HAGGIS. This is the well-known Scottish dish, eaten,

God knows why, by Scotsmen everywhere. “It is a sort of
Paleolithic Sausage,” said Gerald Kersh, who may have taken
on some of his caveman tendencies by gulping it down in child-
hood. You are going to need a strong stomach to eat this
stomach. Kersh was explicit about its preparation. No, not ex-
plicit. Stubborn, obdurate, unrelenting.
“You take the large and the small stomach bag of a lamb,
wash the large one in water and then fight it into boiling
water. Leave it out overnight to soak in cold water. Take it out
in the morning and turn the inside out. Wash the small bag,
and the liver, heart and lights of the lamb, and boil for one and
85
a half hours in water to cover it. Leave the windpipe hanging
out of the pot to let out any impurities that may be present.
When you take the stuff out of the pot, cut away the gristle
and the pipe. Mince the heart and lights, and grate half the
liver. Mix this with about one-half pound of chopped suet, three
finely-chopped onions, oatmeal and pepper. Add as much of the
cooking liquid as will make it into a good pliable mixture, and
stuff it into the large bag. Sew it up tightly and boil it for
three hours in a large pot, covered, of course, with water.”
There will be leftover lights, heart and grated liver. Place
what is left over, plus some more chopped onion and more of
the seasonings into the smaller stomach. Boil that, too. Both
bags will begin to swell under the boiling, and they should be
pricked lightly. By the time you get the second bag in, you
should try to be at your neighbor’s house, at least a half mile
away, having a drink. This must be done out of self-preserva-
tion.
What to serve on the side of a haggis sausage? Hell, I don’t
know. Horseradish, perhaps. Some people put bread crumbs in
it—very stale ones. If you do not do that, you might try some
new potatoes, boiled in their jackets. Both stomachs may be
warmed up if they are steamed or steeped for approximately
one-half hour.

HEAD SAUSAGE. One time, Wild Bill Davison, the jazz

cornetist, and I were in a restaurant in Plymouth, England. As
he sat down, he said to the waitress who came to serve us,
“May I see the head waitress?”
The head waitress appeared, a most imposing lady, standing
at least as high as the doorway.
“Are you the head waitress?” Davison inquired.
“Yes. sir, ‘she said.
“Fine,” said the irrepressible Davison. “I’ll have some head.”
The vulgarity of this palaver escaped her, but she brought us
some head cheese, garnished with smashed hard-boiled eggs,
pickles, and a vinaigrette sauce to pour over it. That was not
86
quite what Davison had in mind, but he choked it down man-
fully.
At home, a few months later, I essayed a head sausage.
Going to a butcher shop near Manganaro’s, that wonderful
grocery on Ninth Avenue in New York, I bought a calf’s head
and a pig’s head, having the butcher remove the eyes, but mak-
ing certain that he removed the brains and saved them for me.
I also bought a calf’s tongue.
I took the two heads and the tongue home and, with a couple
of kitchen matches, singed the hair off the ears of both heads,
trying not to look at them in that process. The heads were
plunged into boiling water which contained a carrot stripped of
its outer skin, an onion stuck with two whole cloves, a bay leaf,
a few sprigs of parsley, and some sage and thyme in very small
pinches. Then went in about one-half tablespoonful of coarsely
ground salt, plus two or three twists of pepper out of the mill.
Heads must be boiled for a long time. About three hours
may be enough time, depending upon their size, but it is better
to do them for four, at least. At the midway point, put in the
tongue, which only takes half as long. Drain the whole thing.
Save the liquid, which will be a good basic soup stock with a
couple of bouillon cubes thrown in.
Put the heads and the tongue on the carving board and, with
your sharpest knife, cut them into long slices of meat. Use the
ears, as well as everything else that may come up from the
skulls. The cheek meat is especially good. While the meat is
lying there quivering on the chopping board or block, get out
your meat grinder. You will have bought some bung, or casing,
either beef or pork, from a butcher who knows about such
matters. Put the meat in a bowl.
Season the calf’s and pig’s heads well—with cracked pepper-
corn, with some fennel seed, and with—oh, the Lord preserve
us!—a dash of sherry. Break in a fresh egg. Muddle together
the contents of the bowl as well as you can.
The casing, or bung, meanwhile, will have been soaking in
cold, salted water while the heads have been cooking. Take the
casings out and affix them to the no-nonsense end of your
87
grinder which, I hope, is a sensible one that has to be turned
by hand. Put a fine blade into the grinder and begin feeding in
the slivers of calf’s head, pig’s head, and tongue from which
you will have removed the membrane.
The various members of this sausage family should be fed
to the grinder in this order: calf, pig, tongue, calf, pig, tongue.
Discard that bay leaf. It is too assertive, and should be dis-
posed of after it has done its initial duty in the boiling pot.
Grind in some more cracked pepper as you are going through
this enervating process. Not too much. About four or five pep-
percorns at the most. You might grind in a chopped red pepper
as well—not the very hot kind, but one which will add color to
your sausage. Also, you could grind in a clove of garlic which
you have chopped beforehand and added to the sausage at the
rate of every four or five links.
After you have put the slices of the heads and the tongue
through the grinder one time, put them through again. This
will mix them, and the pepper, and the garlic, and everything
else, in an indescribable manner. Now put them through again.
Yes, for the third time, and then grind them back into the
bung. By this time, your grinding-arm will be so tired you will
be cursing not just me but all the Lancaster butchers who
taught me how to make this time-consuming sausage. They, in
turn, are cursing their grandfathers, who taught them how to
make it.
Now, tie up the sausage in about ten-inch lengths, and hang
it in your smokehouse, if you have one, or in the portable
smokehouse, mentioned before, that may be obtained from any
good hardware store. If you haven’t got either, you can build
a fire in your fireplace, let it get down to embers, and hang the
lengths of the encased meat on hooks which you previously
have attached to the walls of the chimney. Throw water on
the coals. This will send up the smoke you need for curing.
Take the sausages down after about three hours and hang
them in a cold, dry place for about two weeks. After that, put
them in the fireplace and repeat the process all over.
During all this time, you will be able to weed your garden,
88
try to read War and Peace, play either sixteen sets of tennis or
eighteen games of nine-ball, smoke thirty-six packages of cig-
arettes, and take at least three shots (the tender kind, not the
gun kind) at your neighbor’s wife or his ox.
The sausage must then be put back in the same cool, dry
place. Again it must be hauled out and smoked. By now it will
be black from all that smoke. Links should be cut away from
their restraining string and placed in the friendly refrigerator.
This sausage can be eaten cold or it can be pan-fried. I would
recommend it cold, sliced down, and served forth with fairly
thick onion rings and horseradish. Good in sandwiches, if you
can find some honest-to-God Lancaster County Swiss cheese
made by the Amish. You will not find this head sausage on the
Amish markets, by the way, or in any other market anywhere
in the world. I invented it, and if you want to try it, you will
have to do it this way or invent it yourself. The butchers
showed me the way? but it is mine!
Head cheese, that old reliable, is made much in the same
way, except that after slicing the meat of the heads and tongue,
you do not put it through the grinder. You chop it into coarse
pieces, and perhaps add some leftover ham, or some roast beef,
or pot roast cubes. While you are dicing the slices of calf’s
head, pig’s head, and tongue, you should be simmering the
stock they cooked in with the addition of one chicken and one
beef bouillon cube.
Now pitch the bits of meat, with perhaps some leftover
chicken, into a pan that would nicely suit a loaf of bread. Add
to the stock one tablespoonful of Knox Gelatin (is there any
other kind?) and pour it over the meat cubes until the stock
rises about one-quarter inch above the latter. Salt and pepper
this liberally. Cover it with a cheesecloth and set aside to cool
for a while.
When it is so cool that Dizzy Gillespie’s music would sound
fairly hot beside it, put it into the refrigerator, placing an old-
fashioned iron, or some other weight, perhaps a barrette once
worn by Lois DeFee, the lady DONC p over the cheesecloth-
covered head cheese.
89
 You must now have something else for supper, for the head
cheese, which is a kind of sausage, must be allowed to remain
in the refrigerator for at least 24 hours. This will jell it as it
needs to be jelled, and you can slice it down and serve it to
your wife, or your guests, or whoever is present (if you are a
wife, it may be your husband). They probably will not like it
much. Women like aspics, for some reason I never have been
able to unravel, but they seldom like jelled meats.
Smash up some hard-cooked eggs, and mince some pickles,
and float them in two jiggers of oil and one of vinegar, and
pour that sauce over the head cheese, once it is jelled and cool.
This may not make the diners shout with delight at first. To
tell the truth, head cheese is not very appetite-apprehending on
initial view. But once they try it, they will be more than satis-
fied. Exclamations of appreciation will be heard.

90
oo)
ie SAUSAGES IN RED WINE. First you go and
buy your red wine. It must be a cheap Chianti. The liquor
dealer will ask you what kind. Tell him not to be foolish. He
then will offer a California brand. Tell him that is very nice but
you are looking for something a little more foreign. Strum
some stringed instrument, if you know how to play one. Twist
your moustache, if you happen to have one. If you do not,
grow one for the occasion. He will offer you Bolla Bardolino,
which is first-rate, but which is not—definitely not—what you
are looking for. Then he will offer you Valpolicella, which is
even more expensive.
“Haven't you got one that sells for something like $1.56 per
half-gallon?” you will ask.
“No,” he will say.
You will now settle for the California brand. You will not
like it, but you will not mind too much, for you are using it
only for cooking.
Now go out and get some Italian link sausage. Which brings
us again to the dilemma of To Prick Or Not To Prick. In the
case of Italian sausage, prick. They are so laden with fat and
fatty juices, you will be better off allowing them to fry in their
own contents. If you wait until they are half-done to prick
them, you will very likely get some fat right in the eye.
Presuming you can find some Italian sausages, which is not
much of a chore in any city with an Italian neighborhood, place
them in a frying pan, prick and coil the others around one
sausage placed in the center. Or place them in a shallow cas-
serole. These sausages are so rich, it is advisable to prick pronto
and allow them all to cook or fry in the fat.
Pour about one-half cupful of wine over them. These fat
ot
gentlemen, looking like Milanese businessmen, should be per-
mitted to get themselves drunk in that wine, so drunk that
they will get as brown as an Italian colonial soldier. This will
take about twenty minutes or one-half hour on medium-high
heat.
The best thing to send out to diners with this dish is buttered
noodles or macaroni. And, if you can get them, pieces of fin-
nochio on the side, bathed in equal parts of oil and vinegar,
dusted with tiny pinches of oregano and generous sprinklings
of parsley, fresh or dried.
A friend of mine sometimes grates provolone cheese over the
sausage before he serves it, and if he has no provolone, he
grates old hard Gouda or Swiss. This seems to me to be a little
much, since there will already be some grated cheese on the
noodles. It is better, I think, to keep the cheese off the sausage,
but it all depends on what your family thinks.
Some people often present their guests with a tomato sauce,
or stewed tomatoes, either atop or aside of the sausage. Others
hand out green peppers, fried in chunks. This, I think, is silly.
Crusty bread from a good Italian or French bakery, yes.
Various sauces, no.
This dish may also be made with American pork links, al-
though not with the success that the Italian varieties command.
It can be made with rice instead of pasta or even served with
mashed or French-fried potatoes.
The great, great thing about sausage is that it has an adapt-
ability that virtually no other meat can equal. It can be used
with nearly any kind of vegetable or fruit, and if it is made
well, it will be acceptable to all. Unless it is presented in
scrapple. No, I have not mentioned it thus far, but I hate
scrapple. I will mention it later.

ITALIAN SAUSAGES WITH PASTA. What more reason-

able a recipe, I asked myself one night, could the hand of man
devise? Italian sausages, hot or sweet? Pasta? Elbow macaroni,
long and even limp spaghetti, the broadbreasted hunks of pasta
that are put into lasagna, my God, even vermicelli—how could
a man go wrong?
92
 This recipe sounds fairly simple, but beware of it. Perhaps
you would be better off if you opened a can of something by
Franco-Amercan and tried that. Then you could curse the
canned food instead of me. However, he said, with jaunty in-
souciance, do not despair.
Get some Italian sausages, about two for each guest. One
sweet, one hot, for each person. There are two theories for
cooking these gentlemen. Some people say they ought to be
done on the griddle, sautéed lightly, at once. Other people main-
tain that they ought to be cooked in water at first, and then
pricked or poked after the water has boiled off. I lean to the
latter notion. In any case, they ought to be browning.
While the sausages are traipsing off to the done state, you
can be boiling some water—oh, about a gallon of it—into which
you have previously put about one teaspoonful of salt and two
chicken bouillon cubes. If you happen to have some leftover
chicken around, that is even better, provided it has not been
fried. Chicken that has been fried is not much good for stock.
When the water is boiling as angrily as Charles de Gaulle,
add two cups of whatever pasta you are planning to use. The
pasta will require about seven, eight, or nine minutes to get
itself to the al dente state. Elbow macaroni may take a little
longer. So may the pasta which manufacturers persist in call-
ing Wagon Wheels. Kids like them because they enjoy playing
with them. But they are not suitable fare for adults.
Now while the macaroni, or whatever pasta you are having,
is being boiled in its pot, shove the sausage aside in its frying
pan, and thin-slice some green or red pepper, some tomato,
some onion, and sprinkle all this with small pinches of parsley,
oregano, marjoram and salt. Do not permit the vegetables to
get brown in the grease. When the onions are golden, and the
aroma is rising, yank everything off the burners.
Take the pasta and put it in a colander and run cold water
over it. No, not on the stove, in the sink. When the pasta has
been drained, lay it over the simmering sausages, over the
vegetables, and with a good big chef’s knife cut the sausages
into sections of about one inch. Muddle all this stuff together,
and pray. If you are daring, at this point, you now may add
93
about one ounce of red or white wine. Or a shot of brandy or
bourbon. Sprinkle on more parsley—but no more oregano,
please—and some Romano or Parmesan cheese.
Broiled eggplant goes well with this dish. Just brush eggplant
halves with oil, salt and pepper them with a retiring hand, and
set them under the broiler while the sausages are cooking and
the pasta is getting ready to be eaten. Or you can use Zucchini
the same way, splitting it. Summer squash will also do. Winter
squash, never. Winter squash is not good under any circum-
stances.
This Italian sausage dish can also be made, of course, with
loose sausage, but it will not be as good. The bung, or natural
casing, in which the Italian links come imparts a flavor that the
loose sausage never achieves.
Peaches, grapes, peeled oranges and limes can be served as
afterthoughts to this dish, well-bathed in Strega or Fiore de
Alpe. Then small cups of strong coffee that look and smell as
though they could have taken on Carmine Basilio in his prime.

94
QO
4,ath EBERSOLE’S SAUSAGE AND APRICOT
DINNER. Mrs. Ebersole not only was nice enough to have a
wild first name, she also gave me a wild sausage recipe. Watch
out. :
Sauté one-third of a cup of chopped onions. Once the onions
have turned golden, add one-and-one-third cups of pre-cooked
rice. Into that should go one twelve-ounce can of apricot nectar
and one-half teaspoonful of salt. Mrs. Ebersole says you can
use water if you can’t find apricot nectar. But try. Bring the
nectar-rice-onion mdxture to a boil, stirring constantly. Then
cook it over a very low heat.
Now, with a blaring of centurions’ horns, come the magnifi-
cent sausages. Smoked. If they are not smoked, smoke them.
Then cut them in half. I hope, for your sake, they are not
frozen sausages. If they are, your knife-hand may slip and you
will cut off one of your fingers. Beware of that. It will not taste
good in this recipe, and you may find that you miss it.
Grill or bake the sausage halves. While they are going to
work on themselves, you go to work heating some fresh or
canned green beans cut on the bias, the way Chinese cooks cut
them. Also cook one cupful of dried apricots, peeled and whole.
“Spoon rice into center of heated platter,” says Mrs. Eber-
sole. “Surround it with the sausage halves, cooked apricots,
and drained green beans. Garnish all this with parsley or
watercress.”
No side-dish vegetable really is needed with all this. The
apricots supply the fruity taste. The rice takes the place of any
potatoes you might think of serving. I face Pennsylvania and
bow to Mrs. Jestena Ebersole.

95
C=
Keer SAUSAGE ROLLS. The trick to all success-
ful sausage cookery is to keep it simple, and Mrs. Elwood
Keagy, who lives in my home town of Lancaster, has got sim-
plicity down to a science.
She takes twelve link sausages, each about the size of a
troll’s nose, and twelve slices of thin bread. While the sausages
are happily going to their fiery doom under the broiler, she
cuts the crusts off the bread. The sausages take about ten or
twelve minutes to get the pleasant shade of brown they ought
to be.
Now Mrs. Keagy rolls each one in one of the bread slices,
securing them, I suppose, with a toothpick. Or perhaps the
grease holds the bread. She then puts them back under the
broiler until the bread is toasted. I would serve Major Grey’s
chutney with these warriors.

KURTZ PORK CHEESE CAKES. Mrs. Marvin Kurtz, a

good cook I know who lives in Ephrata, Pennsylvania, where
so many good cooks live, has a recipe for cakes or patties that
a bride of two hours could do with her left hand. (Her right
hand, presumably, would be caressing her husband.) Mrs. Kurtz
takes one-and-one-half pounds of loose sausage and mixes it
with one cupful of fine dry bread crumbs, and two-thirds of a
cupful of “shredded” (I suppose she means grated) cheddar
cheese. Use a good stout cheese from some country shop. Grate
hell out of it.
Throw in two lightly beaten eggs. Mix all this together, with
your hands. Shape the mixture into hamburger-like patties.
Wrap each patty with a slice of bacon. Secure the bacon with
a toothpick. Put on the oven rack above a shallow roasting pan.
Bake for thirty or thirty-five minutes at 375°. Manna from Mrs.
Kurtz.
96
GED
L ANGUEDOCIENNE SAUSAGES. It is impossible
for me to tell where you are going to find Toulouse sausages in
the United States, but if you are enterprising, and happen to
know a French butcher in some big city, you may succeed.
Sausages a la languedocienne are worth the effort.
Toulouse sausages are big ones in which the meat (pork and
young calf) has been chopped by a butcher with an arm the
size of a ham and then mixed with mace, nutmeg, salt, pepper,
and a pinch of saltpeter. They have an invincible aroma and
flavor. The next day you will know all too well that you ate
them on the preceding day. Persevere and prevail. I am not
going to tell you how to make Toulouse saucisses, because I
really do not know how.
But if you can get some, twist them into a coil that will fit
neatly into an iron pan in which you previously have put about
three tablespoonfuls of goose grease. Now peel and then flatten,
as usual with the side of your cleaver, four good-sized cloves
of garlic. Throw in a bouquet garni. Put a lid on the pan and
cook the sausage for approximately twenty minutes. Take out
the coil of sausage and put it in a very low oven to keep warm.
Fast work is now required. Into the frying pan, put two
tablespoonfuls of vinegar. While the sausages have been cook-
ing, you will have been making a brown sauce roux of flour and
some bouillon or a bouillon cube dissolved in water. Put this
in with the vinegar and sausage grease, stirring as though you
were a fireman on a World War I tanker. When all this is be-
having as though it were Christmas, add one-half cupful of
tomato puree. Let it all boil together for about five minutes,
still stirring it. Four tablespoonfuls of pickled capers now join
the frenzy. Add three or four tablespoonfuls of either dry or
fresh parsley. Stir again and again and again and again. Remove
the sausages from the warming oven. Pour your gravy all over
97
them. Serve. I like’ plain boiled rice with this. Or, sometimes,
black-eyed peas. Good hard bread ought to be served so that
the gravy can be sopped up.
It is not absolutely necessary for you to locate Toulouse sau-
sages for this. Any coarsely-made sausages, even the Jtalian
sweet or hot ones, will do. But, somehow, Toulouse sausages
have a flavor that is distinctly their own.

