Sausage Wench

Standing in front of my stove, wooden spoon in hand, skillet of browning sausage spitting before me, I feel like a real pro. I look down at my mismatched, dull kitchen knives and my stained apron. Although it’s made to be worn around ones waist, I‘ve hitched my apron up into my armpits in an effort to shield my shirt from spatter. I don’t usually wear an apron while cooking, but the farm I work for has asked me to prepare samples of their meat products for Saturday Farmer’s Market. As I consider my position preparing a product given to me by a higher authority to serve to the masses, a thought occurs to me: "I am Maria: Grass-fed Meat Wench." No, no, that doesn’t sound right...I’m not grass-fed, after all, the meat is. "Maria: "Wench of Grass-fed Meats."

I’m determined to include the word "wench" in describing exactly what it is I’m doing right now. The word "wench," as noted by my friend Elena J. Scribbles, is the all-time most perfect word for describing someone who, like a barmaid or a drug-pusher, facilitates other peoples vices. Elena J. Scribbles would use this word to describe our position in the clinic where we both used to work, as we peddled prescriptions and handed out pills like they were Pez candy. I feel somewhat like I’m in the same position now, catering to a certain fetish (except aren’t we all, really?). This particular addiction, however, is to clean food; I’m fortunate enough to live in a community where a good portion of people are conscious about where their food comes from and what they put into their bodies. Hence, there’s a demand for the grass-fed, hormone and antibiotic-free meat that currently sizzles on my stove-top.

Tonight I’m cooking sausages. Grass-fed lamb and goat sausages, to be exact. I’ll admit, I’ve never cooked link sausages before, and so I did a Google search before starting. "Poaching your sausages first will make them easier to grill, and ensure that they are fully cooked." Score.

The whole event takes me about 2 and a half hours to finish–9 pounds of lamb and goat sausage in all, first poached, then browned, then carefully diced into bite size samples and tucked away in the fridge. Despite the fact that every part of me–and every surface surrounding my stove-top–feels greasy, and despite the fact that even the most tucked-away corner of my small apartment smells like meat, I still feel strangely satisfied and pretty lucky. I’ve been at this job for a good while now and I still can’t quite believe that I get paid to hang out in my own kitchen and cook. Someone actually gives me money to engage in what I like to refer to as "Kitchen Zen Time."

Granted, cooking 9 pounds of sausage may not seem particularly zen to some people. But the ritual of moving link after link from a boiling pot of water, to a hot skillet, to a cool cutting board, allows me to zone out a bit and rehash my day in my mind. As Zen as it may be, I find that tonight’s ritual of seemingly endless sausage cooking--the smell of the browning meat, the crackling sound it makes as it grills, and the many tastes I take while cooking--lulls me into a sort of meat coma.

After I wipe away the remaining grease spatter from my stove-top and remove my apron, I think to myself, "Maybe I’ll make a salad for dinner."