{"id":1704,"date":"2005-11-18T05:07:00","date_gmt":"2005-11-18T05:07:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/elitemporaryblog.wordpress.com\/2005\/11\/18\/what-it-boils-down-to"},"modified":"2015-09-24T03:54:13","modified_gmt":"2015-09-24T03:54:13","slug":"what-it-boils-down-to","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/orangette.net\/2005\/11\/what-it-boils-down-to\/","title":{"rendered":"What it boils down to"},"content":{"rendered":"
Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are<\/em>. So spoke Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin<\/a>, legendary French gastronome. On the surface, it sounds like some sort of cheap parlor game, or maybe a fortune teller\u2019s scam at a traveling circus, but the man had a point. What we eat is an everyday testament to our personal, cultural, and, some would say, political, experience. There\u2019s not much to argue with there. But I\u2019ve been thinking lately, as I\u2019m sometimes known to do, and I wonder if Brillat-Savarin\u2019s snappy quip might lend itself to a modest\u2014and seasonal\u2014update. I\u2019d like to propose a new parlor game, and it goes like this: tell me what you want for Christmas, and I will tell you what you are<\/strong>. We may be a week out from Thanksgiving, but as your local retailer would like to remind you, it\u2019s never too early to draw up a list for Santa, or your mother. And just think of what you\u2019ll learn about yourself\u2014it\u2019s better than psychoanalysis. I\u2019ll demonstrate. This year, my list runs as follows:<\/p>\n a set of <\/span>4 \u00bd-inch springform pans<\/span><\/a> Reading between the lines, this much is clear: I\u2019m a woman who plans to bake and transport cakes, but who can\u2019t be bothered to replace the comb she broke three weeks ago or the favorite black eyeliner that was stolen from her suitcase last May; who trusts her mother\u2019s taste in lingerie; who values exercise and a solid supply of fishnets; and who, dear reader, is very, very<\/em> serious about sausage. And though any of these points is worthy of infinite discussion, really, we both know where I\u2019m headed. In the end, it usually boils down to sausage<\/strong>.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve already written<\/a> at blush-worthy length of my great love for the humble sausage<\/a>, that ancient and noble by-product of efficient butchery. Though the exact origins of sausage\u2014a word derived from the Latin salsus<\/em>, meaning \u201csalted\u201d or \u201cpreserved\u201d\u2014are up for debate, it is believed to have been invented thousands of years ago, as early as 3000 B.C. The concept itself is ingenious, really, a sort of delicious pack-rattery practiced on meat<\/strong> whereby leftover scraps and typically unappealing parts\u2014less tender meats, or organs\u2014are ground or chopped, salted, spiced, and packed into casings traditionally made of animal intestines. But really, the details don\u2019t much matter. Fresh or cooked, smoked or not, dried or wondrously juicy<\/strong>,
a cake carrier<\/span>
a comb
<\/span>Bad Gal<\/span><\/a>
underwear
Pilates sessions
fishnets
<\/span>sausage<\/span><\/a>–<\/span>making<\/span><\/a> attachments for KitchenAid mixer<\/span><\/p>\n<\/a>nearly any sausage will get a sigh out of me, from the boiled bratwurst of my childhood, eaten with my father at our kitchen table, to a housemade lamb sausage with tzatziki and cracker bread at San Francisco<\/a>\u2019s Zuni Caf\u00e9. I\u2019ve seared sausage, roasted it, and grilled it; I\u2019ve stretched out on a picnic blanket in the Place des Vosges and eaten salami and sopressata<\/a>; and, by god, I\u2019ve nearly bathed myself in a fennel sausage sandwich at Salumi<\/a>. And just when I thought it couldn\u2019t get any better, I put two Italian sausages in a baking dish with a few handfuls of red grapes<\/strong>, and I slipped them into the oven.<\/p>\n