Comfort Food
There seems to be a real letdown after labor day, doesn't there? The kids are heading back to school and it almost feels like we are going to head into the long, cold months.
We ain't done yet, here.
I actually have one last golf outing planned. I'm gonna' play with a whole bunch of friends in a couple of weeks. I'm hoping the hip holds out.
Yet this past weekend was fun for one simple reason.
We got together and made Italian Sausage.
The lineup has changed over the years, but the recipe is intact and there are still plenty of us willing to put in the effort to get it done.
My brother Jim did much of the leg work again, but when I arrived on Saturday morning the cutting and grinding hadn't even begun.
We got started at 9 a.m.
I labeled the last package at just about 1:30 pm.
130 pounds of the best sausage that can possibly be made.
Yet the thing about the ritual of getting the job done is that there are so many others in the room with the ones who make it there each time.
The lineup this go-around was Jim, Me, Scott and Larry.
We all knew the process. We all took our turn performing some of the tasks.
We made fun of each other.
We told stories of past episodes.
For instance:
I won't ever be a part of the sausage-making party without thinking of my Dad mixing the meat up as an ash burned on the end of his cigarette and fell into the mixture.
Every single time I will think of my Uncle Jim standing off to the side and eating pepper sandwiches as if they were cookies.
There are a million thoughts of Jeff and how he used to get the ball rolling when we needed to re-up the supply. Jim fills that spot, but we are never in the same room - not one of us - without Jeff being right there at the center of our minds.
We talked about John and Chuck not being part of the show this time. Thankfully they will be there when we run out again.
And then the eating.
By the end of the night I sat at the kitchen table with Jim and Larry.
Jim was still eating.
Larry and I were moaning in discomfort.
I had consumed at least a pound of sausage, a half dozen spare ribs, an ear of corn, tomato and cuke salad, and a few salt potatoes.
It was an effort just to talk about the day.
Larry was catatonic.
The labor day effort was in the books.
If the winter comes early there's one thing to remember:
I have sausage.
And that's comforting.
We ain't done yet, here.
I actually have one last golf outing planned. I'm gonna' play with a whole bunch of friends in a couple of weeks. I'm hoping the hip holds out.
Yet this past weekend was fun for one simple reason.
We got together and made Italian Sausage.
The lineup has changed over the years, but the recipe is intact and there are still plenty of us willing to put in the effort to get it done.
My brother Jim did much of the leg work again, but when I arrived on Saturday morning the cutting and grinding hadn't even begun.
We got started at 9 a.m.
I labeled the last package at just about 1:30 pm.
130 pounds of the best sausage that can possibly be made.
Yet the thing about the ritual of getting the job done is that there are so many others in the room with the ones who make it there each time.
The lineup this go-around was Jim, Me, Scott and Larry.
We all knew the process. We all took our turn performing some of the tasks.
We made fun of each other.
We told stories of past episodes.
For instance:
I won't ever be a part of the sausage-making party without thinking of my Dad mixing the meat up as an ash burned on the end of his cigarette and fell into the mixture.
Every single time I will think of my Uncle Jim standing off to the side and eating pepper sandwiches as if they were cookies.
There are a million thoughts of Jeff and how he used to get the ball rolling when we needed to re-up the supply. Jim fills that spot, but we are never in the same room - not one of us - without Jeff being right there at the center of our minds.
We talked about John and Chuck not being part of the show this time. Thankfully they will be there when we run out again.
And then the eating.
By the end of the night I sat at the kitchen table with Jim and Larry.
Jim was still eating.
Larry and I were moaning in discomfort.
I had consumed at least a pound of sausage, a half dozen spare ribs, an ear of corn, tomato and cuke salad, and a few salt potatoes.
It was an effort just to talk about the day.
Larry was catatonic.
The labor day effort was in the books.
If the winter comes early there's one thing to remember:
I have sausage.
And that's comforting.
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