LENTILS AND SAUSAGE. Nobody has any right to tell

the modern hausfrau, young or old, how to cook lentils, least
of all your Beloved American Journalist here, who now reminds
his readers that this flat, bbown member of the pease, or peas,
family is often overlooked as the root for substantial, inexpen-
sive meals, which can also be delicious. A lady can make enough
lentils and sausage to feed six for less than $2 without spend-
ing much time in the kitchen.
Get one cup of dried lentils, wash them and pick them over,
and put them in water to cover at about the time the late eve-
ning news is over. Let them lie there drowning all night long.
At about ten o’clock the next morning, the lentils should be
drained, but the liquid in which they have been soaking should
be saved. Two cupfuls of this should now be heated without
too much vehemence. While it is moiling itself around above
the flame, the cook should be mincing or chopping an onion
about half the size of the ball used in a game of jai alai, and
simultaneously cutting up two or three sprigs of parsley. I am
assuming that all my readers are ambidexterous. One clove of
garlic should also be rent asunder, and so should one stalk of
celery, including the leaves. Some salt should be waiting in the
wings—about two teaspoonfuls of it—and a pepper grinder
should be there chafing to get in.
All these ingredients are added to the lentil liquid, and so
should the lentils themselves, and all of these gentle and un-
complaining friends should be allowed to simmer, covered—
not to boil—for about fifteen or twenty minutes. Lentils must
not be boiled into submission. ‘
While all the simmering is taking place, there should be two
other operations going on.
98
 Some sausages—as many as you think you will need—should
be snarling vociferously in a frying pan or on a home-made
Reynolds Wrap pan under the broiler. It seems to me that the
frying-pan method is better, if only because you can start the
links in a half-inch of water. Let that steam away and—well,
no sausage cook needs be given this advice—the sausages ought
to come out brown.
The second operation involves greasing or oiling a good-sized
baking dish, or casserole, or Corning Ware receptacle. I like to
use an earthen pot I once picked up in France. I use this for
nothing but lentils and: beans. Like old French chefs and their
omelette-spiders, I never wash it, except on the outside. I wipe
out the inside with an old but clean shirt.
In a colander, over another pan, drain the cooked lentil mix-
ture. Once again, save the liquid.
Now that I am writing it down, I find that this dish is so
much trouble to make, Jim Beard himself might shun it.
Once the lentils, onions, parsley, et al., are removed, some
fat, preferably sausage grease or olive oil, should be put into
a saucepan. About one tablespoonful of flour should be stirred
in with a whisk, and to that should be added a little better than
one cupful of the lentil juice. All this should be whisked as
though you were uncontrolable.
Meanwhile, you have placed the lentils in that baking dish
you greased or oiled beforehand. When the gravy is nicely
thickened, pour it over the lentils.
Now rescue the sausages. Lay them, with the most infinite
tenderness, atop the lentils. Slice two tomatoes, skinned or un-,
each about the size of a Ringling Brothers’ clown’s nose. Salt
them. Place them atop the sausages, as though they were strain-
ing to get down at the sausages, which, of course, they ulti-
mately will do.
The lentils and sausages should be cooked, uncovered, at
about 250° for at least two hours. From time to time, dashes
of sherry—and I do mean dashes—should be added. Or of red
wine. The idea is to keep the flavor of the sausages and the
lentils, and to permit them to enjoy each other so that you
will enjoy them.
99
 Cook this dish for three hours, if you wish. The pigs that
gave you the sausages are already dead, and so are the vines
on which the lentils grew. They died for you. Why not give them
the tribute of your enjoyment of them?
There is practically nothing that goes along with this dish,
except some crusty French or Italian bread with which to
mop up. Lentils and sausage need no accompaniment. The dish
does need a good deal of work, and for that reason ought to be
done on a Saturday or Sunday when you have time to con-
centrate on it.

LIEDERKRANZ UND SAUSAGE. One night, when I was

working my way through a chapter of a novel that probably
never should have been finished, I found myself hungry. This
was a fairly unusual experience for me. When I am trying to
work on fiction, I seldom eat. The conditions of the task are
seldom conducive to eating, for eating requires cooking, and
cooking requires time off from the typewriter.
I looked in the refrigerator. Tobin’s, that estimable house of
the encased meat product, had sent me some sausage, the plain
pork kind, unfrilled and each link in its right little mind. I
thought I would have some of them, with perhaps some
scrambled eggs on the side, and some alternate rounds of green
tomatoes and onion arranged near them, sprinkled over gently
with some parsley, rosemary, oil and vinegar, and possibly a
little oregano, not to mention salt, pepper, and monosodium
glutamate.
I prepared the sausage links on the way back to my type-
writer by starting them in a skillet with a small amount of
water.
Three paragraphs later, I went back to have a look at them.
The water had steamed itself off into the universe, and the
sausage links were now browning nicely. I tried to turn them
with a spatula, but they would not budge. I pricked them, and
got little spurts of hot fat on my forearms and wrists for my
trouble. The sausages did permit some of their grease to remain
in the pan and now, as I turned down the heat, they permitted
100
me to roll them over. I turned it down still lower, and soon
they were singing a seething song of ecstasy, as though await-
ing my appetite. Nothing sounds better than a happy sausage.
Four more paragraphs. I was writing hastily, for I was so
hungry I could have eaten one of the Jolly Green Giant’s legs.
Yet I did not feel hungry for eggs, scrambled, coddled, or fried.
I had some Jim Dandy grits around, but grits are a pain in
the neck to make unless you have made them the day before.
There was some leftover succotash in the refrigerator. No.
Cajoling the sausage links by turning them again, I went back
to my monster and did three more paragraphs, all about the
size of this one. They did not quite satisfy me, but they kept
the typewriter quiet.
Back to the kitchen I went. The sausage fumes were now all
but overpowering. Bluejays were beginning to cluster around
the kitchen door, and the dachshund was off barking up his
neighbors, invitings’them in.
What am I going to eat with these links? I asked Myself—
taking on the identity of The Deity. I did not know. I did not
want eggs, that was clear. I could feel it in my stomach. This
was not An Egg Morning. Stewed tomatoes? I thought not.
Raw, yes, with onions, but not stewed, not even the Italian
kind. Mushrooms? No, I’m afraid not.
Then the inspiration occurred to me. On the top of the re-
frigerator was a mighty plastic box containing all sorts of
cheeses that I hadforgotten to eat over a long period of time. I
hauled down the box, which smelled so strong that it could
have been used as a weapon against the crew of a flying saucer
that recently had debarked from Arcturus. Inside it was some
old, hard Cheddar, some Roquefort, a slab of Swiss that, if
sliced properly, could have been used to shingle roofs, and
some Liederkranz.
Many people believe that Liederkranz is an American cheese,
which it is, but most people believe that it is a German cheese,
for when it is right it can be smelled from Berlin to Milwaukee.
It cannot be said that this cheese, when in full ripeness, can
be smelled from San Francisco to Tokyo. Dogs have been
101
known to turn their tails and whimper to be let outside when
a small block of Liederkranz has been on the top of the re-
frigerator for three or four days. It is not a German or Swiss
cheese, it is American, and was developed by the Borden Com-
pany long before their Daisy the cow became a symbol.
I got out my bag of clothespins, clamped one on my nose,
and cut off some Liederkranz. This—the cheese, not the clothes-
pin—I spread over my simmering sausage. I salted and pep-
pered it, and, trembling in the full force of creation, sprinkled
over some chopped shallots. Chopped scallions would have
been all right, and so would chopped onions. Over all this, I
sprinkled some bright red cayenne.
The Liederkranz melted, the sausages took it to their manly
little bosoms, and with a couple of toasted slices of corn bread,
I had a fine breakfast, although as I was eating it I reflected
that I should have split the sausage before laying on the cheese.
I did this the next time. Much better.

LIMA BEANS AND SAUSAGE. One night I wandered into

my cell-like kitchen, which was then lighted by a bulb that
would seem to be better-suited for a prison cell. In the gloom
I looked up at my shelves. There was a can of lima beans there.
The refrigerator held, as it always does, some sausage, about
four days home from the store. I hauled it out and browned it
lightly. Opening the beans, I poured some of the sausage grease
over them (only about a tablespoonful) in a stewpot, added a
peeled and shredded onion to the remaining grease in the sau-
sage pan and browned that fellow easily. I then added that to
the beans and shook in some dried parsley. Fresh parsley
would have been better; it always is. (Anything fresh is better
than anything dried, dehydrated, or frozen.)
The sausages next were laid over the limas, who did not
protest. I added two jiggers of cheap dry white wine. Then I
touched this thing with as much dry mustard which, if it had
been talcum powder, could have served at a newborn’s diaper-
changing. I let it simmer awhile. Then I grabbed the pot off
the stove, ladled some of the creation into it, and got myself a
spoon and a napkin, and, as an afterthought, a crust of French
102
bread that could not have been more than two days old. It
needed salt and pepper. It needed something else, too, I later
decided, and the next time I made this dish, I put in a quarter
of a bay leaf, well pulverized. I also added two quartered
tomatoes—or was it a small can of Italian tomatoes? I cannot
remember. Anyhow, add tomatoes. Another time, I added some
slivered green peppers. And, slave to the sauce that I am, I
dashed in Tabasco with three hard moves of the wrist.
This could be done with red wine, but that would not bring
out the true lima bean flavor. It also could be done with black-
eyed peas.

LYON SAUSAGE. The first time I was in Lyon, I was

nicely mugged and all the francs were stolen out of my wallet.
This did not matter much, for I had providently put the main
wad in the upper left pocket of my shirt and no French thief
ever would be smart enough to look in such a place for money.
This macquereau got about six francs, and I got a nice lump
on the side of my head, delivered, I believe, by a tire jack.
I hold no hatred for Lyon, for the police and the hospital
people were all very kind. One of the doctors gave me a drink
of wine as he was stitching away. The next morning my opinion
of the city went higher, for at breakfast I had some of the
famous sausage that is constructed there.
Sausage lyonnais is made from fresh pork—about five pounds
—from which all the fat has been trimmed, chopped, and mixed
with about a tablespoonful of salt and one teaspoonful of pep-
per. The butchers of Lyon then haul out a piece of pork fat
which they have been salting until it has turned as dry as a
long-dead starfish. They chop it up into quarter-inch cubes and
add it to the chopped pork.
To this mixture is added a couple of good-sized garlic cloves,
put through a press or smashed with the ever-popular cleaver,
and about eight or ten white peppercorns. If you cannot get
whole white peppercorns, use ground white pepper—but I
doubt that you will not be able to find whole white ones in
these days of plenty. Manganaro’s, Ninth Avenue, New York, is
a good source of peppercorns. Those lads have everything.
103
 Get some huge'hog bung from the butcher. Tie up one end
and stuff into it this Lyon sausage, which you have mixed until
your arms have begun to feel like those of a guard standing
outside The Presidio in San Francisco, the place where old gen-
erals go. One bung should hold eight or ten pounds of sausage,
provided its overall length is ten or twelve feet. Tie it all off
into links of whatever size you wish. The incomparable La-
rousse, in speaking of Lyon sausage, recommends eighteen-inch
lengths. This is too long, I assert. Eight or ten inches is quite
long enough.
These sausages, after being tied up, should be hung up in a
cool, dry place and left there for at least four days. Take them
out and get a roll of string. Wrap them up and down and
around and around and around, so that they will not curve.
The idea is to get them all as straight as they can be, for they
now face a drying process, in that same cool and dry place,
that will go on for three, four or five months. They will keep
beyond five months, but your teeth may not if you try biting
into a five-monther.
Many of the good people of Lyon (my mugger is not included
in that blanketing sentence) have been known to add well-cut
beef, with all the fat removed, to their sausage. To me, this is
not as good as the pure pork kind. It does hurry the sausage’s
drying, but it harms the taste.
Mostly, Lyon sausage is eaten cold, either on a platter with
other cold meats or as an accompaniment to cocktails. It may
be boiled or broiled. If the latter is essayed, it is well to put it
on top of an English muffin (not the whole thing, just slices),
with either Cheddar or Gouda cheese, sliced thinly, atop it.
When I serve it cold, I add some Westphalian ham, some
Lebanon bologna, one or two slivers of dried beef, and perhaps
some leberwurst mit speck, or just some plain leberwurst. Raw
onions or scallions should be served with this platter. Small
radishes. A stalk or two of celery. Green and black olives. Per-
haps some pickles.
When I serve it hot, I add some steamed string beans to
which some crushed walnuts have been added. Crushed salted
peanuts also go happily with the steamed beans.
104
o>
Moroser MEAT LOAF. This is a Winchester Farm
sausage recipe, and I must confess I do not know why it is
called Meuser Meat Loaf. Perhaps there was some butcher
named Meuser who either made the sausage or whose wife in-
vented this meat loaf.
To make Meuser Meat Loaf, you first take about one-half
pound of loose sausage which you mix with one whole pound
of ground beef. I would choose chuck, if I were you. Round
steak is much too expensive and ground sirloin is out of reason.
The sausage and the beef should be mixed together with one-
half cup of finely chopped onion. Then add about twelve or
thirteen or fourteen small soda crackers which you have pre-
viously pulverized in your pestle and mortar or crumbled
cruelly with your massive hands. Salt and pepper, to taste, now
go in. About a teaspoonful of salt, I should think, and about
half that quantity of pepper.
Mix all these things well, either with your hands or with a
wooden spoon. Toward the end of the mixing, pour in one-half
cup of either ketchup or catsup, whatever its manufacturer
calls it.
Work in the tomato sauce with either hands or wooden
spoon, and put the whole mess in the kind of tin in which you
might put a loaf of bread. Garnish the top with slices of onion
which have been dipped in oil, and with chopped parsley that
has been treated the same way. The top also might be sprinkled,
again, very lightly, with salt and pepper.
That is all you have to do to this Meuser Meat Loaf. It now
goes into the oven, which has been set to 350°. The Winchester
Farm people say you ought to keep it there for an hour, but
they are wrong. It ought to be kept in the oven for at least an
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hour and a half. If it seems to be getting too dry, baste it con-
siderately with some stock made from a beef bouillon cube
and some hot water, but not too liberally, please. Just enough
to keep it fairly moist.
Some people have been known to put thin-sliced olives,
stuffed with pimentoes, in this meat loaf. But do not use more
than about a dozen, please.
This sausage—that is all it is, really, except that it is not
prepared in any casing other than the metal pan—is best
served with mashed potatoes, or Cope’s corn, or fresh peas, or
even canned peas. There ought to be some kind of jelly on the
table—currant, strawberry, blackberry or gooseberry.
Try not to make the portions too generous when you first
haul it steaming out of the oven. The best taste comes the next
day, when the Meuser Meat Loaf is served cold in sandwiches,
between thick slices of bread which have been spread with
generous amounts of salt butter and fairly assertive prepared
mustard. Such sandwiches are best accompanied by raw to-
mato and onion slices, and perhaps some black olives or some
Fanning’s bread-and-butter pickles.

MISS CAROL’S SAUSAGE CONCOCTION. This recipe

comes to me through the courtesy of The Southern Cook Book,
edited by Marion Brown, published originally by The Univer-
sity of North Carolina Press. Miss Carol is Miss Carol Hampton,
who first published this recipe in The Alexandria Woman's
Club’s Cook Book, one of those marvelous club cookbooks that
seem to be published somewhere every month of the year by
women around the country.
Like so many of the recipes in here, this one requires work.
A good deal of it. For one thing, there is the basic dish. For the
other, there is the sauce. I have no idea of the identity of Miss
Carol Hampton, but I am sure she is a superb cook. Here is
how her sausage concoction is made.
Put about six slices of dried bread in a baking dish. Butter
or grease it. (The dish, not the bread.) Now fry six cakes of
sausage about the size of the average hamburger. I don’t know,
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actually, how big the “average” hamburger is, but I imagine it
is a little bigger than the one at the average White Tower.
These sausage patties should be fried until they are slightly
browned. They should be arranged over the bread.
While they are browning, slice an onion into six thick rounds.
Make six rounds of cold mashed potatoes and put them into a
frying pan and brown them. Put each onion round on top of
each piece of sausage-and-bread and top each with a potato
round.
All this goes into the baking pan, of course, and now comes
the heavy work—what my old Army friends would have called
“the hard duty.” A sauce is now required, says Miss Carol. God
help us all.
According to her rule, you take the drippings from the sau-
sage you have just fried, add one-quarter cupful of cooking oil
(she does not specify what kind), and one tablespoonful of
diced salt pork. In ymy view, this is not enough. I should say
one-half cupful. Dice and consign to this one clove of garlic,
two tablespoonfuls of minced parsley, and about six fresh to-
matoes, plus one-half of a chopped green pepper.
On top of this, put one-and-one-half teaspoonfuls of sage,
one-half teaspoonful of thyme, and one-and-one-half teaspoon-
fuls of basil, along with six peppercorns which have been
crushed either in your grinder or in a mortar. If you need, or
desire, or just have a whim for, a very hot sauce, dried red
peppers can be used. Only three, or you will run screaming
from whatever shack you are cooking this in.
Cook all this for about one and one-half hours, stirring it all
the while. Then pour over sausage et al. “Leftover lentils, green
beans, peas, baked beans, may be added last five minutes,” says
Miss Carol Hampton.
She does not add how long the bread, sausage, potato and
onion slices and sauce should be cooked together once they are
in the fire, but I imagine that one-and-one-half hours in a 250°
oven would be enough. This would give the dish three hours
in all, and would enable the various ingredients to get on with
each other in complete compatibility.
107
 MUSTARD SAUCE AND SAUSAGE. Ah there, Mrs. Ruth
Luecke! Where in the name of God do you get Russian sausage
in Lancaster county, where you live? Leave that question un-
answered, please. Just give me the recipe. So I wrote, and so
this lady replied:
“Russian sausages, two per person. Skin them and slice them
fine, and fry slowly in butter or table fat.” (I think she means
bacon grease or lard.) “Stir in two tablespoonfuls of flour,
gradually add two cupfuls of milk, and simmer for about ten
minutes.” In a good iron skillet.
Then she says: “Prepared mustard.” She does not say how
much. All she says is, “Add prepared mustard until sauce is of
desired sharpness.”
It is impolite of me to disagree with the ladies who have
contributed so many recipes to this book, but if I were called
upon to say how to make this dish, I would call for Colman’s
mustard, the dry kind, and I would mix up—in water—about
a tablespoonful of it. Colman’s is as hot as it is possible for
mustard to be, and this dish, made with Russian or American
sausages, needs the tongue-quivering heat of this marvelous
rubefacient.
Braised endive is good served on the side of this or, if it is
springtime, dandelion greens, or some spinach or poke stems.
If it is spinach, do the traditional recipe: about one-half a cup
of vinegar, almost the same amount of sugar, both mixed well,
and then four or five slices of crisp, crumbled bacon mixed in.
I must warn you that this is a tough-one to do properly. My
mother has told me how to do it roughly five hundred times,
and I still cannot do it the way she does.
Some people of German extraction recommend adding some
dried apples, called schnitz, to the recipe. For some of the
others in here, I would shout an affirmative. But for this mus-
tard sauce recipe, I must demur. No apples, please. Sometimes
the simplest recipes are the hardest to do, and they should not
be given things they do not need. The closest I have come to
interfering with this one is recommending the dry mustard
treatment, and I rest with that.
108
SOS,
‘(Oe WITH SAUSAGE. Put about one-half
pound of loose sausage into the skillet for browning. Mean-
while, break six eggs into a bowl, rained on by two tablespoon-
fuls of water from the sink tap. Some people use milk in an
omelette. Water is better. A chef in Paris told me that, and he
was right. Next, one-half teaspoonful of salt goes in. Then,
about one-half teaspoonful of onion salt. Finely chopped onion
—very finely chopped—makes it even better.
Whisk the eggs and put in a small sprig or two of chopped
parsley, a dash of Tabasco, and pour them over the sausage—
first pouring some of the sausage grease into what I often refer
to as my greasetainer.
If you haven’t got an iron skillet, use a Corningware baking
dish or some sort of baking pan. Place the receptacle in a 350°
oven fifteen or twenty minutes, or until its contents are light
and browned.
The wonderful thing about this omelette is that you don’t
have to turn it as you do the French kind. It lies there and be-
haves itself. It will do so even if you insist upon adding a dash
of milk or possibly half milk and half water. When the omelette
is taken out, it should be sprinkled with either cayenne or red
pepper and garnished with parsley.
This is an excellent breakfast dish and is enhanced by the
addition of quick-toast waffles on the side or just plain old but-
tered toast or some thick French bread cut into slices and
buttered and done on the shelf of the oven above the omelette.

