A very fine sausage that you might like to make
Also the story of when I tipped ten litres of chicken stock over my head
“It is not every question that deserves an answer”
Publilius Syrus 85BC-43BC
West Berkshire, June 2025
For some reason I have split this piece into four sections all with the same prefix and have no idea why.
Anyway.
Today’s words tell you stories of vinegar making, a dull backache, and how to make a splendid Boerewors sausage that will grill very nicely on your barbecue.
Precarious
I gripped the thin black plastic handles of one of the twenty litre drums pulling it down from above my head on the high wooden shelf; one of ten large containers that have stood neatly lined up in the dark. The cloth covered open mouths of the vessels bound with stout rubber bands to prevent any tiny invaders who might like a vinegary swim, but still allowing the all important airflow so that the magic can work. With the heavy contents sloshing about precariously as I pulled the drum down from where it has rested in the dark for well over two summers, I’m holding on to the uncomfortable, sharp edged grips for dear life and at this moment in time feeling that they might snap off at any second, eager to avoid spilling the result of over two years worth of patience over my head and all over the floor.
Hoisting the barrel down to the floor with both hands in what I believed at the time to be a balletic, elegant swoop, though since then I’ve come to realise that this was wholly incorrect and was in fact quite likely how I managed to put my back out last week. That along with incorrectly lifting the components of a full, heavy beehive far too quickly on the same day, and at an awkward angle because I was hot, draped in far too many layers of clothing, and far too anxious to consider the consequences.
Precaution
A hooded top to guard my ears and neck as when dealing with intemperate bees I can assure you it best to have all avenues covered, long trousers, a bee suit and veil, and wellington boots to keep the blighters away from my ankles as they know exactly where my socks are, a peaked cap to push the mesh of the veil forward hence avoiding a sting to the tip of the nose, my glasses that invariably steam up at any inopportune moment and two pair of gloves in a vague attempt to try not to get stung. One hive had decided it was their right to swarm into a nearby tree, a right of theirs that I do not dispute, for indeed they are free to do as they please, although they swarmed twice in fact. I needed to encourage the malevolent little creatures that were left behind in the boxes, angry and disconcerted at their hopelessly queenless state, that I was indeed their friend. That I was simply trying to help them in their loss, so in haste, heat, and fear of the wrath of ten thousand or so bees I, hefted two boxes at an awkward angle to get to the brood frames to assist them in selecting one larvae to rear as their new queen, contributing enormously to the pain in my lower back that made me wince and shuffle about like a curmudgeonly old man that I have become for the last week.
Predictable
As I hefted the barrel down to the floor from above my head with its vinegary contents slopping about inside, I was minded of the occasion where, as a long haired young cook I was sent to the walk in fridge by the Chef, to fetch him a large bucket of glorious chicken stock, chilled, jellified, thick and gloopy with a nice crust of settled yellowy fat set on top.
It was of course on the highest shelf of the racking that had a lip at its edge to prevent things from falling off. It was heavy and for whatever reason, my hands just lost grip, and as I grabbed at it, it slipped out of my hands and in slow motion tipped upside down over my head, emptying its wobbly contents over myself and the floor. I remember picking globules of jelly out of my pockets and under my jacket and think that the aroma of chicken fat followed me around for a week as I couldn’t seem to shift it from my hair. I also had to tell Chef that there was none of his meticulously made chicken stock, as most of what was left had been scooped up from the floor and into the sink to melt away, though there was still some stuck in my hair.
With this story at the forefront of my mind, the very idea of me reeking of vinegar for days if I dropped the drum of apple cider vinegar, was enough of a motivator to make me cling on regardless. Like when you pick up something that’s far too hot and you feel the dull ache through the slightly damp cloth as the heat travels through the layers of your skin, but you know you must get it safely to the bench and you hang on regardless of the fact that it burns, knowing only that whatever happens, you must not drop it.
With the vinegar safely placed on the floor, with no spillage I decanted a decent amount into a large steel bowl, allowing a gloopy, ghostly pale disc of the mother to rise from the depths and slide itself into the bowl as I poured. A sharp tang hits my nose as I pour the deep golden liquid that has been troubling me for two winters and most of this spring. With experiments in vinegar making previously limited to around five litres in years past, so that if it all ended up mouldy or flat then it wouldn’t be the end of the world, this was something entirely different. This was a quarter of the juice from over one tonne of apples from the orchard. It happily turned itself into cider, that’s quite easy as the juice is sweet, and will ferment naturally. The tricky bit or at least the bit that needs your time, is to provide the correct conditions to allow the transformation to acetic acid.
Vinegar namely.
I knew what to do with the juice from previous forays into the realms of transforming fermented juices into acid. Fig juice, grape, persimmon, apple, and beer have all had a place in the cellar although in much smaller quantities than the almost industrial quantity that was sitting in front of me. I persuaded myself that I should impose upon the revered cider guru Andrew Lea with requests for information, a man whom I annoyed quite regularly in his retirement (sorry) for the best part of two years on and off with random questions sent by email after I stumbled upon his website that clearly stated it was no longer maintained or supported, but to my delight did have an email address.
Persistent as I can be, I regularly bothered him, receiving abrupt replies, often in capital letters to chide me on my foolishness at most things that I asked, most notably when I got acidity and ABV confuddled on a hydrometer to my shame. But as I am not easily deterred, this renowned food biochemist tolerated my perceived ignorance at a subject he’d devoted his life’s research to and thanks to him I have two hundred litres of bright, golden raw apple cider vinegar. Picked by hand from the orchard, crushed and fermented, then left to work its magic with me tinkering around the edges whilst mother nature got on with her job.
Thank you Andrew, or should I say Mr. Lea for your wisdom, I shan’t bother you anymore.
Now here’s a thing
Preparation
In this weekend’s words, tucked behind my paywall below, you’ll find my recipe for a great big coil of Boerewors sausage, a very fine farmer’s style sausage that’s made from grinding brisket, pork shoulder, and an intriguing spice mix with cloves, nutmeg and rosemary that doesn’t contain anything other than what the good Lord intended a sausage to contain.
You will need access to the tools of the sausage makers trade, namely a mincer and a stuffing machine, or perhaps if you have a friendly butcher you could ask for assistance.
The recipe below will make a decent sized coil of sausage, that will feed a few hungry mouths. It is very addictive, and is very good with mustard and beer. And whatever you do, cook it over a fire. If you are tempted to cook it in a pan then you run the risk of being mildly disappointed as slow cooking it over coals so that it chars and blisters, gives it the flavour that such a magnificent sausage requires.
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