‑Paul the sausage maker
Paul wasn’t an old man, but he was a tired man and a lonely
man. His postie job had left his legs bowed as if always on an old motorbike.
His early hours meant he went to bed early, too early for evening movies and
dinners out with friends. And who were his friends anyway?
So Paul was middle aged, tired, lonely and a bit sad. But
God could he make sausages. He made
sausages from scratch and doing it right was his passion. He ate sausages from
every butcher he found. He researched the making of sausages. He experimented.
He tested. From the moments his rounds finished until his supper time and into
the early evening he chopped and sautéed, simmered and stirred, then packed his
concoctions into the machine and turned a handle to stuff the skins. Mild lamb
with parsley and sage he grew in pots. Comfit of duck with oranges steeped in aged
brandy. Robust lamb with Moroccan seven-spice and olives. Peppered rabbit and
celery.
And as dusk became eve and all good pets should be home with
their owners they would instead begin to come, drawn by the delicious savoury
aromas. Dogs of all kind: from plump Labradors to skinny terriers. Cats both
well-groomed and feral. And in an odd-looking ensemble they would all line up
at the back door of Paul the postie, who at night became their hero, Paul the
sausage man.
And each night, Paul would pick one furry creature to come
inside, share his plate of sausage and watch TV. And for a night he would know
the comfort of touch and company as he scratched the ears of his newest friend.
Until a dreadful night when no animals came. You see, Mrs
Betsy had gotten sick of calling her cat to a bowl of crunchies that never got
eaten. Yet her cat had become fat, something Mrs Betsy with her super-tanned and
taut limbs would not tolerate. So Mrs Betsy had followed little Shmoo-Shmoo her
Persian Blue, and seen her welcomed into Paul the postie’s house with a
plateful of sausages. Sausages! Ugh, how…fattening.
So Mrs Betsy started a campaign of whispers amongst the
neighbourhood pet-people, and soon they were all shutting in their animals by
5pm, before the first eddies of delicious aroma teased the dusk breezes. Small
children heard some adult whispering too, and in that way that small children
do turned them into black gold, a sinister thing, the urban legend of the man
who took people into his home then minced them for his sausage machine.
Paul was shunned now by animals and children too. He grew a
little more bowed, a fair bit tireder, and a lot sadder. Yet he continued to
make sausages; what else could he do?
One evening he wrapped some sausages in the local paper to
take to the local vicar. Paul wasn’t religious but the vicar herded a group of
church women who ran a Sunday sausage sizzle to generate funds for community
groups. He was lovingly wrapping a mixed two dozen when he saw the world
‘sausage’ on the paper. It was an advert
that went:
‘Do you make sausages?’Do you like to eat sausages and drink
beer? If you like either then come to the Princess Hotel, May 1 st, for our
annual sausage makers competition. Enter your best 2 dozen, or be part of the judging
crowd! No charge for entrants, eaters just $5.’
On the night he went he felt nervous. But at the hotel courtyard he was greeted
warmly by the publican and his wife who was a chef. ‘Ooh these look GOOD’ said
Roberta. ‘Do you trust me to grill them? The judges are getting pretty eager’
and she held his arm and steered him into a small crowd of friendly faces.
And ‘grab a beer mate’, said Simon. ‘First one’s free for
entrants.’ Simon stood close beside him
and said ‘So tell me about your snags mate’.
Soon Paul’s face was grin-split as he talked to ‘Jacqeline
but call me Jack’, a plumply pretty English cook who wanted to know about his
knife technique for fine-mincing and what cut of lamb did he use for that one?’
Then two Sicilian brothers Agnostino and Angelo pulled him into a conversation
about cereals and spice-blends. Paul had
three beers and was holding a sausage dripping its good grease into a crusty
bread-roll. Paul was happy. As he
watched the judging begin as people in the crowd were handed sausages and score
cards he became anxious. He knew his tasted good and had good texture too, but
what was the ‘presentation’ factor? He
asked Angelo.
‘Mate they just want to see you make a nice-shaped snag, the
right size for how much punch it packs’.
Ahh. The three men and Jack
watched in silence as first tastes were taken.
They saw heads nod and lips get licked. It was OK. The eaters kept
smiling, nothing was spat out. All around them other sausage-makers exhaled,
the music went on, and more beers were bought.
After he won second prize, wedged comfortably between Jack’s
first and the Brother’s third, Paul was still a middle-aged man, but he was not
a tired man or a lonely man. On the pretence
of planning to murder him for his spiced lamb sausage recipe, Agnostino dragged
him into the wildness of Italian family life most weekends. When his kids had
birthday festas Paul was there with sausages, as new bubs heads were wet with
wine and blessed with song, Paul shyly bought his old guitar and joined
in. When Roberta and Simon celebrated a
year of running the little pub, Paul was there cheering them on from the warm
local community they’d helped to build.
And Jack was there too. As their head chef she was proud, rounded and
sated with good food and love. Paul was so good to her.
One night he was wrapping their four dozen sausages for the
church ladies while Jack was cleaning up from their cook-fest. He saw the word
‘sausage’ on the local paper he was using.
‘Hey love’ he called out, ‘the Butcher in Willi is looking for a sausage
maker; reckon its time I quit the post?’
Life was good, like that classic trio of onion, celery and
leek where the salt brings out the sugar.