OXFORD HORNS. Said my late friend Gerald Kersh:

Mince one pound of pork and shred one pound of suet. Mix
with a half tablespoonful of sage, pinches of thyme, marjoram,
109
lemon peel, nutmeg, salt and pepper as you wish it, and one
gently beaten egg. ‘“Make them into the long shapes of sau-
sages,” says Kersh, ‘‘and fry or grill.”

OYSTER AND SAUSAGE LOAF. This recipe, so far as I

know, originated at the famous Toll House near Whitman,
Massachusetts. Presumably, it goes back to the time of the
Puritans and Indians, but I am not enough of a culinary his-
torian to make an assertive statement.
Combine one pound of sausage meat, one quart of raw
oysters, a cup of bread crumbs, and two gently beaten eggs.
Put them in a bread pan, meat loaf style, and bake at 350° for,
oh, about an hour. Every once in a while, you should haul the
pan out of the oven and get rid of the excess fat—of which
there will be plenty.
The Toll House recommends serving this with hot Hol-
landaise Sauce. This is nonsense. The loaf should be served
with a nice roux made from the oyster liquor, some of the
sausage grease, butter, milk, a pinch of parsley, and enough
cornstarch to thicken it. Sliced black olives should be added.
Another sausage-oyster thing you might try is even easier.
Parboil the sausages, then poke them and let their own grease
cook them, or add a little butter or oil. When they are browned,
remove them to a covered pan and put the pan in the oven.
Now, while the sausages are in the oven awaiting their ulti-
mate fate, consign the oysters to theirs. Drain off all but about
a tablespoonful of the fat the sausage has cooked in. Take
about three tablespoonfuls of the oyster liquor and spoon it
over the sausages while they are warming in the oven.
If you are serving four people, you ought to have bargained
for at least six oysters per person. Now pop those oysters into
sizzling, angry sausage fat. Squeeze the juice of half a lemon
or lime over them. If you like sweetish things, you may use
the juice of half a very juicy orange. Or of a red meat grape-
fruit. Remember this: no oyster should ever be sizzled for more
than two minutes on either side.
Some people like to pop these oysters into breadcrumbs be-
110
fore putting them into the pan, coating them thoroughly. I
feel this is not gilding the lily, but bronzing it. They are per-
fectly fine as they come snarling up from the pan, a little
brown, and ready to join their sausage brothers in their last
march down into your stomach.
Cut up the sausage before serving. Make them into a series
of coins about one-half-inch thick. Turn off the oven and put
both sausages and oysters into it to introduce themselves to
each other. You might squeeze some more lemon, lime, or
orange juice over these new bedmates, although not too much.
I have to confess that I do not know how much “too much” is.
You might also add some of the green parts of cut-up scallions.
Now, make a gravy from the grease etc., brown bits, rem-
nants of oysters, etc., left in the pan. Do not use milk. Use
water and what may be left of the oyster liquor, plus flour or
cornstarch. Whisk it well and put in some celery salt, garlic
powder, monosodium glutamate and a pinch of gumbo file
powder. I sometimes add a pinch or two of dry mustard to this
overpowering combination although it is not necessary.
Take out the plates. Put a portion of sausage and another of
oysters on each one. Pour the gravy you have just conquered
over them. On the side, put several other things such as bread
and butter pickles, or Major Grey’s, or grits or mashed po-
tatoes. Under no circumstances should you ever use fried
potatoes. A salad will do.
You do not need the large Saddle Rocks for this recipe. The
smaller Baltimore oysters will do. And, if you happen to live in
the northwestern states, so will Olympics.

114
es)
P ARISIAN SAUCISSON. Made from the same meat
as Lyon sausage but seasoned a bit differently.
Into the pork go two tablespoonfuls of salt for each two
pounds, plus one teaspoonful of freshly ground black pepper,
one-half teaspoonful of pounded pimento, and a very small
amount—two pinches—of saltpeter.
This should be stuffed into pork intestines and tied in eight-
inch lengths and hung up to dry. Also known as cervelat, this
sausage is most often steeped first in just-boiled water, then
taken out and sautéed gently in butter.
A variation of this is to make saucisson-cervelat ordinaire.
Using the same amount of salt and pepper for each two pounds
of pork, and a couple of pinches of saltpeter, this sausage con-
sists mainly of coarsely chopped pork, including ears and shins
and feet, plus pork fat.
This mixture is put into beef casings, tied off at eight or
twelve inches, and smoked. Some say it should be smoked
lightly. Others insist that it should be left in the smokehouse
for days. I think one day in a smokehouse is enough for any
sausage.

PARTRIDGE SAUSAGES. The sausage made from par-

tridge is seldom made in this country. It is a great favorite in
France and Mitteleurope, where it is known as K6nigswurste,
or Sausage for the King.
Six or seven partridges are first poached and then boned.
The same process can be applied to two small chickens, the
fatter the better. Cornish hens will do. The boned fowl is
ground together once, then again.
This sausage is not inexpensive. Minced truffles are added to
nz
the poultry mixture—about one-half cupful of them. Then a
cupful of chopped mushrooms. Two eggs are beaten lightly and
poured in. Then some fine Rhine wine is added. The idea is to
get the sausage stiff—but not too stiff. Into the chopped-up bird
mixture go salt, coarsely ground pepper, and one-quarter tea-
spoonful of mace. Still more mixing is needed.
This sausage should be stuffed into a fairly large pig bung
and then tied off at intervals of five or six inches. It should be
poached and served hot, or allowed to cool and then sliced
and served cold. I prefer the hot way. Cope’s corn is good on
the side of this sausage. Or boiled potatoes with black butter.
The warning that goes with this sausage: do not fry or sauté
it. You will kill the flavor of the game.

PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH SAUSAGE PIE. Has it dawned

on any of my readers that I come from the Pennsylvania Dutch
country? Well, I do,*and, not only am I proud of it, but rather
defiant about it. Many of the wild recipes in this book came
from down Lancaster way. The housewives in that area were
most gracious in sending along their own special rules, as the
persevering reader will have found out if he or she has had the
fortitude to come along this far. One of the best recipes is this
one for a pie.
In salted water, boil about one and one half pounds of
potatoes which have been cut in chunks. Good big chunks. I
like to cook them scrubbed but unpeeled, for the earthy taste
of the skin. While they are cooking on the stove, I take some
pie crust dough and line a pie tin with it, reserving some of the
dough for the topping.
Into the pie, I cram as many uncooked small sausages as I
can—usually about twelve or fourteen. They get sprinkled
with parsley and a small pinch of freshly ground pepper. The
potatoes go over the sausage when they’re almost soft enough
to eat, and peeled. The lady who sent me this, Mrs. Roy Wittle,
suggests sprinkling a few drops of water over the mixture
before the lid of crust is set on.
Mrs. Wittle bakes this pie for fifteen minutes in a 450° oven,
113
then turns it back to 325° and keeps it in that heat for about
thirty minutes. The topping should be brushed with butter
before the pie is set into the oven.

PEPPERS STUFFED WITH SAUSAGE. The night before

I went off to the Army, my mother gave me stuffed peppers.
I could not eat them again for about twenty years, for they all
came up the next morning. This, I believe, was due more to
my emotions and reluctance than to the peppers. Now that
nearly three decades have fallen off the calendar, I have been
able to eat stuffed peppers again, and one of the best and
easiest ways I know of making them is with sausages.
Get a lot of large green or red or green-and-red peppers. Two
for each guest. Cut off and save their tops and scrape out their
seeds. Run some water into each pepper to clean out any seeds
that cling.
Now fry some loose sausage meat, permitting the grease to
remain in the pot or skillet or spider or whatever you are
using. Add to the sausage an equal volume of bread crumbs, a
few cut up mushrooms, and some chopped celery. Mix it all
well and use it for stuffing the peppers.
Replace the tops and set the stuffed peppers in a pan with
about one-half teaspoonful of water. Put the pan in the oven,
which should be going at about 300°. Go and shoot yourself a
couple of games of eight-ball, just to keep your eye keen and
your senses generally on the alert. Sniff occasionally, and go
in and baste the peppers every once in a while. They should
cook for about one and a half hours.
Inevitably, if you serve these stuffed peppers, there will be
those who claim their mothers made them in a way they will
never forget. Ignore them.

PIG BELLY, A NEW WAY. Metzelsuppe, or pig belly, or

hog maw, or pig’s stomach, is one recipe I swore I would never
write down again. I had already done it in three cookbooks.
Then, in the spring of 1967, a lady named Mrs. Willis L.
Shopf, Jr., of Millersville, Pennsylvania, sent me a recipe which
114
she entitled, “The new way taste for the old favorite PIG
STOMACH.” Since pig’s stomach, or pig belly, is really at heart,
or at stomach, a sausage, I feel I had better include this one.
It differs from the rules of my mother and my aunts, but it is
worth recording.
Mrs. Schopf gets a pig’s stomach from her butcher and
washes it inside and out. She gets two pounds of loose sausage.
If she can’t get that, she strips the casing off two pounds of
link sausage. She peels and coarsely dices four or five cupfuls
of potatoes. Now she attacks an onion and gives that the
chopping business. Next she goes after two stalks of celery,
chopping both. Setting the sausage aside, she puts all the
vegetables in a stew pot and covers them with water, letting
them stew until the potatoes are just about soft.
Meanwhile, she is either cutting up stale bread or warming
some bread in the oven to make it as stiff as a Columbia,
Pennsylvania, drunkéon a Saturday night. To the bread, which
she has cut into cubes, she adds her sausage meat. She has
already taken her vegetables off the stove and drained them.
This all sounds like a lot to do, but it should be remembered
that most Lancaster County housewives lost their right hands
to sausage grinders when they were very small. Now, she puts
in the vegetables. She mixes the sausage, bread and vegetables
with her hands, meanwhile singing a chorus of Wonderful
Good. “Mix good and fill stomach,” she tells me. “Sew opening
or just use skewers.”
Once she has got the belly tightly secured, she puts it on a
rack in the oven and keeps it there until it has cooked at 300°
for one-and-one-half to two hours. During this time, I think she
sits down and reads a copy of the Sunday News to find out
who has died. One of the principal hobbies of Lancaster County
ladies is going to funerals, whether or not they knew the de-
ceased. She is also basting the sausage with its own grease
once every fifteen minutes.
“Stick with sharp fork several times to allow grease to run
out,” Mrs. Schopf writes me. “Slice and serve.”
Slice and serve, all right, if you can wrestle this behemoth
115
out of the oven. If you are not extremely careful, it may try
to fight you. I recommend two forks and another human being
who is armed with a large spatula. The stomach should be
browned by this time.
In all the years I have been eating pig belly, I always have
had it boiled. The belly itself has never tasted good to me. It
has always been like trying to bite into one of those old tires
the boy with the candle never managed to lug home in his
winsome nightshirt. One can eat pickled tripe, head cheese, or
pork sausage by the ton, but it is too much to ask of a man
to eat the outer casing of pig belly when it has simply been
boiled. Mrs. Willis L. Schopf, Jr., seems to have found the way
to circumvent this and I am grateful to her for having sent
along her recipe.

PILAFF OF SAUSAGE. No, I never ate this in any of the

countries where they ordinarily serve pilaff. Not in Russia, not
in Turkey, not in Greece. Nor do I ever want to eat it in those
countries where there are too many flies and beggers for me at
my age. But I do like it and eat it here.
Take as many sausages as you think you will need and broil
or fry them lightly. While they are getting done, boil water for
rice, the quick or slow kind—I prefer the latter unless I am
pressed for time. There isn’t much difference, anyhow.
Put two bouillon cubes in the water. Also sauté an onion
about the circumference of a lady’s compact. Do not use salt
in this dish. When the sausages are done, throw them into the
boiling water. Also throw in half a cup of rice for each cup of
boiling water. Also throw in the sautéed onions. The whole
thing is baked in a 400° oven for about twenty minutes or until
the stock is just about used up. Keep an eye on the dish as it
is working away in the oven. Burned pilaff is not really much
good.
The top of the dish may be sprinkled with sliced almonds or
pine nuts or English walnuts. Another variation is to put
Parmesan or Romano cheese—grated, how else?—on it.
It can also be made into a kind of curry in which you first
116
brown the rice in about two tablespoonfuls of oil—the more
exotic the better—and one-and-one-half tablespoonfuls of onion.
Add the curry powder and then do the rice the regular way and
add the sausage. Saffron may be substituted for the curry pow-
der, although I find that this gives the sausage a greenish tinge.
One final variation is to use loose sausage or very small pieces
of cut-up links. Mix the meat well with cooked rice, adding
some curry powder—but not much—and then roll this mixture
up in grape leaves.
This is the Greek-Armenian-Turkish method. After the tied-up
grape leaves have been sautéed in olive oil for a short time,
more stock should be added to the baking dish in which the
sautéed and stuffed leaves are transported for baking for about
45 minutes at 300°.
Sausage pilaff can also be served in eggplant halves which
have had the pulp scooped out, then brushed with oil and
broiled for about twenty minutes. Or in scooped-out zucchini
or tomatoes.

PINEAPPLE AND SAUSAGE CAKES. “Pineapple and

sausage?” I questioned a lady I know. “Why certainly,” she
said, and forthwith prepared them, using Winchester Farm
sausage patties.
This recipe is so simple that I believe my dachshund could
make it by himself. First he would drain a can of chilled pine-
apple and rub the slices with either horseradish or mustard.
Then, he would oil a flat baking dish. Into this would go the
pineapple slices with a sausage cake on top of each one. He
would bake these in a moderate oven—about 350°—for half an
hour, basting them occasionally with the pineapple juice he
drained from the can.
This dish gets served with a garnishing of parsley or chopped
chives, fresh or frozen. It makes a fine breakfast or lunch.

POLENTA AND SAUSAGES. That great man and great

art director, Nelson Gruppo, may be somewhat handicapped in
doing his work because of this recipe. Polenta, which is made
117
from Italian corn meal that can be found in any good or bad
Italian grocery needs to be stirred constantly. It is hard on
men’s muscles.
I had had polenta at Gruppo’s apartment a number of times
and have seen him come to the table, after making it, white
and trembling as though with the ague.
To make it, buy about a pound of polenta at your Italian
grocery. Add about one-and-one-half cups of it to about six cups
of tempestuously boiling water. Then, gradually add one-and-
one-half cups more. Stir, stir, stir. Soon bubbles will begin to
break on the surface. “Pouf!” the polenta will say, as though
in contempt for you.
Meanwhile, be boiling anywhere from one-half to a pound
of sausages. When the parboiling water is done for, permit
them to brown for a bit in the same vessel.
By this time, the polenta will be done—and so will your arms.
Take the wooden spoon with which you have been stirring and
turn this accursed cornmeal into a shallow baking dish. Set it
in either a draft or a refrigerator so that it cools off. The rest
of this recipe, now that you have given your arms a lifelong
constriction of the muscles, is relatively simple.
While the polenta is cooling, cut up the browned sausages
and grease a good-sized casserole, using some sort of vegetable
oil or butter. Then cut up the cooled-off polenta into one-inch
squares. Put the sausage and polenta into the casserole, alter-
nating them layer by layer. The polenta will probably come
out on top. Sprinkle it lavishly with grated cheese.
Now add this sauce, which is simplicity itself. Cook together,
until they are smooth, a tablespoonful of oil, a tablespoonful
of flour, and one-half cup of beef stock. Simmer in this about
two pounds of well cut up peeled tomatoes, two minced onions,
a bayleaf, a pinch of either oregano or thyme, two whole cloves,
and a half cup of chopped parsley. Simmer until the mixture
is thick and then add a small piece of butter about the size of
two Las Vegas dice pasted together.
Pour this mixture all over the polenta and sausage. It will
have the effect of sinking the cheese, sending it all through the
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casserole. Put more cheese on the top and cook it in the oven
at 350° for at least an hour—although, if I were calling time
on this one, I would say an hour-and-a-half.
At the end, one cup of dry white wine should be cascaded in
and this lovely mixture should be permitted to heat through
again. The wine is not necessary—it just improves the whole
thing, and if you are as addicted to wine cookery as I am, you
will be glad you did it.
A variation on this is to add a layer of zucchini between
layers of the sausage and polenta—or two layers, or three, de-
pending upon how much you have cooked and how many peo-
ple are coming to dinner. The zucchini should not be fried. It
should be boiled until it is soft enough to be fork-poked, and
then it should be either coined or cut lengthwise into slender
strips. Do not add onion rings. There is enough onion in the
sauce. There probably will not be enough of this dish to go
around, but thank the Lord for that. It is not one of those
dishes that tastes better the next day.
One more ingredient is necessary. Keep a bottle of linament
nearby to sooth your aching arms.

