By Vincenzo Velletri
One of my strongest food memories is about the sausages that we make in my hometown in Italy, Fondi, 120km south of Rome, and that are made only in that area.
I love recalling the times when we used to make them at home. We looked forward to the sausage making because it was a family event, all family members got together and each one had a specific role in the process.
The men were always in charge of killing the pig. They would gather at 5am on a chilly winter morning and, after a short black and a shot of grappa to warm up, they were ready for the job. The pig would then be hung for one day.
It was also the men that butchered the pig and cut all the parts according to the smallgoods that we were going to make (prosciutto, pancetta, coppa etc.) and some steaks. The meat that was left over would be used to make the sausages.
The women were then in charge of cutting the meat, by hand, and one had the task of putting in the salt and spices. There wasn’t a specific dosage for that, my auntie used to do it according to what she thought would be right. The next morning, before filling the skins, we used to try some of the mix, quickly cooked in the frypan, and make the necessary adjustments if required.
As kids we all looked up at the role that other family members had in the process and that would be passed down to us like a rite of passage into adulthood and responsibility.
We have brought this family tradition with us in Australia and every winter, we make our own sausages at home following the family recipe.
The smell of the sausages cooked on the open fire reminds me of my country and the times when I used to go in the bush with my friends to pick wild mushrooms or asparagus and we used to bring some with us to cook in the bush and enjoy with a piece of homemade, wood fired, crusty bread.