PONED SAUSAGES. Mrs. R. Theodore Bixler, the sister-

in-law of an old boyhood friend of mine, Clifford Hilton, sent
me this fine and ridiculously easy recipe.
Brown as many sausages as you believe you will need.
Lightly, if you please. Take one package of Jim Dandy corn
muffin mix and do what it says to do on the package—.c., pre-
heat the oven to 450°, combine one cup of milk and two table-
spoonfuls of shortening, and add the contents of the corn
muffin mix. Stir all together.
Grease a deep circular baking pan. On the bottom of it, put
the browned sausages. Cover them with the batter and bake for
around twenty to twenty-five minutes, or until the top of the
mix is golden brown.
I wonder if Clifford Hilton is still listening to those old Glenn
Miller 78s we collected more than thirty years ago?
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 PORK BRAINS SAUSAGE. Called Gehirnwurste in Ger-
man, and Saucisses de Cervelle in French, and practically noth-
ing in the United States because they are rarely seen here
except in limited localities, pork brains sausage may be made
at home. If the cook’s stomach stays with him, they may be
eaten with some enjoyment.
Pork brains are first cooked in a brine of about two table-
spoonfuls of salt to a quart of water, then ground up with their
equal in pork meat, half fat, half lean. The meat is seasoned
with mace and salt and pepper and forced into pork bung
which then is tied together in six-inch sections. Tie them at the
ends, and, if you wish, put knots between each section.
The sections should be poached or steamed for about seven
or eight minutes in boiling water—not much of it—that looks
as though it could take on Vesuvius. When the water is boiled
away, the sausages should be allowed to lie there in their pan
and act as though they are angry about the removal of their
maternal water. You, meanwhile, will have pricked them so
that their juices will enable them to brown. Turn them two or
three times with a wooden fork. Serve them with lightly sautéed
onions and tomatoes, lightly sprinkled with grated green
pepper.
Gehirnwurste is more German than French and so is gen-
erally served with sauerkraut. In France, it is usually accom-
panied by beans. In the southern part of the U.S., where there
are small German neighborhoods, it is set forth with Jim Dandy
grits or cornbread. In St. Louis and Cincinnati, where there are
large German colonies, the people will give you mashed pota-
toes with this item. On the west coast, they may give you a
pineapple banana split. Set it aside.
An excellent gravy may be made from the drippings from this
pan in the usual manner—water and flour, monosodium gluta-
mate, salt and pepper, and not more than a capful of Kitchen
Bouquet. This is good only if served with grits or mashed
potatoes. It is not good with banana splits or oranges.

POT PIE WITH SAUSAGE. This is not really a pie. It is

120
what the Pennsylvania Dutch call “bot boi,” and it is more like
a stew. My mother used to make it with chicken and sometimes
with beef or pork. It can be done with sausage. (If it couldn't,
what would it be doing in this book?) The recipe was sent to
me by Mrs. Nelson White of Paradise, Pennsylvania, who evi-
dently is an excellent cook.
“My mother and father made sausage,” Mrs. White wrote to
me. “My husband and I make it, and we have helped our son
make it. We think ours is good, and we hope you do, too.”
Then, she got to her basic sausage rule: “First, keep all the
meat clean.” She did not specify how much meat to use. I
would judge it to be between six and eight pounds.
“You take all the choice trimmings from the hams and
shoulders, the backbones and the neck meat. You can also cut
up a shoulder if you want more. Cut up all the meat into small
slices or pieces about an inch square, and feed it very slowly
into a meat grinders This meat should be as lean as possible.
Grind up all of this real fine, add at least two cups of salt and
a handful of the freshest pepper you can get, a handful of
brown sugar and a teaspoonful of saltpeter. Now you mix all
this together, with clean hands is the best. It takes a lot of
mixing.”
Out of her sausage, Mrs. White makes what Lancaster Coun-
tians call Sausage Pot Pie. “First, cook potatoes, enough for
family,” she said in her letter. (I think this means one large
potato for each person who is to be served.)
“Cook potatoes in salted water twenty minutes and add your
sausage.” About two three-and-one-half-inch links for each per-
son, I would think, except if you are using Jones’s sausages, in
which case you will need at least three links per person. “Add
a half-bottle of Heinz ketchup,’ Mrs. White said. “No more
water, also dash of pepper.”
Then she said: “Start to make your pot pie dough.” But,
alas, she did not tell me how. My mother did, though, over the
telephone. All doughs terrify me. The ones I have made over
the years could have been rolled into projectiles and fired from
howitzers, or filled with TNT and dropped from helicopters.
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 My mother’s recipe for bot boi dough goes as follows: “Beat
two eggs in a bowl. Add four half-eggshells of water. Salt this,
but not with too much salt. Add one-and-one-half teaspoonfuls
of baking powder and enough flour to make the whole mixture
stiff. Flour a board and roll out this paste. Permit it to stand
for about two hours, turning it once in a while. Then cut it into
slices or squares, depending on how you like it.”
Now Mrs. White’s letter cuts in again: “Drop the dough on
top of the cooking sausage and potatoes in the pot. Keep cook-
ing with the lid on. After each addition of dough, add a little
water and loosen the dough, one piece from another, so it cooks
slowly and evenly. Continue this until all the dough is in the
pot and top it all with sprigs of parsley and a dash of pepper.”
And sit yourself down for an excellent meal.
There is one fault I would find with Mrs. White’s excellent
bot boi. I would add a couple of chicken bouillon cubes to the
stock. I might even add three or four chicken wings.
On the side, there ought to be either coleslaw, or steamed
broccoli, or steamed spinach, or all three.

POTATO SALAD AND SAUSAGE. Bertha E. L. Stock-

bridge of Riverside, Illinois, must have been a marvelous
woman and a superb cook. In 1922, she published a fine book
called The Practical Cookbook. There was no nonsense about it.
Every recipe was delineated clearly and there were a few hints
on home nostrums and cures as well.
One of Bertha’s best recipes was for potato salad and sau-
sage, as follows. Cut however much sausage you feel will be
needed into what she calls ‘‘tiny pieces.’”’ About a cupful, she
recommends. To this should be added two cupfuls of chopped
potatoes, one finely-diced pickled beet, about a teaspoonful of
parsley, and a small grated onion. This should be mixed with
mayonnaise and served on lettuce.
Bertha neglected to preface her rule by saying that the sau-
sage should be cooked beforehand. Cooks are often careless
that way. They have their minds set so hard on their work that
they often forget details when giving recipes.
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 POTATO SAUSAGE CASSEROLE. While Mrs. Suzanne C.
Hartman of Martha Avenue, Lancaster, tells me that “pig
stomachs are hard to come by these days,” I don’t agree. In
order to make her recipe, she should go to Central Market in
Lancaster, where pig stomachs are as easy to come by as
radishes in spring, or to S. Clyde Weaver, or some other country
butchers. People outside the Pennsylvania Dutch area should
beware of recipes for pig belly or stomach or “hog maw” as it
is called in that area. Except in Berks, Montgomery and Lan-
caster counties, they really are hard to come by.
This is a passable substitute.
To one pound of loose sausage, add five medium-sized po-
tatoes, one small chopped onion, one quarter of a teaspoon of
oregano, and salt and pepper to taste.
The sausage should be precooked in about one half cupful
of water for about fifteen minutes. “Break the sausage with a
fork as it cooks,” wrote Mrs. Hartman to me. “Drain off excess
fat. Combine all the other ingredients with the sausage and
turn into a one-and-one-half quart casserole. Cover it and bake
it in a 325° oven about one hour, or until the potatoes are
tender.”
This sounds good, but I would add more onion and some
parsley, as well as about one half a head of pre-boiled cabbage,
boiled with some carroway seeds. Not too much, please. Some
pieces of dry bread, soaked in water or milk, also go well in
this dish.

POTATO SAUSAGE LOAF. Mrs. Herman Erickson of

Wahoo, Nebraska, gave this recipe to the Nebraska Centennial
First Ladies’ Cookbook, and a splendid rule it is. It came
originally from Sweden.
“The pioneer women prepared food from recipes which they
brought with them and observed many of the traditions of
their homeland,” Mrs. Erickson writes. She was born in Ne-
braska, but her ties to Sweden are still strong.
The recipe is forbiddingly heavy, but I have tried it and it is
excellent. Take one onion and put it through the meat grinder
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with enough raw, peeled potatoes to make about one pint. Get
one pound of ground chuck and one-half pound of ground fresh
pork. Mix them with the potato-onion grindings plus one tea-
spoonful of allspice and one of pepper and salt to taste. Some
people might want to add a beaten egg, but I don’t think it is
necessary. Put all this in a casserole or bread pan and bake for
about an hour or a little longer at 350°.
Instead of fresh pork, veal may be used. Or ground-up
chicken. The beauty of this recipe is its simplicity.

POTATOES AND SMOKED SAUSAGE. A fine old lady I

know, Anna Kready, aged 86, sent me this recipe. I am going to
reprint it exactly as she wrote it, for she may be a distant rela-
tive of mine, and it is dangerous to get into trouble with rela-
tives. Here goes Anna Kready:
“Take one pound of smoked sausages, cut into about two-inch
pieces, add a small onion cut fine, put in a skillet, simmer for
an hour (at least), and then let the juice dry up and brown the
sausage. Take six or more good-sized potatoes and cut them
up (not too fine). Add the potatoes to the sausage, cover with
water, boil until the taters are good and soft. Serve piping hot.”

POTATOES WITH SAUSAGE. This is similar to the

recipe for Apples and Sausages.
All you do is peel as many large potatoes as you think you
will need, make a hole through the middle of each one with
an apple corer or some other good stout tool, take out the
cored part, chop it fine, mix it with sausage meat, and stuff the
mixture back into the potatoes. An old-fashioned clothespin
works well for this endeavor.
The potatoes should be salted and peppered and put into a
good roasting pan with about a half-inch of water, and then
baked for about an hour or a little more, at 350°. Cut-up link
sausages may be substituted for the loose meat.
There is only one precaution; obviously, mashed potatoes
should not be served on the side. Broccoli is good, or cauli-
flower, or perhaps asparagus or peas or, best of all, creamed
onions.
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 POULTRY SAUSAGE. Making poultry sausage, which
the French do so competently as a matter of course, was so
puzzling to me that I finally gave up and waited patiently until
work took me to Paris. Not only was it puzzling to make, but
it was also puzzling to the local poulterers, who wondered
why I wanted chicken or turkey intestines. They grudgingly
would hand them over, charging roughly ten cents for three or
four pounds.
I would take the bird bowels home and soak them in several
changings of heavily salted water while I stewed a chicken for
about two hours, along with a carrot and onion, poultry season-
ing and salt and pepper.
Now I'll make the sausage, I always thought. And I was as
wrong as I ever had been in my life. I minced the chicken, put
it through the grinder with the finest blade, added some lemon
juice, and a little olive oil, and a beaten egg, and put it through
again. Finally, it was perfect. It was about the texture and con-
sistency of the ham salad you can buy in Harry’s, a superb
delicatessen in New Canaan, Connecticut.
Then I tried to stuff the intestines with the boned and ground
chicken mixture. It either refused to go in or the casings did
not want it in. Both remained stubborn as an obdurate Amish
youth being dragged to a wedding his father had arranged with
a neighboring farmer’s homely daughter.
Back I would go to Paris on another magazine assignment.
There, in the bistros and the boites, would be those skinny,
delicate chicken sausages, simmering on grilles.
“How do you stuff those sausage?” I asked a boulanger.
He was extremely cooperative. He shrugged. The second man
I asked became excited and enraged. He thought I was trying
to steal his secrets. He said he knew Americans, that they were
as bad as Boche, and that I was wearing that beard to try to
look French. I was not fooling him, he said. At one point, he
turned to his assistant and ordered him to go for the neighbor-
hood policeman. I skinned out of there and went up a side
street. E
I made no more inquiries after that.
The trouble with me is almost as puzzling as the trouble with
125
making chicken sausage. Just as its flavor will not quit, as the
jazz musicians say, I will not give up.
A friend of mine in London sent me a marrow spoon made
during the reign of George VI. One day I was using it to scoop
some marrow out of beef shin bones when the miraculous in-
spiration descended from Heaven into my earthbound brain.
The spoon, with its wide end and smaller end, would be perfect
for stuffing chicken intestines.
I went to the poultryman’s place immediately and asked for
some chicken intestines. ‘““You again?” he asked. I more or less
scuffed my foot, seized the intestines he sold me, bought a
stewing chicken from him, and rushed home to plunge the
intestines into a salty brine and the chicken into some boiling
water. The poor marrow bones were still there on the counter,
all but untouched. I scooped them all out and put the marrow
in a small bowl.
When the chicken was done, I boned it and put it into the
grinder, skin and all. Taking the marrow, I mixed it with the
minced chicken meat and put it all through the grinder again.
Then I took my George VI marrow spoon and took one of the
chicken intestines by its open end and began cramming the
marrow-and-chicken into it. It went in with extreme docility.
I tied this sausage off about every twelve inches, for it was
only about three-quarters of an inch thick. The next question
was—to smoke or not to smoke? I decided against smoking
because I could not wait to taste it.
Putting about two tablespoonfuls of butter into the frying
pan, I let it get sizzling hot, and then began putting in the
chicken sausage in coils—tight coils, so that they would turn
easily when I applied the spatula. They began to exude some
juice of their own, and after about five minutes, I decided to
let them have their own private execution and mercifully cov-
ered the pot.
This dish does not take long because the chicken casings
brown easily and the chicken has already been cooked. About
five minutes, covered, will do. Then take the pan off the fire,
remove the cover, and give it to some child to wash. After you
126
have drained the pan, let the chicken sausage return to the
stove and get really brown, at a lower heat. .
Some people do not like marrow. But if you have anti-mar-
row people coming to dinner, it is still a good idea to use the
marrow spoon just for stuffing the ground chicken into the
intestines. It is the only implement that will enable you to
make chicken sausage, no matter what the stuffing.
If, for some inscrutable reason, you are not fond of marrow,
you can chop chicken livers which have been parboiled or
sautéed—preferably the former—and then put them through
the grinder along with the boned chicken parts and the hapless
bird’s heart and gizzard.
When you are about to remove this delicious sausage from
the fire, douse it with a good stiff slug of brandy. You will have
turned it once so that it is brown on both sides as you take
it out.
The French servessauerkraut with this saucisson. Sometimes
they use it as an ingredient of le grand choucroute, along with
hunks of pork and sausages of other kinds. I believe it to be
better all by itself with, perhaps, some peas on the side. Or
some mashed potatoes or grits.
Making it and stuffing it takes more trouble and bother than
you may think it worth, but it is indeed worth it. And, I repeat,
the marrow spoon is the only tool that will stuff chicken
intestines.

PRETZELS AND SAUSAGE. This dish comes out of the

sentimental memories of my Pennsylvania Dutch childhood.
One night, I was grilling some sausage links in a common-
place frying pan. I was about to make some mashed potatoes
when I realized that I did not feel favorably inclined toward
mashed potatoes that night. I do not know what kind of po-
tatoes I did feel like; those still buried under the ground, I
believe—for at that time I was midstream in a novel and not
much interested in cooking.
I thought: Oh, hell, I’ll open up a small can of stewed toma-
toes and throw them in when the sausages are nearly done, and
127
then I’ll add some sage and thyme or poultry seasoning, and a
small bit of salt and some cayenne, and some monosodium
glutamate, and I’ll have myself a fine meal. (I often have long
thoughts like that).
I began to think again. A small onion, I thought. A very
small pepper, I also thought. I performed those acts, and had
to admit to myself that it all tasted good. But not good enough.
About a month before, two friends who operate the Anderson
Pretzel Bakery in Lancaster, Clarence Yohn and Donald Mc-
Cullough, had given me a huge can of pretzels. I had kept them
tightly closed in the can, so they were still fresh and crisp.
On pure, star-crazed impulse, I bit into one and knew my
intuition was correct. I grabbed a handful of pretzels, wrapped
my other hand around them, and crushed one pretzel against
another. While the sausage and the stewed tomatoes and the
onion and the pepper were all engaged in a wild dance with the
various herbs in the pan, I set the pretzel bits aside until I was
certain the sausages and their sauce were done.
This was reckless. I could not be certain that I was doing a
sensible thing. After a while, I tasted the sauce. It was excel-
lent. I was delighted that I had decided to put the poultry sea-
soning in with the other herbs. I took my crushed-up pretzels,
hurled them on the sausages and sauce, and let them lie there
for about forty seconds. Then I took the whole mess off the
stove, garnished the dish lightly with fresh parsley sprigs, and
served it up. The pretzels had stayed crisp. They blended per-
fectly with the sausages. It was as though the two had been
made for each other.
The late Alex Tisdale, Cherry Lane Farm, Pottstown, Pennsy]-
vania, was the man behind the National Pretzel Institute. He
and his wife Marie, who used to wear a cloth pretzel on her
hat, advocated pretzel stuffing for various fowl. Pretzel stuffing,
as in the following recipe, is usually made with sausage.
Get a capon, small turkey, guinea, goose, or plain old barn-
yard rooster, and rub the bird inside and out with salt and
pepper. In a bowl, mix some chopped onion, a stalk or two of
chopped celery, and a cut-up green pepper. Sprinkle all this
128
with about three-quarters of a tablespoonful of poultry season-
ing and one tablespoonful of poppy seeds. Mix it as hard as you
can. Break one egg into a bowl, along with two ounces of milk,
and whisk it. Pour that into the other ingredients. Also, mix in
about a half-pound of loose sausage, one-quarter of a pound of
ground veal or beef, and a can of water chestnuts which have
been smashed up with a cleaver. Mix everything together with
your hands.
Now wreak havoc on your Anderson pretzels with your
hands, about six inches above the bowl of stuffing-to-be. Grind
four or five in that handful. Be as merciless as the lions were
to the Christians.
Again, with your hands, mix the pretzels into the stuffing.
Sprinkle it with paprika and mix it one more time. Grind in
about three turns of the pepper mill. Get out a head of lettuce
—iceburg is best, but romaine or endive will do—and mix in a
handful of lettuce slivers, small ones, into the stuffing.
Pry loose all the bird’s yellow fat, stuff the bird, and truss it.
Render the fat and pour it into another pan along with about
a cupful of dry white wine or cider. Put a bay leaf into this, a
very small onion, or two or three cleaned scallions, one care-
fully washed leek, and a chopped carrot. Add one cup of water
and a chicken bouillon cube for this basting fluid you are mak-
ing. Go easy on salt; the pretzels will provide salt enough. But
dash in some salt and pepper.
Start the trussed gentleman at 400°, and after about fifteen
minutes, turn the oven down to 350°. Baste the bird every fif-
teen or twenty minutes; this will impart a rich brown crust to
the skin.
“What are we going to do with the giblets?” the housewife
will now cry. Put the gizzard and heart into the basting fluid in
the roasting pan. At about one-half hour before the bird is done,
add the liver. Chop the gizzard and heart in mid-cooking. Chop
the liver before you throw it in. Take the remaining basting
fluid at the end, add some drippings from the pan, and make a
gravy with some flour or cornstarch.
If you have basted your bird properly and regularly, it will
129
not need carving. It will come apart at the sound of a child’s
voice in the next room. Or, in the words of Morton Thompson:
“Speak harshly to it, and it will fall apart.”
Afterthoughts. About one-half can of diced pineapple may be
added to the stuffing, or about one tablespoonful of preserved
ginger. One crushed clove can be added. If this is done, the
sausage and pretzel stuffing can be used in duck, in which case,
one-half cup of honey should be added to the basting fluid.

130
CD
UICK, EASY SAUSAGE STEW. A lady from
Strasburg, Pennsylvania, sent me this recipe under the stipula-
tion, ‘Do not use my name.” All right, nameless lady, I won’t
use your name, but I will use the recipe here.
Cut about two pounds of smoked sausage into two-inch
pieces. Quarter four or five potatoes, each the size of a twelve-
year-old Amish boy’s clenched fist. Get out one or two medium-
sized cans of kidney beans. I suppose she means red ones, even
though you could use white. The potatoes and sausages are put
into a pot and covered with a quart of water and boiled until
the potatoes are soft. Then add the beans, heat through, and
serve.
Salt and pepper should be added by the companions of the
festive board. I grant this dish a garnish of parsley, but it is
not really necessary. There should be bread for the mop-up
procedure and coleslaw on the side.

131
Cc)
Beer One of the best of the sausage purveyors
that I know in the United States is Rath Packing Company,
which makes bacon, plain pork sausage, and many other items.
Its products are uniformly excellent, with no waste. At the
plant, before they wrap the dry sausage up to ship it off, they
cut off either end, so that the wurst goes into the slicer to be
cut up at once.
An outstanding product is Rath Bung Bologna, which con-
sists of fresh beef and pork, carefuly blended, and chopped
medium-fine. Rath gives out no secrets. I gather that this sau-
sage is put into beef bung. I can never tell the difference be-
tween bung flavors of pork, beef, veal or lamb.
Another sure crowd-pleaser is Rath Jumbo Thuringer, made
of beef, pork, and beef and pork hearts, seasoned with whole
white peppers, German marjoram, and, the company says,
“other spices.” As with Bung Bologna, this is smoked for about
as long as it would take to see a rerun of Gone With The Wind.
A third Rath winner is Regular Brechteen Hard Salami, con-
sisting of lean pork and beef, loosely chopped, along with
Rath’s own Salami Seasoning. I imagine that this is ground
black pepper, a bit of sage, and some other herbs which I con-
fess I am unable to identify.
This sausage is hung in the drying room for 42 to 56 days. It
shrinks by about 30 to 35 per cent, and gets so hard that a
policeman could carry it as a night stick. Like the others, it is
stuffed into an animal casing. “Bright, lasting color is achieved
by holding the product 24 to 48 hours in a high humidity curing
room,’ says the company. Then, they add, they put it in the
smokehouse for a time, usually for 36 to 48 hours.
One of the few sausages the Rath folk make in artificial cas-
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ing in their spotless Aquila D’Oro kitchens is dried from 30 to
90 days. This, they say, is made “only from the lean hearts of
picnics”—whatever that means. Butts, I imagine. Whole white
peppers, garlic, “and other seasonings” are added to this
eighteen-inch sausage.
Heavy Smoked Thuringer is another Rath favorite of mine.
As with the Jumbo Smoked Thuringer, it is made of beef and
pork and their hearts, to which whole white peppers and Ger-
man marjoram are added. Also a few other herbs which Rath
will not reveal. This has no garlic in it, damn it. But it is
smoked for so long a time, you can imagine it wanting to break
down the smokehouse doors. Probably for days. It emerges
from the smokehouse and awaits its turn to be hung on hooks,
where the hickory smoke fumes give it a rich, tangy flavor.
Whole black peppers are used in Rath’s Cooked Salami, a
mixture of pork and beef, chopped medium coarse, mixed with
chopped garlic and, other spices, and then placed together in
artificial casing before being hung in smoke houses for God
knows what length of time. Cooked salami is my least favorite,
but many people eat it with sighs of passion.
Sicilian Salami is made primarily of pork trimmings and
whole boneless picnic trimmings, chopped together coarsely.
Both white and black peppers are added. All this is stuffed into
a hog bung, smoked, and then hung in the drying room for five
or six weeks.
Rath also makes a Genoa Salami which comes in bung, not
artificial casing. This is also pork, beef, and their hearts, plus
white pepper. The secret of its fantastic flavor is that it is dried
for between 90 and 130 days. There is garlic in this one, and
two slices of it at eventide will make passengers move upwind
of you on morning buses.
Now. Let us build a noble sandwich with Rath’s specialties.
Go to your friendly neighborhood delicatessen and get, oh,
about one-half pound of each Rath product. Buy some cherry
tomatoes, or some Italian ones, and some scallions and/or
onions. Stop by the bakery to buy either one twenty-four-inch
loaf of French bread, or one cane-sized loaf of Italian bread.
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Use the latter as a cane as you stride from the delicatessen to
your humble abode. This bread must be absolutely fresh. So
fresh that you will be able to pull hunks out of it after you
have slit it.
Put all your hunks of hard and dried Rath sausage through
your slicer, or get out your best knife and slice them as thin
as you can without cutting your fingers. Place all these slices
neatly on a nice brown board, and expose them to room tem-
perature while you are making this dressing.
To about 2-ounces of salad oil and one of vinegar (red, if
you have it, but white will do), add one-half teaspoonful of
marjoram, one-half clove of garlic which you have smashed
with the flat side of a cleaver, one-half teaspoonful of garlic
powder, one-half teaspoonful of oregano, a pinch or two of
basil, a tiny pinch of tarragon, a little thyme and some sage.
By now, the oil and vinegar will be so overloaded that you
will probably have to put in more oil. Do not fret. Put in more
oil, about one ounce. Salt thoroughly and add a grind or two
of black pepper.
Whisk the daylights out of this. Soon it will begin to get
rather cloudy, like the skies over Glasgow. Keep on whisking.
Taste it. It should now begin to taste the way Mrs. Manganaro’s
sauce tastes. You may pour in, if you wish, about one ounce of
good stout Chianti.
Your long loaf or loaves have been split lengthwise. You
have plucked out the excess bread—for what you are interested
in here is the crust. Save the innards for fowl stuffing. Pour
the dressing all over the bread, using a pastry brush for spread-
ing it around. Spread it generously.
Spread the bread first with rich butter—not too heavily,
please—and then with Hellman’s mayonnaise. Lay down on
each side of the bread, some watercress which has been soaked
and drained on cloth or paper towels. Over that, lay one or
another of Rath’s sausages which have been sliced so thin that
you can almost see through them. After you have gotten down
two layers, put in a layer of thinly sliced tomatoes.
Now come two more layers of different kinds of sausage,
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and, on top of that, some uncooked cauliflower, sliced as thin
as you can. At this point, it might be wise to add some more
of the dressing.
Then two more layers of different sausage. On top of them,
some provolone, the real thing, please. Have the proprietor of
an Italian grocery slice it as thin as the sausage and tomatoes.
Next, cucumbers, then two more layers of sausage. More dress-
ing, ladled over lightly. Finally, onions.
What you have done here is created a submarine sandwich
that would make the Manganaro people tremble in anticipa-
tion. Not really a submarine—a hero. Lay some fresh cabbage
leaves over it, gently close, stick and fasten with small skewers,
and serve. It needs no accompaniment, except possibly wine
or beer. A man I know drank milk with it one night and he
was never invited to my house again.
People have been known to add anchovies to this monster.
They are very good, but unless they are used sparingly, they
will take over from the Rath sausages, the onions, and the
tomatoes. Capers are also good if used sparingly. Chopped
fresh parsley goes well with the onions.
I made this mammoth sandwich one night for guests, all of
whom were prepared to rush me to Waterloo and make me a
new Napoleon. “You could beat any Duke that Rath might
have,” they said. I agreed but demurred. I will not go to
Waterloo, Iowa, to engage in combat with the Rath people.
I will go to shake their hands, for their sausages deserve this
unashamed, unsolicited tribute—they are among the best now
being manufactured on the North American continent.

RILLETTES. The late Alice B. Toklas, the close friend

of the late Gertrude Stein, left two splendid, not to say two
rather eccentric, cookbooks before her death. The flyleaf of
The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook says: ‘Throughout many rich
years, through two World Wars, Miss Stein wrote and talked,
Miss Toklas cooked and cooked—both living life to the full.”
Miss Toklas kept Miss Stein well fed, often on exotic items, one
of which was a jarred sausage called rillettes.
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 To make this, she ground up two pounds of pork breast. The
meat was simmered in one pound of lard, and to it was added
one tablespoonful of salt, one teaspoonful of pepper, and one
of poultry seasoning. This simple mixture was simmered over
a very low flame for about four hours, then removed from the
fire and allowed to cool. Then Miss Toklas ladled the sausage
into jelly glasses which were covered with paper or sealed with
the excess lard. In a cool cellar, this sausage will keep for
months. Splendid as sandwich filling.

ROBIN’S EGGS GOLDENROD. One of the most amiable

fellows I know is Ernest Beyl of San Francisco, who lives in a
small but seemingly spacious apartment overlooking San Fran-
cisco Bay. I get a little work done while visiting Beyl, but not
much. Ernie loves to drink, shop, cook, eat, and listen to jazz.
He says he likes to play tennis, too, but has never been guilty of
that in my presence.
He has made up some good recipes in his day, this Beyl,
Robin’s Eggs Goldenrod being one of them. Because he is editor
of a magazine for which I write occasionally, I would not dare
paraphrase him, so here is the recipe in his own words.
“T call this ‘Robin’s Eggs Goldenrod’ because I made it for
Robin one Sunday morning when she was sore at me for some-
thing I had or hadn’t done. Anyhow, here goes.
“On a nice hot plate, you put a piece of buttered toast which
should be fairly stiff before buttering. Then you line up, close
together, a row of fine small pork sausages that you have just
cooked and then browned. Over the top of the sausage and
toast, you pour about one half of a can of Aunt Penny’s White
Sauce—or make your own white sauce if you feel so inclined.
“Now you take the yolk of a hardboiled egg and, if you have
an egg slicer, run it through that. Otherwise, put it in a tea
strainer and jam it through. The yolk will come out of the
strainer looking like little yellow ants.
“Take the crumbled yolk and sprinkle it all over the top of
the white-sauce-covered sausages and toast. You could sprinkle
a few drops of sherry or red wine over the sausages when you
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are lining them up on the toast. Only a few drops, though. No
heavy-handed stuff. Now get to work and chop the white of the
egg, very fine, and sprinkle it around the edge of the plate.
“Top all this with paprika and black pepper—unless the
sausages are Italian, in which case they already will contain
pepper enough. You might add some salt, but probably you
already have put some in the white sauce and it won’t be neces-
sary. Garnish all this with slivers of tomatoes or the ever-
popular parsley, and serve it as fast as you can.
“This will get any wife over a pout. By the time Robin had
finished hers, she had forgotten what she was sore about. By
the time I had given her a cup of red wine to go with it, she
was positively cooing. I went out into the living room and
watched the ships in the Bay for a while, wondering what in
hell she had been sore about.”

ROSEMARY KAMM MILLER’S SAUSAGE CASSEROLE.

Mrs. Miller of Ephrata, Pennsylvania, is known widely for sev-
eral of her sausage recipes, as well as for her method of making
metzelsuppe, which she calls hog maw. Here is the simplest of
Mrs. Miller’s favorite sausage recipes.
“Make dough as for baking powder biscuits. Roll and cut
into pieces four-inches wide by eight-inches long. Take fine-
ground sausage, put three or four pieces on the dough and roll
up. Press ends together and bake half an hour in 400° oven.”

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CD
ee AND SAUSAGE. That fabulous cook
of Columbia, Pennsylvania, Mrs. Oscar (Ruth) Luecke, sent me
this fine stewpotter.
Make one-and-one-half pounds of sausage into good-sized
balls, about two per person. Brown them lightly. Bring home
one large can of sauerkraut from the friendly, or unfriendly,
as the case may be, grocer or the delicatessen, or make it
yourself. >
Carom the sauerkraut into the pot in which the sausage
balls have been lightly browning. Add one-half cup of water,
as well as a teaspoonful of carroway seeds. If you are feeling
experimental, add one teaspoonful of poppy seeds. Sauerkraut
needs no salt. Before serving, sprinkle with more carroway and
poppy seeds and grind some pepper over the whole thing. Link
sausages may also be used with sauerkraut even though Mrs.
Luecke insists on loose sausage balls.
Incidentally, this dish can be enhanced by the addition of
slivers of calf’s head, in which case it must be cooked longer,
unless you have parboiled the head for about twenty or thirty
minutes. I have found that it is almost impossible to cook
sauerkraut too long. Small potatoes may be added to this if
they have been parboiled, and small onions, as well. And a bay
leaf.
To make this even more elaborate, bits of ham from a left-
over roast could be added. Dumplings could be made and
dropped in. Also small hunks of Lebanon bologna, or tiny bits
of leftover chicken or duck, or even goose.
At the last minute, just before the sauerkraut-covered sau-
sage is taken from the stove, about two good slugs of white
wine should be poured in. It should be stirred around, and
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then the whole thing should be tasted. The seasonings should
be adjusted according to your taste. Then more stirring.
Aside the sauerkraut, there should be some mashed potatoes,
preferably French’s. Take the potatoes and, instead of the
liquid recommended on the package, use some of the sauer-
kraut liquid. This will impart a most beguiling flavor to the
potatoes.
Afterthoughts. Pig’s jowls, in slivers, can be substituted for
calf’s head. So can lungs, if they are properly chopped. So can
sweetbreads. The sauerkraut is going to overpower them all,
anyhow. It can even overpower Spam.

SAUSAGE A LA KING. What would I do without my

Winchester Farm Sausage file? Go to Tobin’s, I suppose, or to
Kunzler’s. Some nice man who works for the Winchester Farm
people sent me thirteen file cards, each containing a sausage
recipe. I cannot pretend that I have tried each one, but I have
tried several of them, and they are all reliable. This is an
especially reliable one.
Take one-and-one-half cupfuls of sausage, pan fry it in
chunks, and add one-half cupful of sautéed mushrooms. Add
to this mixture, one tablespoonful of chopped green pepper
and the same amount of chopped pimento, plus about two cups
of cream sauce, salt, pepper, and onion salt. Combine all this
and Jet it heat through. Serve it either on toast or fried noodles.
Another good Winchester Farm sausage recipe, also made
with noodles, goes as follows:
Brown about one-and-one-half pounds of small sausages, and
when they are done, place half of them in a greased casserole.
Cook one four-ounce package of noodles or macaroni. Cover
the sausages with about half of the noodles, and then add a
package of frozen peas. Next, slice an onion, thinly—one ap-
proximately the size of Mr. Magoo’s nose. Peel it first, unless
you're fond of onion skin. Get three or four fresh tomatoes and
slice them and let them join the other ingredients. Salt and
pepper to taste. Add the rest of the noodles. It’s my theory that
a person can never have too many noodles.
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 Now, put the rest of your sausages on the top of the casserole.
Cover it tightly and put it into a 350° oven for an hour, perhaps
even a little longer.
Winchester says to use canned tomatoes with this one, but I
do not agree. The maxim of the good chef is: Never, ever use
canned stuff when you can grab fresh stuff off a grocery
counter. If you do use fresh tomatoes, you'd be protecting your-
self, not to say your guests, by adding approximately one-half
cupful of water, or perhaps white wine.
Still another sausage dish made with pasta is a kind of
sausage-macaroni goulash. The sausages should be halved cross-
wise and sautéed in a skillet until they are browned. Take them
out. Drain off all fat but about three tablespoonfuls. In that
fat, brown one cupful of chopped green pepper and one onion
about the size of a cup. Do not let this get too brown. Put the
sausages back in, add one large can of tomatoes, drained, one
cup of sour cream, and one cup of uncooked elbow macaroni,
plus salt, pepper, and a tablespoonful of A-1 Sauce. Bring to
the boil and then reduce the heat.
Now, stir the whole thing and sprinkle it with dried or fresh
parsley, and a small, small, small pinch of oregano. You might
find that some basil would go well in it, or some crushed and
dried oleander, although the latter is sweetish to my taste. It is
also poisonous, says the dictionary.
Winchester Farm recommends its sausage for turkey stuffing,
mixed with bread, milk, eggs, parsley, chopped celery and
onion, as well as, baking powder, salt and pepper. This is called
Frau Meuser’s Sausage Turkey Stuffing. They also give a recipe
for poultry stuffing made with sausage and corn, using two
boxes of frozen whole-kernel corn, one-half pound of fried
loose sausage and a diced onion, after the sausage is browned
and all but three tablespoonfuls of grease has been poured off.
Stale bread crumbs, the corn, poultry seasoning and salt and
pepper go into this and then it is allowed to simmer for a while
before being stuffed into the bird.

SCALLOPED POTATOES AND SAUSAGE. This dish does

not require much work, but it asks for some. It is a nice one-
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dish meal that can satisfy a group of six and leave all the guests
burpingly happy.
Peel—oh, how I hate to peel potatoes!—about six potatoes.
They should be good-sized spring ones—the kind that come up
from Florida or out of the western states, although you can
use Idahos or other baking-types. Get all of the eyes out of
them, and then slice them thinly.
A stout casserole should be hauled out—an earthen one, a
Corning one, or some other kind that will not crack. While
you are looking for this vessel, fry about eight or ten links of
sausage, cut up and decased. Or about one-half pound of loose
sausage. It should be plain old country sausage, seasoned with
salt and pepper.
The oven should be up to around 375°. The casserole should
be greased with some of the sausage fat, swabbed around with
a paper towel. A layer of the potatoes should now be put down.
On top of this should go a layer of the sausage, link-cut-up or
loose. Some dried or fresh parsley should now be sprinkled
or cut in.
Chop an onion, or slice one thinly. The size of this onion is
entirely up to you. In any event, the onion should be placed
over the parsley. Now a single clove, uncrushed, should be
dropped in the direct center of the dish. Some cayenne should
be sprinkled on—a very small amount. Plus two pinches of salt.
Put another layer of the potato slices on top of this layer,
then some more sausage bits, or crumbs, and then about one-
eighth of a pound of butter, in small cubes. Then a little more
salt and cayenne. By this time, you should have enough po-
tatoes left over to have a final layer of them on top. Put some
of the remaining sausage on top of them. Sprinkle the whole
thing with paprika.
Pour a quart of milk over the whole thing. This operation
will alarm you. You will think you are spoiling your layered
arrangement. You are not spoiling it. Keep pouring on the
milk until all the ingredients are inundated.
Put a lid, or a-cover, or a sheet of aluminum foil, over the
casserole, and put it into that oven to bake for about forty-five
minutes. Yank it out then, and sprinkle it with some kind of
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cheese—Parmesan, Romano, shredded Gouda, or some other
sharp cheese. Put it back in to cook, uncovered, for fifteen
minutes or more.
At this point, some people lay bacon strips or bits of leftover
boiled ham across the top. It seems to me that the sausage
already has imparted a sufficient flavor of pork to the dish, and
that this is an unnecessary move. Some people also put the
dish under the broiler after the cheese has been added, but this,
too, is an unnecessary move. The cheese will get brown all by
itself, and needs only the oven heat to make it that way. Onion
rings may be strewn over the top for this last part of the
operation.
Just before serving, the casserole should be sprinkled lib-
erally with paprika.
This makes a splendid main dish, but people with hearty
appetites often want something more on the side. I would sug-
gest a stout green salad with perhaps some tomato slices, plus
a simple oil-and-vinegar dressing. French or Italian bread can
be used to mop up the milk-and-cheese mixture after the diner
has had his fill of sausage and potatoes.
I fear this is not for people who count calories carefully—
but, after all, practically no sausage dish is.

SCHNITZ UND KNEPP UND SAUSAGE. Sometime,

somewhere, someday, someone ought to compile a dictionary
of that strange amalgamation of German-Dutch-English called
Pennsylvania Dutch, which is spoken by the Amish, the Men-
nonites, and even by the Scotch-Irish and English who settled
in Lancaster County at about the time the Indians were still
using bows and arrows.
As far as I know, there are glossaries of this antique tongue,
but none tells me the answer to how one spells the word for
dried apples. Some say snitz, some say schnitz. I prefer the
latter, for it looks more like the way the word is pronounced.
Fortunately, there is no dispute over the word knepp. Knepp
are dumplings.
Mrs. Kready, that genteel octogenarian, gave me this recipe.
It will be rather difficult for people not living in the Lancaster
142
County area to duplicate, for schnitz are sold mainly in Lan-
caster’s famous farm markets. I believe you can get some by
writing Lancaster’s mayor, who will turn your letter over to
the commissioner of markets, who, in turn, will turn it over
to his secretary, who will find some Pennsylvania Dutchman
who makes schnitz, who will send you some if he happens to
remember. This is all very complicated. Perhaps I ought to
forget the whole thing.
No, I won’t. Schnitz und knepp und sausage is too good not
to be given an honored place in a compendium of sausage
recipes. :
Like nearly all sausage dishes, this one is easy, but it does
involve some work.
The night before you make the recipe, soak the dried schnitz
in water. Next morning, grab one pound of sausage for each
half-pound of schnitz you have soaked. Cut the sausage, which
should be smoked Back-country type that comes in foot-long
lengths, into two-inch pieces. Do not remove the sausage cas-
ings. Brown this sausage in butter or lard or bacon grease, and
when it is colored, cover it with water and allow it to simmer.
Add the schnitz to the sausage. Some people change the water
just before adding the schnitz. I don't.
While the sausages are steaming away, you can make the
knepp. “About two cups of flour,” says Mrs. Kready, “‘and a bit
of salt, and two teaspoonfuls of baking powder, and enough
milk to make a soft batter.”
This batter should be dropped by the tablespoonful on the
boiling sausage and dried apples and, “when it is all,” as the
Pennsylvania Dutch would say, the pot or pan should be cov-
ered and allowed to remain that way until the dumplings look
to be done. The only way to tell for sure is to spear one, take
it out, and break it. If it looks like soft bread inside, it is done.
What to serve with schnitz und knepp is moot. Corn relish is
a good bet, if you can find it or if you have put some up during
the preceding fall: It should be served in a separate dish. Or
pickles, preferably sour ones. Or a side dish of boiled new
potatoes. Some people prefer to put the potatoes right in with
the dried apples and sausage, but others feel that the dried
143
apples take something from the pure potato flavor. I have
known some Lancaster County farm families who, despite my
abominable Pennsylvania Dutch, have suffered me to come to
lunch or dinner, and have served string beans or fresh-from-
the-garden peas, or even, on one occasion, steamed summer
squash.
Forget all that nonsense about the Amish and Mennonites
loading their tables with seven sweets and seven sours. It
simply is not true. No member of the Plain Folk, as they call
themselves, would ever be that prodigal. You will get plenty to
eat in Amishland, but you will not get seven sweets and seven
sours.

SCRAMBLED EGGS AND SAUSAGE. Let us get this

clear. There is only one way to make scrambled eggs, and that
is in a double boiler. I’m sorry, but I’m obdurate about this.
Put some sausages either under the broiler or in a frying pan,
whichever is your usual way. While they are browning, break
at least two eggs for each person you will be serving, and put
them in a bowl along with one teaspoonful of water for each
egg. Get the double boiler simmering along. Whisk the eggs,
add chopped or dried parsley, salt and pepper, and perhaps
some basil. While you’re whisking the eggs, pour in two jiggers
of cream.
By now, the top of the double boiler should be rubbed with
butter to receive the eggs. Dump them in and put the lid on
for about two minutes. Uncover them and begin working with
the whisk again. If you like scrambled eggs wettish and soft,
they will be done in less than five minutes. If you like them
hard and dry, which is downright silly of you, they will take
longer.
Now take the sausages from the broiler or the skillet and
halve them. Add them to the eggs and serve them, garnishing
with tomato slices.

SCRAPPLE. Personally, I loathe scrapple.

Scrapple is the principal character in a dismal cast of night-
144
mares from my childhood, and I cannot eat it today without
remembering the hard times of the depression when my father
was never without the back of an envelope to figure on. The
envelope usually contained a bill. My mother seldom made
scrapple at home. She bought it in one of the Lancaster markets
and brought it back and cooked it—that is, fried it. It is not
hard to make at home. Here is how.
Take one cup of water, one cup of corn meal, stirring the
meal gradually into the boiling water along with one-and-one-
half teaspoonfuls of salt. While you are frantically stirring this,
simmer or fry at least a pound of loose or uncased sausage in
a frying pan over a low heat.
The corn meal (you can also use grits or polenta) should
cook for about an hour, or until most of the water is gone, or
until it gives you a pain in the arm when you stir it. When the
sausage is just about done, pour it into the corn or grits mix-
ture. Now you really have some stirring to do. Stir the two
together, the meat and the sausage, and pour them into a
bread-baking pan. Let the mixture cool. Set it into the refrig-
erator and forget it for a day.
The way most people make scrapple (which usually, and
incorrectly, is referred to as Philadelphia scrapple) is to cut
the cooled meal and sausage into half-inch slices, dredge it in
flour, and forget it again. Scrapple is always getting forgotten,
poor beast. Or, you can dip it in egg, then in flour, then in egg
again, and fry it that way. But you will have Satan’s own time
cleaning the pan later. It sticks unless there is a small amount
of grease to brown it.
Some cooks contend that scrapple has enough grease in itself
to cook. But, in my view, if it is edible, it has been done with
a very small amount of oil or grease. Some people grease their
frying pans or spiders before putting them away, rubbing the
bottoms gently with a rag or paper towel soaked in grease or
oil or even butter, and that is often enough for the frying of
scrapple. Add a tablespoonful more, if you think it is not
enough. $
A good many people I know eat sausage links and scrapple
145
together. This, to me, is being redundant because there is al-
ready sausage in the mush. Scrapple is far better fried all by
itself and served with scrambled eggs, or eggs lightly fried,
sunnyside up or over lightly, in a separate pan. You do not
need toast with this breakfast dish. The corn meal suffices.
I suppose this may be the first cookbook in the history of
cookery-writing that contains a section in which the cook main-
tains a defiant attitude towards a recipe he is describing. Never-
theless, I must declare that scrapple is not usually fit to eat
done as it is usually done. It is greasy, mushy, and altogether
unsatisfactory.

SCRAPPLE AS MADE BY SHAKERS. As set out in the

Shaker Cookbook, edited by Caroline B. Piercy, there is a
superior recipe for scrapple which may be more interesting to
people who are fond of this abominable alleged delicacy.
Two cupfuls of pork are first boiled in four quarts of water.
The meat is drained and about three quarts of the liquid is set
aside. The meat is now put through the chopper or grinder or
minced with a good stout knife.
Now bring the broth to a boil. Add to it, one-and-one-half
teaspoonfuls of salt, one-eighth teaspoonful of sage, the same
amount of marjoram, and one-half teaspoonful of pepper. Into
the boiling tempest go two cupfuls of corn meal and two of
whole wheat flour. And, of course, the ground pork.
The whole thing should be cooked thoroughly for about
thirty minutes, perhaps longer, and should be stirred the way
a shivering Shaker might do it. It should then be poured into
dishes or loaf pans. After it is cold, it can be sliced down and
fried in hot fat on both sides until the slices are brown.
I would serve this with apple butter. I would not like it much,
or at least not much more than I like the preceding scrapple
recipe, but there it is.

SHRIMP AND CRAB SAUSAGE. Yes, yes. Do not recoil,

please. This can be a great dish if properly prepared.
Get about three-quarters of a pound of shrimp, preferably
146
the big ones that come out of the Texas gulf. The small ones
that are found off the Florida coast will do, but the big ones
are better. Boil them in a stock made as follows: one cupful
of stale beer that has been taken from a bottle or can that was
opened the night before; one bay leaf; one stalk of celery with
leaves on it; one coarsely-chopped onion; one sprig of parsley;
some paprika; about six or eight black peppercorns.
When this mixture has been boiling furiously, throw in the
raw shrimp. They should be boiled no more than five minutes
and then removed from their grave. Shell them, being careful
of your fingers, for their shells may be tough enough to cut
you. Set them aside.
While the shrimp are cooking, pick over about one-quarter
of a pound of the best crab meat you can find. Try not to find
the canned kind—unless the manufacturer absolutely guaran-
tees that it is fresh from Chesapeake Bay. This is to say go to
your fish dealer. Try fot to buy canned crab in the supermarket.
With a lean, hungry French chef’s knife, hatchet the shrimp
and crab into coarse pieces. Run them through the meat grinder
together with the juice of a lemon. Use the finest blade, please.
Put these two items through twice, please. Scrape all the de-
licious pieces out of the grinder and add them to the bowl that
has caught the already-ground bits and pieces.
Season the contents of the bowl with a very small pinch of
curry powder, about one-half teaspoonful of cayenne, about the
same amount of paprika, and three or four drops of Tabasco.
Salt it lightly.
There is more work ahead, so at this point you will probably
need to sit down and relax as you will. Cooks must not be
hurried. They must have sustenance while they are waiting for
their labors to end.
Put a small piece of uncooked salt pork—about one-eighth
of an ounce—through the selfsame grinder that did in the
shrimp and crab. Add this to the latter. If it is lean salt pork,
fine, but it is my view that if it is practically all fat, so much
the better. Mix well.
Before all this, you will have gone to see the butcher and
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procured yourself about two feet of bung. Wash this. Pork
casings are better. I cannot tell why, except that they taste
better. Stuff the casings with the crab and shrimp and salt pork
mixture.
Once you have the stuffing into the casing, tie it off into sec-
tions, each about four inches long. Make good sturdy knots, so
that you can cut the sausage with ease when it has finished
frying in either oil or butter. Do not use too much of either.
About two tablespoonfuls, whichever you use, will be enough
for a two-foot sausage of this kind. Coil it in the skillet. Turn
it frequently. The idea is to get a decent brown color and not
to burn it or allow the skin to pop.
I hate French fried potatoes, ordinarily—and I especially
hate the frozen kind which taste like those papier-maché hats
sold on Times Square, the ones that have Doug and Bruce sewn
into their front crowns. But if you have a deep-fat fryer, and
you are up to the effort of slicing potatoes into strips, you
might enjoy them with this.
This seafood sausage can also be made with flounder instead
of crab, or with lobster meat instead of shrimp, or even with
shad or some other soft and tender fish, such as whiting, pro-
vided the fish bones have been tweezered out. Instead of salt
pork, loose sausage meat may be used, but its flavor is so as-
sertive, so demonstrable, it tends to kill the flavor you are
looking for.
Another fine side dish to serve with this is a mess of snow
peas, if you can find them. Only the Amish in Lancaster County
(who call them sugar peas) and the Chinese gardeners in the
west (who call them snow peas) ever grow them. They do come
frozen, however, which might help your search.

SKILLET-BAKED SAUSAGE. The wonderful thing about

prepared sausage, as Tobin, Rath, Kunzler and other manufac-
turers are always saying to us, is that it is so handy and easy
to do. I have said that a few times in here myself. I may even
say it again for the benefit of those who are not reading line-by-
line but skipping around.
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 It most often comes smoked or cured. It needs hardly any
preparation beyond being put in a baking dish or skillet. It
needs practically no seasoning, for its makers have already
taken care of that. All it needs is what any human needs: ap-
preciation.
One of the dishes of which I am fond is called a Sausage
Skillet Bake from the file-card of the estimable Winchester
Farm people.
First, cook two cupfuls of rice. Do not use the instant kind.
Stick to the real thing. While the rice is cooking, put the
sausages, links or loose, into an iron or glass vessel that can
go into the oven. Add to it about four tablespoonfuls of chopped
onion, the finer the better. Let the sausage and onion become
intimate on top of the stove.
Pour off the oi! drippings. The cooked rice should be done
by the time the sausage is. Add it to the sausage and onion.
Take a good-sized can of cooked tomatoes. If you have any
sense, you will use the kind you find in an Italian grocery.
Drain them first, for you will want to save the juice for drinking
later.
Pour the canned tomatoes over the sausage, onion, and rice
mixture which is now fulminating in its skillet, or casserole, or
whatever it is. Add about two tablespoonfuls of diced green
pepper—very well diced. Now add two tablespoonfuls of
ketchup.
Now be generous with the salt and sparing with the pepper.
If it is possible, use a ground mixture of black and white pep-
percorns. Put in some chopped pieces of parsley and a sliver or
two of whole nutmeg, or a pinch of it if you have it already
ground. Some powder of cloves, or some whole cloves, should
be added. Then a whole clove of garlic, impaled on a toothpick,
so you can fish it out when the whole thing is done. Hardly
anybody likes to bite into a whole clove of garlic. Stir the mix-
ture again. Cover it. Put it in an oven of about 300°. This dish
should go for about thirty minutes.
On the side, serve some vegetable such as steamed spinach,
mustard greens, okra, or, passibly, fresh scallions that have
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been cleaned and touched daintily with poultry seasoning. Or
braised leeks, or perhaps even something as assertive as boiled
cabbage, cut up after it has been boiled and given a tablespoon-
ful of carroway seeds and another of poppy seeds.

SPINACH AND SAUSAGE. Let’s get all the tired spinach

jokes out of the way. before we go into this. All the ones like “I
say it’s spinach, and I say the hell with it.” Spinch—my market
friends call it that—tastes good. It is so rich in iron and various
other minerals that it would be idiotic of me to try to chronicle
them here.
Take some spinach and boil it for a time. It should be soft
by the time you take it out of the pot. After that, drain it on a
towel and then put it through the grinder. Simmer veal bungs
in salt water.
Now take about two pounds of veal and put that through the
grinder, using the coarse blade. Remove the coarse blade, sub-
stitute the fine one, and put the spinach and the veal through
the fine one together. Smell this mixture. Salt and pepper it,
put in a very, very small pinch of oregano, and the same amount
of poultry seasoning. Smell it again. Add some monosodium
glutamate if you feel that is necessary. I always feel that it is.
Get out the veal bungs you have been simmering. Allow them
to cool, all of them. Wash them off a few more times, also in
salt water.
(“God! Sausage-making is a time-consuming process!” I often
cry it out in the dawn. Sometimes I cry it out in the afternoon,
too. And the evening.)
Attach the bung to the business end of the grinder, and grind
the veal and spinach through it again. Grind slowly, please.
From time to time, taste it again, to make sure that you have
put in the proper seasonings. Some grind in a small amount of
chives. Others add more pepper. Until you have made this
sausage a few times, you are not prepared to decide how much
of what you will put in.
Tie the sausage up in the usual way in about six-inch lengths.
If you have a smokehouse, hang them up to smoke. If you do
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not have a smokehouse, hand them to some small son and tell
him to hang them in a cool, dry place. Or, at least, a cool place.
If you have a cave in your neighborhood, that will do. Allow
the links to hang for at least two weeks. Don’t be depressed if
they look greenish. They usually do. But this is normal.
To cook these little lads, melt a heaping tablespoonful of
butter in a large frying pan. When it is turning brown, throw
some chopped onion into it. Do not let the butter get brown.
Put the onion in when the butter is still golden, and then salt
and pepper it, perhaps adding a pinch of parsley.
Throw the spinach sausages into the butter and turn the heat
down. Let them expostulate in the pan for about fifteen min-
utes, turning them as often as you think about it—say, perhaps,
once every four or five minutes. They should be browned on
all sides.
Aside them, in a separate pan or skillet, cook some red cab-
bage. This is easily done. Get a head of cabbage, the red kind,
core it, clean it, and shred it, using either knife or grater. Put
it all into the colander and run water over it, being sure to
wash it well.
Lave the red cabbage first, with some red wine or vinegar.
Slice in an onion—a small one, about the size of a child’s
croquet ball. Slice in only about half of it. Give the rest to some
cat you loathe.
Two tablespoons of sugar go in next. More salt. The amount
depends upon you. Some ground cloves—but only a small
amount—and some nutmeg. All this should be permitted to
simmer over a very low flame until it is done. It is advisable to
start the cabbage well in advance of the sausage, preferably
not using a pressure cooker to speed things up.
Cook the red cabbage until it is soft, but still more or less
crisp. Cabbage, especially the red kind, does not give up easily,
not even after being sliced into strips or shredded.
With the sausages browned into a state of docility, and the
cabbage cooked to a state of near-perfection, put two of the
wurst on each plate with a large spoonful of cabbage nestling
up to it. Apart from this, place one fairly green plum, a slice
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of orange, and a'slice of lemon. Around the dish, strew slices
of cucumber, the thinnest slices you can manage. Put two
anchovy-stuffed olives on each place-serving, and the meat of
one or two preserved walnuts. If you have a roast wild duck
handy, one that has been getting cold—not to say old—in the
refrigerator for days, sliver it, and lay the small strips over the
sausage, and a small amount over the cabbage, too.
The spinach in the sausage and the flavor of the red or white
cabbage, will go well together. They will prove to be digestible
and nourishing at the same time. If they start to fight, the duck
will separate them and make them friends again.

SQUASH AND SAUSAGE. For some reason, I never have

any luck growing my own acorn squash. I don’t know why. It
may be that I plant them too late, or too early, or something.
This is no real worry, for they seem to be plentiful and cheap
all the year around, which is a great advantage, as I happen to
like them almost unreasonably. In fact, my heart leaps up as
I behold this gift of God.
To make sausage and acorn squash, get two of the latter and
scrub them well. These vegetables often pick up a good deal of
dirt in the course of maturing. Cut them in half, lengthwise.
With a sharp spoon, scrape out the seeds and pulp in the
middle of each half.
Into the shells you have manufactured with your knife, pour
about two tablespoonfuls of melted butter combined with one
quarter cupful of honey which has been mixed well with your
whisk, or fork, or whatever you use for mixing up stuff. The
acorn halves should be baked in about one-half inch of water
for about a half hour in a 400° oven with the cut sides up.
While the halves are baking, you should be browning eight
link sausages, or one-half pound of loose sausage meat, in a
skillet, turning often as you go, and not allowing them to get
too crusty.
No seasoning is needed here. The sausage brings its own on
this trip. If the links are small, cut them in half and place two
in each acorn half. If the sausage is loose, spoon in as much as
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you think each guest will eat, perhaps leaving some aside in a
separate dish.
Now put the stuffed squash back into the oven, which then
is turned down to 325°, and put some more water in the baking
pan. Bake for about fifteen more minutes.
Take out and serve with whatever vegetable you feel like eat-
ing. I would suggest carrots, steamed with parsley, or corn, also
steamed, or, if it’s Niblets, right out of the can and simply
heated. No potatoes with this one, please. You may like a green
salad on the side. I don’t. But then, I am self-clected President
of the American Salad-Hating Society.
This acorn squash dish can also be done with frankfurters.
Go through the same procedure as you would with sausage,
slicing one frankfurter into each acorn half. Because frankfur-
ters will need more flavoring-up than sausage, pour a mixture
of honey and melted butter over them, and sprinkle each
squash with salt, pepper, and about one-quarter teaspoonful of
brown sugar. Also, brush the frankfurters with mustard, Col-
man’s dry mustard, if you want this dish to be especially mouth-
burning. If you do use Colman’s, use it rather sparingly.
You can also make this dish with summer squash, zucchini,
and even with eggplant or a baked potato. It can be topped
with any number of cheeses, even though I think cheese spoils
the delicate flavors of both the sausage and the squash.

SUMMER SOUASH AND SAUSAGE. Mrs. Maudie Bates,

wife of Kenneth O. Bates, one of the fostering fathers of Arm-
strong Cork, first turned me on to the summer-blooming squash
—the flat, round, quietly fluted kind which is greenish-white on
top with a belly as white as a shark’s.
This squash will grow, if permitted, to the size of at least a
ten-inch pie plate, at which time it has to be peeled before it is
cooked, It is far better to raise it yourself, and to grab it off
the vines when it is stil) about the size of a half-dollar. That
was the size it was when Mrs. Bates first served it to me and
to her son Steve who, before his death, was one of my closest
153
_ friends, one of the most talented young directors in the New
York theater.
Maudie Bates introduced me to this squash the day she and
her husband returned home from a trip to Europe. If the Bates’
saw the mayhem Steve and I had done to their home in their
absence, they did not mention it.
“I hope you two had a good time,” Maudie said, and tore off
to one of the city markets. She came back, bearing several
large brown paper bags, one of which contained around two
pounds of baby Pattypan squashes, which the English call
vegetable marrow, and we sometimes call scalloped squash.
Nobody I know ever eats crookneck squash, another breed.
Maudie produced these tiny squashes with pride, and went
on to boil them gently in milk, draining them, and then adding
butter. After which, we ate them and sang choruses of You're
a Winner, Maudie Bates.
Having been taught the true values of this splendid squash,
I began to experiment with it. First, I tried using it with
tomato paste, or fresh tomatoes, as a side dish to broiled ham-
burger. Good, but the tomato paste killed the taste of the
squash. Then I tried it as a side dish to broiled fish without
tomato sauce. The fish killed it, too.
I was determined to discover what meat could be made to
go with that delicate flavor, and presently I hit upon sausage.
I took about eight small links of the unsmoked plain pork kind,
browned them, poured off all but about two tablespoonfuls of
the sausage grease, and then made a roux of the remaining
sausage oils, and poured that over the links.
In a side dish, I did the baby squash just as Maudie Bates
had, using a little water and milk, and about one-eighth of a
pound of butter. Salt and pepper on both the sausages and the
squash, of course. When the squash seemed done, I threw it on
top of the cooking sausage, covered the whole thing, and let
it go.
This thing could be done in a casserole. Add more roux and
take care that it doesn’t get too thick. The sausage will not kill
the taste as long as you keep the squash mainly on top of the
154
pot. Sausage must be a frustrated soul. It always tried to slay
whatever it is being cooked with. But it never quite succeeds.
This dish should be seasoned with nothing more than salt
and pepper, as I have mentioned above. I know people in Lan-
caster County who would do me in just for mentioning salt and
pepper. Maudie Bates, for one.

155
‘CD
3 ee IN THE HOLE. I don’t know where Mrs.
Wallace Brook of Manheim, Pennsylvania, got this recipe. It
does not begin with “take one fresh toad” nor does it ever in-
clude a toad in its ingredients.
It begins with ‘““Make a Yorkshire pudding kind of thing—
eight tablespoonfuls of flour, one beaten egg, and a dash of salt.
Fold in sausage links which have been cut into one-inch pieces,
and bake the whole mess in a 400° oven for about three-quar-
ters of an hour—or until the pudding is set and brown.” These
amounts, according to Mrs. Brook, can be varied for the num-
ber of servings required.
Mrs. Brook adds this postscript: “This is a very satisfying
main course meal.” Beside it, I would serve coined cucumbers
with oil and vinegar sauce, topped with chopped egg and
minced onion, with perhaps a little parsley and a tiny pinch
of oregano. This may be mixed beforehand, in which case you
will come out with a quick-and-easy vinaigrette sauce for the
ice-cold cucumber slices. The cucumbers can be slivered length-
wise, of course. But if you do that, you should in conscience
peel them first.

TOMATOES CAPPED WITH SAUSAGES. Another recipe

from the indefatigable Jones Dairy Farm.
Get six or eight or ten tomatoes, as many as you think you
may need, allowing one for each guest. Take off their stems
and halve them crosswise. Spread the cut side of each of these
halves with prepared mustard. I use Gulden’s. French’s is fine.
Colman’s is too strong. Top each tomato half with one-half of
a tablespoonful of minced onion, a few dashes of Lea & Perrins,
and sprinkle them all with some sugar and salt.
156
 Put the tomatoes and the Jones sausages side by side under a
low broiler heat. If you happen to be cursed with an electric
stove, this will be impossible. Your only choice will be to place
the sausages and tomatoes down in the oven, as far away from
the broiler as you can get them.
Soon the sausages will begin to snarl and crackle, sounding
as though they were planning to have the cook guillotined. The
tomatoes will be meekly going to their ultimate fates, uncom-
plaining. Turn the sausages a few times to make sure they are
browning evenly. They will continue to sputter. I would advise
—and so would the Jones family—that the sausages should not
be pricked in this recipe. Gently turn with a wooden spoon,
being sure not to allow it to catch fire.
This initial broiling process should take about seven minutes,
the dear old Joneses say. It probably should take a little more
than that—ten, perhaps, or twelve minutes. Now place two
sausages on each tomato half. The Jones family says one, but
although they make sausages like dervishes, they evidently do
not realize how good their own are. They are skimpy with them.
Put two on each tomato.
Broil this for another seven minutes, first sprinkling a little
fresh or dried parsley on the tomatoes. Some cooks I have
known have used oregano. I would not. Jones sausages are
already well-seasoned and they need nothing more than the
stuff you have already put on the tomatoes.
When you haul all this out of the oven, you will already have
made some mashed potatoes. Put a good spoonful of them on
each plate, with a well in it made with your wooden spoon.
Into each well, you will pour some of the formerly indignant,
now subdued, drippings from the pan. But first, you must make
a gravy of the drippings.
To the drippings, add one small 6-ounce can of mushroom
bits and pieces, a couple of teaspoonfuls of cornstarch or flour,
no more than one ounce of milk, some pepper and salt and
parsley, and the faintest touch of rosemary or basil. And dash
in some sherry or bourbon. The Jones family does not recom-
mend the addition of spirituous liquors. I do not know if they
157
use them at all. I use them all the time, when my mother isn’t
looking.
Lima beans on the side of this dish, if you are making an
elaborate breakfast or lunch. And corn bread, perhaps. My
God, I think I will go and make some now.

158
Go)
' ENISON SAUSAGE. The hardest part of this rec-
ipe is shooting a deer. The way to do this is to go with my
great-uncle, Ambrose Archibald Cauller, to Cain or Potter coun-
ties in Pennsylvania. He gets a deer nearly every late autumn
and usually gives me some meat.
It does not matter what cut he offers. It nearly always needs
marinating, which is not hard duty. All that has to be done is
to put the venison in a good sturdy crock and to marinate it
in wine which has been dosed with two bay leaves, a dozen
peppercorns, about a tablespoonful of sage or thyme, plus a
cut-up and scraped carrot, a couple of stalks of de-stringed
celery, and an onion the size of a No. 10 Downing Street door
knob.
The meat should be permitted to sweat and ferment in this
marinade for at least four days. If you are patient enough, or if
you have shot your own deer and have been eating steaks,
chops, etc., you will permit it to marinate longer. Skim the
marinade every once in a while, please. Penicillin may form if
you are not careful. The crock, I forgot to mention, should be
covered with a good-sized hunk of cheesecloth, and the meat
weighted with a washed stone.
The hour comes. Go to the butcher and buy some casing. I
prefer pork casings. Some people like beef casings better. Some
purists hold out for veal casings—why, I cannot tell.
When you feel that the venison has had its benison from the
marinade, grind it. Then grind it again with cumin, mace, dry
mustard, and shredded bay leaves. Let the grinder take care
of the peppercorns. Salt it a bit. Now put it through the grinder
again with—if it weighs, say, two pounds—about one-half of
a pound of either pork fat or well-fatted fresh pork. If you
159
cannot get either of these, good sturdy smoked bacon, Jordan’s
preferably, will do.
Put it through the grinder a third time. Use the finest cutting
blade you have. Take the meat out of the bowl into which you
have ground it and stuff it into the casings.
This is strong meat. Some like it plain, some like it smoked.
That is entirely a matter of taste. The links ought to be tied
so that they are about five or six inches long.
Venison sausages are cooked like any others—started in a
little water and allowed to simmer when the water is gone.
They should be pricked so that the pork fat can run out and
torture them. The kitchen blower or deodorizer ought to be
turned on or the place will smell for days as though a herd of
deer has just run through, pursued by my Uncle Brose.
While the sausages are behaving as fiercely as they can, you
can take a cupful of the marinade, strain it, thicken it with
flour or cornstarch, and allow it to simmer gently. I have often
added slices of pared and cored apple to it, and I have known
some people who have added dried prunes or apricots.
The venison sausages will be ready to eat in about twelve
minutes. (While you are waiting, you can have a drink of
dandelion wine.) Serve very hot, pouring the thickened mari-
nade over your sausage. Grits or mashed potatoes go well on
the side. Some put mustard and/or pickles. I never do. I like
the assertive taste of venison and wish my Uncle would go
hunting more often.

160
GND
AFFLES AND SAUSAGE, ETC. Get one of those
packages of Aunt Jemima frozen waffles and permit them to
thaw a bit. Now, take out a package of Jones Farm sausages
and put them in a skillet or spider with about one-half inch
of water.
While the water is cooking off, and the sausages are beginning
to brown, slice two tomatoes. Open a very small can of Dole
pineapple. Put the waffles either into the toaster or under the
broiler and wait until they are done. Edge the waffles with the
browned and cooked sausages and put a thin slice of tomato
in the center of each waffle. Allow two waffles for each guest.
Set some pineapple on the side of each plate. Crushed pine-
apple is better, especially if it is mixed with Major Grey’s
Chutney.
All this should be laved with Vermont maple syrup, the
purest kind, if you can get it. If you can’t, the syruped-down
Vermont Maid will do. Or molasses, although you will not like
it much. Or honey will do.
If you do not have any sausage on hand, you can improvise
by grinding a slice of ham or a can of Spam and laying that
on top of the waffles. Or you can use country pudding, that
marvelous sausage-like mixture found in markets tended by
Amish and Mennonite farmers. This, too, can be spread over
the waffles. Chopped onions, or diced celery, or water chestnuts,
can be added to the pudding, which comes to you hard and
melts down into what seems to be a muddy mass but is really
delicious.
The pudding is made from the ears, cheeks, jowls and some
of the neck meat of the pig, and sometimes the farmers get a
161
little careless andiallow a bristle or two to get in. This is no
great problem if you've got a supply of toothpicks handy.
If you do use pudding on waffles, set the syrup aside, or use
it sparingly. Good on the side are oranges, pineapple, diced
pears or tart sliced apples. I once knew a lady who cut up a
persimmon and set that on the side. Another one used currant
jelly, another strawberry jam, and yet another black raspberry
jam.
If you haven’t got Aunt Jemima’s frozen waffles lying around
your friendly freezer, and do own a wafile iron, it is no great
chore to make them yourself.
For six waffles, sift about one-and-a-quarter cups of cake
flour, and sift it again with three teaspoonfuls of baking pow-
der, one-half teaspoonful of salt, and one tablespoonful of
sugar. Now beat three eggs and put into them anywhere from
two to six tablespoonfuls of gently melted butter or the same
amount of Wesson or any other salad oil. Butter is better. Do
not use margarine.
Add about one-and-a-half cupfuls of milk to the egg mixture.
Pour this into the sifted mixture. Pour the whole thing into
your blender or into a bowl in which you can use either a
whisk or a hand-operated mixer. When it is well-mixed and is
producing bubbles, it is ready to go to the pre-heated waffle
iron. It is easier to pour from a pitcher.

WALNUTS AND SAUSAGE. Mrs. Laura Immel, who lives

in what used to be known as the Cabbage Hill section of Lan-
caster, sent me this fine recipe. I tried it and found it excellent.
Mrs. Immel takes about a pound of fresh, loose sausage meat
and combines it with one cup of seedless raisins. She pours
one pint of boiling water over that mixture and adds one pound
of brown sugar. (I never put in that much; I use more like
three-quarters of a pound.) She then pours in one cup of
molasses and one teaspoonful each of cinnamon, ground cloves
and baking powder which has been dissolved in “a little” hot
water. In then, goes one cup of shelled English walnuts.
All this gets mixed together and then four cups of flour are
162
gradually added. “Add about one heaping tablespoonful if the
mixture is not stiff enough,’ Mrs. Immel said to me in her
letter. “Add all together, mix well again, and pour into a tube
pan.” A lady I know says a tube pan is the kind of pan you
make angel food cake in. Live and learn, I always say. (1 fre
quently make up phrases like that in the mornings to spring
on friends at lunch.)
Mrs. Immel, who does not say how you pour something that
is supposed to be stiff, bakes this cake in her tube pan for
anywhere from an hour to an hour-and-a-half at 250°. Mean-
while, she goes about her housework, comforted by the pleas-
ant wafts of odor from the kitchen.
Meanwhile, while picking up around the house, she takes
time to make icing for her sausage cake. Down from the cup-
board comes one cup of confectioner’s sugar which she works
into about three-ounces of cream cheese. To this, she adds one-
and-onehalf tablesfoonfuls of cream or milk, beating it all
gradually. Then in goes one teaspoonful of vanilla and one-half
teaspoonful of cinnamon.
When the sausage cake is done, it comes out of the oven
looking as though the Black Baker of Vienna had done it with
his own hands. Mrs. Immel then ices it liberally and sets it off
somewhere to cool.
The cake, when finally served, resembles those that can be
bought along the streets in Berlin, Munich, Frankfurt and other
German cities. Because of the sweetness of the icing, it should
be served for dessert. Without icing, it makes a delicious meal
as 2 first course. Or a second one, if you are having soup and
fish first.
The European custom of serving appetizers, soup, fish, and
then an entree, followed by dessert and cheese, with wines or
champagnes or beers throughout, is the reason that people
from Mitteleuropa are, on the average, twenty percent heavier
than Americans. People from Lancaster County, it seems to
me, average forty per cent heavier than other Americans, yet
they live on and on and on.
163
 WELLER’S WILLOW STREET SAUSAGE CASSEROLE.
I never looked on tiny Willow Street, Pennsylvania, with much
favor. I do now, though, because Mrs. William A. Weller lives
there and she sent me a fine recipe for a sausage casserole
which I gather is standard food in that splendidly unsophisti-
cated rural Pennsylvania Dutch town.
Take two-and-one-half cupfuls of filling cubes (I think she
means dry bread made into cubes), two or three small diced
potatoes, one package of frozen peas, and one-and-one-half
pounds of loose sausage meat.
“Mix filling cubes as you would make filling for a fowl,” said
Mrs. Weller in her letter. “Mix together with potatoes, peas,
and about half of the sausage meat, and put into a greased
casserole. Put remaining sausage on top of casserole. Bake at
- 350° for about an hour, or until potatoes are soft. I cover my
dish for about three-quarters of an hour, then take the lid off.
You also can use sausage in links, but it is better with the
sausage meat loose.”

WILTED LETTUCE AND SAUSAGE DRESSSING. Get a

good crisp head of lettuce, preferably iceberg, wash it and dry
it. Cut it up into bite-sized pieces. Take about eight or ten good
pork sausages and sauté them in a skillet over low heat for
between twelve and fifteen minutes, turning them often to
make sure they are evenly browned. These sausages should not
be parboiled first. Whether or not you prick them depends upon
your temperament.
Take the sausages off the sautéeing skillet and drain them.
Reserve about eight tablespoonfuls of the fat from the sausages
and mix it with two tablespoonfuls of lemon juice. Add one-half
teaspoonful of salt and two of granulated sugar. Put the lettuce
pieces into a bowl. Cut up the sausage links into one-inch bits.
Pour all the dressing over them, and then toss as though you
were a jai alai player.
This makes a sumptuous lunch. Serve either some pickled
beets or some raw tomato slices, salted and peppered, on the
side.
164
 WURSTE VON KALBSGEKROSE. The most difficult
thing about this item is learning to pronounce its name. It is
virtually unpronounceable if you are an American—unless, of
course, you were born in Milwaukee, Cincinnati, St. Louis, or
Lancaster County.
The sausage itself is not hard to make if you can persuade a
butcher to procure some calf’s mesentery for you. This is a
part of calf’s gut which surrounds the stomach, a kind of
membrane which is seldom sent by butchers to shops in this
country. If you manage to get hold of some, a fine sausage can
be made. .
The mesentery—a couple of pounds—should be washed thor-
oughly, set in salt water, and blanched. Pour off the blanching
water and cook the mesentery in white vinegar for six or seven
minutes. Now pour off the vinegar and cook the stuff in a court-
bouillon (and if you don’t know how to make that, look it up
in some other cook book). The court-bouillon treatment should
last about ten minutes.
Remove the mesentery and chop it into very small bits. Put
the chopped cubes, each about one-quarter-of-an-inch square,
into a bowl. Add salt and pepper, nutmeg, two fresh eggs, and
three-quarters of a cupful of good heavy cream for every two
pounds of mesentery. Mix this with your hands or with a
wooden spoon and stuff into pork casing, tying each sausage
off at about ten-inches. These sausages are best when first
poached, taken out and drained, and fried in butter until
brown.

165
CD
Ae ANOTHER SAUSAGE LOAF. This recipe, for-
warded to me by Mrs. Elwood H. Keagy, who gave me the one
for Sausage Rolls, is far from complicated and not much dif-
ferent from other sausage loaf recipes in this book, yet worth
trying.
One-and-one-half pounds of sausage meat should be married
to the same amount of bread crumbs. To that add one table-
spoon of grated onion, two of ketchup, two of horseradish, and
one-half teaspoonful of what the estimable Mrs. Keagy, and
the manufacturers, call “prepared” mustard. I imagine this is
the kind you get in a jar. I seldom use anything but dry mus-
tard and, if you use that, use only one tablespoonful.
Moisten this mixture with about one-half cup of milk. Mix
thoroughly with a beaten egg, and put the whole mess into a
baking pan and then into 350° oven for an hour or an hour
and a half. You may wish to drain off some of the grease after
the first half hour. Depends on whether you like it moist or dry.

YORK BREAKFAST. I have discovered why the residents

of York, Pennsylvania, always look so healthy to me. It is be-
cause they eat the York Breakfast, which is not at all hard to
put down.
It begins with potatoes, preferably new ones, which have
been peeled, set to soak in cold water overnight, and then
grated. Four or five of them should make about four cupfuls.
Two eggs should be whisked into submission, and two table-
spoonfuls of flour should be added to them. Also add two tea-
spoonfuls of salt, one-half of a teaspoonful of baking powder,
and about two tablespoonfuls of chopped onion. All this, added
166
to the potatoes, will make a batter in which a knife will stand
firmly. Mix it well with a wooden spoon.
The griddle should be so hot that the cat will leave the house.
It should, of course, be greased. Smoked sausages should be
sizzling on another griddle or in another frying pan.
Take the potato batter and drop it by wooden spoonfuls on
the treacherous griddle. Next to the batter, fry unripe green
tomatoes (if you can find them), or red tomatoes, either of
which have been dredged in flour. When the sausages have
cooked through, they may be placed in a covered dish or cas-
serole and tucked in a warmish oven. The grease in their orig-
inal pan may be used to make a decent, although not ostenta-
tious, brown gravy to pour over the sausage, potato cakes, and
fried tomatoes, to the immense satisfaction of all communi-
cants at the table. Ordinarily, no toast and no muffins are eaten
with this.
4

167
CD
7, UCCHINI UND KNACKWURST. This is from Ernest
Beyl, who is, as I have said before, a fine cook. (See Robin’s
Eggs Goldenrod.) Try this dish which he invented and hear it
in his own mumbling words.
“This is a nice one-dish meal. I make it in one of those good
aluminum hotelware frying pans. Cover the bottom of the pan
with olive oil. I think about a jigger—two ounces—is enough.
Then sauté some chopped onion in that oil. A handful, unless
you have a very small hand—in which case, use two handfuls.
This ought to be yellow onion.
“Next, make coins of four garlic sausages or knackwurst. Hot
dogs will do, but this dish won’t be as good if you use them,
unless they are the exceptional kind. Throw the coins over the
now-transparent onions. While all of this stuff is getting hot,
take some zucchini and coin it the way you did the sausage. The
zucchini should be about the size of the sausage you are sim-
mering. Rinse the zucchini lightly and throw them in the pan
with the knackwurst—try to get knackwurst if you can, by all
means—and salt and pepper the whole thing. Lightly, please.
I sometimes put in a sprinkling of chervil or basil.
“Now put a lid on all this, or cover tightly with aluminum
foil. The moisture from the rinsed zucchini will keep the fire
from making this stick, but keep that fire low, baby, low. I keep
this going on the stove until the zucchini is al dente. Not soft, or
the entire thing is ruined. I like zucchini crisp. This is a good
one-dish meal served with a crisp green salad.”

ZUM-ZUM. One of the greatest sausage restaurants in the

world, Zum-Zum, is in the Pan American Building in New York
168
City, and in various other locations. It has been crowded ever
since it opened its doors. One can get a sausage there only at
about three o’clock in the afternoon. The bratwurst, bockwurst,
and plain smoked sausage are superb. More than fifty varieties
are sold and they can be carried out for home consumption. I
would recommend that readers try leberwurst mit speck, which
seldom is sold outside German sections of large cities. The
leberwurst mitout speck is pretty good, too. In fact, there is
nothing about Zum-Zum that is bad.

169
 |Fare

Thanks are due to Dorothy Jewell, editor and publisher

of The Putnam County Courier, in which some of this material
appeared in shorter form. Thanks also go to the memory of her
late father, Willitt C. Jewell, a fine newspaperman, a courageous
Democrat in a predominantly Republican community, who will
be remembered by those who are following him to his grave
with gratitude for his indomitably pure integrity, the like of
which is seen all too seldom in American life.
Thanks are due to Mrs. Nellie B. Gehman, despite the fact
that she blighted the face of this nation by casting me upon it
nearly fifty years ago. So many ladies in Lancaster County con-
tributed recipes, I cannot begin to mention them all. They are
mentioned in the text by name.
Sal Farfaglia of Pound Ridge, New York, gave me a great deal
of information on Italian sausages and their use in cookery.
V. A. Veley of Dayton, Ohio, translated some recipes from the
Russian. Both were very kind, and I thank them.
I also wish to express my debt to the various public relations
men of innumerable sausage companies, large and small. They
are all mentioned by name in the text. Ferdinand Schaller, my
friend for many years, was of inestimable help. His patience,
as he answered question after question, ensures my being his
friend for life. The Kunzler family, in Lancaster, deserves spe-
cial mention. So does Ken Dean of Hormel. Finally, I want to
thank Gerald S. Lestz of Lancaster, to whom—with his family—
the book is dedicated.
I cannot thank Elizabeth Woodward Dickinson Benchley
enough, for her help is beyond survey. She researched many
recipes, pored over an endless number of books, read the manu-
170
script and suggested changes, retyped many pages, and was my
diligent collaborator through the months when, at times, it
seemed to us that small grains of sausage would begin to come
out of our pores. This was odd behavior on her part, for the
lady hates sausage and has hated it since childhood. Yet she
persevered. She had such rage against the hated meat that she
broke a few of my typewriters while persevering. She did
persevere; I do now thank her for her so doing.

R. G.

171
 #]
~ Ser Pet a4
 INDEX

CSD
beer, 147
A. and Sausages, 19 Bixler, Mrs. R. Theodore, 119
Alexandria Woman’s Club’s blood, 9
Cook Book, 106 blood puddings, 4
Alice B. Toklas Cookbook, blood sausage, 3
The, 135 blutwurst, 10, 48
almonds, 116 Bob Evans Farms, 28-9
American Meat Institute, 3, 66 bockwurst, 3, 7, 10, 18, 30-2, 169
anchovies, 6, 135 bologna, 3, 6, 14, 32-4, 132; all-
anchovy paste, 81 beef, 7; Lebanon, 33, 45, 48,
Andouilles, Beef, 20-1; Pork, 19- 80
20 boudin blanc, 10
Apple-and-Sausage Casserole, bouillon cubes, 84, 87, 97, 116;
23-5 beef, 89, 106; chicken, 89, 93,
Apples and Sausages, 21-3 122;2129
apples, 71; dried, 143 Boyd’s sausage, 34
apricots, 95
braunschweiger leberwurst, 10
Armour Company, 3, 12, 78
bratwurst, 3, 169
Brook, Mrs. Wallace, 156
Bubble-and-Squeak, 36-8
i5 See 10
Buckwheat Cakes and
Bahn, Mrs. Mildred, 60 Sausages, 38-9
Baked Frankfurters, 71 bung, see casings for sausage
Bananas and Sausages, 26 butchering, 13
Barbecued Sausage Balls, 26-7
Bascom’s sauces, 27-8
beef, 2, 7, 14, 33, 46, 67, 105, 129,
132,133 Gree and Sausage, 40-1
beef bouillon (stock), 45, 64, Caesar Salad, 48
73, 77 calf’s head, 87, 89, 138;
beef bung, see casings for mesentary, 165; tongue, 87;
sausage, beef udder, 20

173
capicolla (cappo collo), 9 cream cheese, 163
Caruso, Charles, 1 Creamed Potatoes and Sausage,
casings for sausage, 4-5, 33, 34, 57
46, 54, 64, 87, 132, 133, 150, Cuckolds, 57-8
165; beef, 4, 112, 132; chicken, Cudahy, 12, 78
125-7; pork, 17, 19, 45, 104, curry, 116-17, 147
113, 120, 133, 148, 159, 165;
veal, 150, 159
casseroles, sausage, 22, 23-5, 42,
S61 83; -99,-118, 123,. 137, Die Alexandre, pére, Le
139, 141, 164 Grand Dictionnaire de Cui-
Cassoulet, 42-4 sine, 19, 45
“castoff” animal parts in Dutch Sausage with Gravy, 59-
sausage, 6 60
cervelat, 3, 45-6
Dutchman’s Stew, 60
Chapman, Rodney, 78
cheek meat, 5
cheese with Sausage, 29, 72, 75,
76, 92, 101-2, 116, 118, 142
Chef’s Salad with Sausage, 46- Evers, pork, 34
8 Ebersole, Mrs. Jestena, 95
chicken, 10, 42-3, 124, 125-7; eggplants, 117
broth, 73, 77; drumsticks, 77; Eggs and Sausages, 61-2
livers, 49; wings, 122 Ella’s Sausage and Noodle
Chicken Sausage Hyman Dish, 62-3
Goldberg, 48-9 Enterprise Grinder, 15
Chicken Steamed with Sausage Erickson, Mrs. Herman, 123
49-51 Escarola Imbottita, 64
chine, 53-4 Evans Farms, see Bob Evans
Chipolata, 51-2 Farms
chorizos, 3, 51-2
cider, 129
clams, 78
Corn and Sausage Stuffing for E.. trimmings, 9
Poultry, 53 Ferhoodled Sausage, 65-6
corn meal, 18, 145 Ferrari, Mario, 64
cottage cheese, 72-3 Feuchtwanger, Anton Ludwig,
Country Sausages as Made by 66
Mrs. John M. Moore, 53-5 fish, 45, 148
country pudding, 161 frankfurter, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 10, 18,
court-bouillon, 165 66-78; casseroles, 72, 75-6, 77-
crab meat, 147 8; proper cooking of, 68-9;
Cranberry-Sausage Casserole, skinless, 4; soups and stews,
55-7 72-3

174
Frankfurter Cornsticks, 76 Hormel, 9, 12, 34, 78
Frankfurter Paella, 77-8 hot dogs, see frankfurter
Frankfurters with Pea Soup, 70 Hot Dog Cookbook, The, 78
Frankfurters in Shredded Hungarian sausage, 11
Wheat Biscuits, 70-1
Frankly Peppered Potato Bake,
74-5
Frau Meuser’s Sausage Turkey |ieee Mrs. Laura, 162
Stuffing, 140 inspection of meat plants,
Fraunfelter, Ella, 62 federal, 5
French sausage, 18 intestines, sheep, hog, cattle,
French Toast and Sausage, 78- for casings, 4, 17; chicken,
80 125-7
Italian sausage, 1, 9, 63, 98
Italian Sausages with Pasta, 92-
4
Che 4 Italian Sausages in Red Wine,
Gefiilte Brotchen, 81-2 91-2
Gehirnwurste, 120 «
German sausage, 9, 10-12
Goldberg, Hyman, 48
goose liver sausage, 18 J.
estena Ebersole’s Sausage
gothaer, 3, 6 and Apricot Dinner, 95
Green Beans and Sausage, 82 Jim Dandy products, 32, 72, 101,
grinders, meat, 15-16 119
Gruppo, Nelson, 117 Jones Dairy Farm, 37, 121, 156,
161
Jordan’s Old Virginia Smoke
House, 55
ic ieee Dinner, 84 jowls, pig, see pork
haggis, 4, 85
ham, 48, 80, 81, 121
Hampton, Carol, 106
Hartman, Mrs. Suzanne C., 123 |(Seatindeete 8
head cheese, 4, 10, 88-9 kalbsrouladen, 11
Head Sausage, 86-9 Keagy, Mrs. Elwood, 96, 166
hearts, beef, 132; lamb, 85-6; Keagy Sausage Rolls, 96
pork, 132; veal, 21 Kentucky ham, 80
Hecker, E. L., 3 Kersh, Gerald, 85, 109
Herr, Mrs. J. Henry, 65 kidneys, 51; veal, 21
Hillegass, Catherine J., 26 kishka, 9
hog maw, 114, 123, 137 knockwurst, 1C, 168
holsteiner, 3 kolbase,11
175
Konigswurste, 112 Miller, Rosemary Kamm, 137
Kraft Dinner, 84 Miss Carol’s Sausage Concoc-
krakowska, 7-8, 9, 10 tion, 106-7
Kready, Anna, 124, 142 Moore, Mrs. John M., 53-4
Kunzler, Christ, 7, 53, 139, 148 Morrison, Maxine, 26
Kunzler, Christ, Jr., 30 mortadella, 3,9
Kurtz, Mrs. Marvin, 96 Mustard Sauce and Sausage,
108

L. Ideal Market, 52
lamb, 42-3, 85-6, 132 [Neeser Pretzel Institute,
landjaeger, 3, 10 128
Languedocienne Sausages, 97-8 Nebraska Centennial First
lard, 54, 55, 136 Ladies’ Cookbook, 123
Lebanon bologna, see bologna neck meat, see pork
leberwurst mit speck, 11, 169 New York City Gourmet So-
lemon, 78, 110 ciety, 27
Lentils and Sausage, 98-100 noodles, 139
Liederkranz and Sausage, 100 Novotny, Mrs. Dave, 26
Lima Beans and Sausage, 102
liver, 2; chicken, 49; chopped,
11; lamb, 85-6; veal, 21
liverwurst, 3, 10 Ounce leberwurst, 12
longaniza, 52 Omelette with Sausage, 109
Luecke, Mrs. Ruth, 24, 83, 108, orange peel, 2
138 Our Man In The Kitchen, 48
Lyon sausage, 103-4, 112 ox palates, 20
Oxford Horns, 109
Oyster and Sausage Loaf, 110-11

1 eee Donald, 128

macaroni, 16, 73, 74, 85, 139
Manganaro brothers, 9, 12, 87, |Rae for casing, 5
104 Parisian Saucisson, 112
meat cuts used in sausage, 5-6 Partridge Sausages, 112-13
meat loaves, 6 pasta, 92-4
mettwurst, 3 See also macaroni
Metzelsuppe, 114, 137 pepperoni, 9, 43, 52
Meuser Meat Loaf, 105 Peppers Stuffed with Sausage,
Mexican Frankfurters, 75 114
milk and cream with sausage, Pig Belly a New Way, 114-16
84, 141, 144, 163 pig’s head, 87, 89

176
pig’s stomach, 18, 114 Rival Grind-O-Matic, 15
Pilaff of Sausage, 116-17 Robin’s Eggs Goldenrod, 136-7
Pineapple and Sausage Cakes, Roman sausage, ancient, 6
117 Romano, 6
Polenta and Sausages, 117-19 Rosemary Kamm Miller’s
Poned Sausages, 119 Sausage Casserole, 137
DOUK 2, 1,00, 1150120938,045,- 46, Russian sausage, 9, 108
53-4, 67, 103, 109, 112, 120, 132,
133; backbone, 121; breast,
136; butt, 77; cheeks, 161;
ears, 161; fat, 103, 159; jowls,
fy ae: FsPeakePigfea er asl he9
34, 139, 161; neck meat, 34,
133; Kosher, 3
121, 161; parts, 34; salt, 107,
salsiccia dolce, 1
147; shoulder, 8, 121; trim-
saltpeter, 33, 46, 97, 112, 121
mings, 13, 14, 133
salt pork, see pork
Pork Brains Sausage, 120
sanitary conditions in sausage
pork bung, see casings
making, 5-6
Potato Salad and Sausage, 122
sardelowa, 8
Potato Sausage Casserole, 123
Saucisses de Cervelle, 120
Potato Sausage Loaf, ‘123-4 saucisson, 18
Potatoes with Sausage, 124 saucisson-cervelat ordinaire,
Potatoes and Smoked Sausage, 112
124 Sauerkraut and Sausage, 138
Pot Pie with Sausage, 120-2
sausage: fresh, 8, 9, 10; link, 19,
Poultry Sausage, 125-7
23, 38, 42, 46, 60, 85, 99, 113,
poultry stuffing, 53, 71, 128
116, 138, 152, 156, 167; loose,
pretzel stuffing for poultry, 128 23, 31, 40, 41, 53,.05, 0505
Pretzels and Sausage, 127-30
105,109, 410,115; 123 3030)
pricking, 17-18, 19, 55, 91, 120, 138, 141, 152, 162, 166; history
160 of, 6-7; varieties, 2-5, 6
Pronto Dogs, 76-7 Sausage a la King, 139-40
prosciutto, 80 sausageburgers, 22, 28-9
Sausage-Macaroni Goulash, 140
Sausage Pattie, Bob Evans
Orie Easy Sausage Stew, Farm, 29
Sausage-Stuffed Apples, 23
131
Scalloped Potatoes and Saus-
age, 140-2
Schaller, Ferdinand, 3, 10-12,
Ran Packing Company, 305755
132-5, 148 Schaller und Weber, 10-12
ricers, 16 Schnitz und Knepp und
Rillettes, 135-6 Sausage, 142-4
177
Scrambled Eggs and Sausage, Toklas, Alice B., 135
144 Tomatoes Capped with Saus-
Scrapple, 144-6; Shaker, 146 ages, 156
Shaker Cookbook, The, 146 tongue, 2, 6, 11, 81, 89
sherry, 43, 87, 99, 129, 138 Toulouse sausage, 97
Shiflet, Mrs. Diane, 57 tripe, 20, 51
Shopf, Mrs. Willis L., Jr., 114
15
shrimp, 78
Shrimp and Crab Sausage, 146-8 |(ahe contents, myth
Skillet-Baked Sausage, 148 of, in sausage, 5-6
“Slaughtering, Cutting and Universal grinders, 15, 16
Processing Pork on the Usinger’s, 68, 69
Farm,” 12-14 U. S. Department of Agricul-
Smithfield-style pork, 13; ham, ture, 12
80
smoking, 13,.14, 54, 88, 89, 112,
150
sodium erythorbate, 68 Var 4, 1, oi 4d) Shy Ol, ee
sodium nitrate, 68 129, 132, 150
sodium nitrite, 68 veal bungs, see casings
soup stock, 87
veal sausage, 10, 18
Southern Frankfurters, 71-2 venison sausage, 159
Spam, 35 Viennese sausages, 18
Spinach and Sausage, 150-2
Squash and Sausage, 152-3
Stahl-Meyer, 11, 12
Stasiuk, Platon, 7-9
Stockbridge, Bertha E. L., The
Wires and Sausage, 161-2
Practical Cookbook, 122
Walnuts and Sausage, 162
Weber, Anton, 11
Strabley, Eugene, 7
weisswurst, 3, 18, 38
submarine sandwich, 133-5
Weller, Mrs. William, 164
suet, 86, 109
Summer Squash and Sausage, Weller’s Willow Street Sausage
Casserole, 164
153-5
White, Mrs. Nelson, 121
Swift and Company, 5, 12, 78
Wilted Lettuce and Sausage
Dressing, 164
Winchester Farm sausage pat-
4 Reeve oa 48, 132, 133 ties, 117, 139-40
Tisdale, Alex, 128 Wine, (2) 186d) 215 22-4385. 91.
Toad in the Hole, 156 94,99, 159; Rhine, 113; sherry,
Tobin Company, 31, 67-8, 100, 43, 87, 99, 129, 138; white, 19,
139, 148 20, 35, 44, 46, 77, 94, 102, 119
178
Wittle, Mrs. Roy, 113 York County Butcher Bologna,
Wright, J. Bascom, 27 7
Wurste von Kalbsgekrose, 165 Yorkville, 9

sf Another Sausage Loaf,

166 A netics and Knackwurst,
Yohn, Clarence, 128 168
York Breakfast, 166-7 Zum-Zum Restaurant, 168-9

179
 ea
4 : =" @ ae
CR eet path eer,

7
L!
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ie tIO4
 d from front flap)

nermeisters, and the exotic delicacies

French gourmets, this book is conclusive
proof that sausage eating should not be
limited to pizza parlors and baseball parks.
The Sausage Book is as delightful to read
as it is to use. Mr. Gehman’s enthusiasm is
contagious, ard his passion for his pungent
subjects is evident in every page of the
book. He captures the unique personality
as well as the flavor of every variety of
sausage imaginable — from the humble
frankfurter and assertive knockwurst to
the aristocratic partridge sausage and the
flirtatious French andouille.
Anyone who has ever enjoyed bologna on
rye, salami and eggs, or sausage and buck-
wheat cakes will want to expand his knowl-
edge and titillate his taste buds with this
exciting adventure into the succulent,
savory, satisfying world of the versatile,
variable sausage.

WEATHERVANE
BOOKS
ivision of Barre Publishing Company, Inc.
419 Park Ave. South
New York, N.Y. 10016
ORPOOS9S
Richard Gehman was born in one of the nerve centers of the sausage
country, Lancaster, Pennsylvania, in 1921. Although he now lives
in Iowa, another sausage state, he goes back to Lancaster frequently
to check on the local product (Lancaster is the oldest inland city in
the country ). While there, the writer plays pool with his father, visits
the markets, talks with old Hamilton Watch and Armstrong Cork
executives, and sits around in local shebeens, eating bratwurst,
bockwurst, and locally-made frankfurters. He has no other hobbies
except his trade, which is writing. Mr. Gehman has published novels,
biographies, juveniles, and other nonfiction books as well as cook-
beoks, His previous cookbooks include Jn the.Soyp, In a Stew.and
the very successful The Haphazard Gourmet, which Women’s Wear
Daily termed “a delight,” and the Book-of-the-Month-Club News
recommended as “both instructive and amusing.”

e
O

ISBN: 0-517-146584