On a trip to the East Midlands of England a few years ago I fell in love. No, Phil has nothing to worry about. The new object of my affection was a plate of sausages and mash, more specifically sausages and mash when it is made with Lincolnshire sausage. The sage and pork all browned and juicy with the creamiest potatoes, those lovely caramelized onions in gravy sometimes with wine or ale. There really is nothing else like it in the world. A fact I became painfully aware of upon returning home to the New York and ordering a plate at my local pub only to be served something on par with a dirty water dog. That was when the longing began. I searched high and low for something similar, but always came away disappointed and dejected.

Last year on our way to Italy we were scheduled for a long layover at Heathrow. Most would look upon an extended layover in a negative light, I however chose to look at it as an opportunity. You see, our layover was long enough for us to nip out for a plate of sausages and mash, hopefully one made with the illustrious Lincolnshire sausages. I honestly think I was more excited for that plate than I was about getting to Italy and thought about my grand plan for weeks ahead of time. There was one thing I hadn’t counted on; an overcrowded runway in a disorganized airport leading to our flight being delayed. Our layover turned into a quick stop that served only to increase my Lincolnshire longing.

After moving back to Seattle I found several specialty sausage makers all claiming to have “English style” sausages. While many of them were delicious,  none came close to the delights I had experienced in England. It’s been nearly four years and I had had enough. It was time I took matters into my own hands and make my own. So I went out in search of the meat grinder and sausage stuffer attachment to my Kitchen Aide, something easier said than done. I visited more kitchen shops than I can recall, most people cutting me off before I could finish my query. Finally I headed to Williams Sonoma without much hope only to be pleasantly surprised.

The next task was to find natural sausage casing, which according to the Lincolnshire Sausage Association is the only acceptable material for stuffing a sausage. That was a task more difficult than the Kitchen Aide attachments. I called all of my local sausage makers thinking someone would be able to help me, but either they were unwilling to help or used collagen casings. After almost giving up, I was referred to Fero’s Meats in Pike Place Market, which just so happens to be my butcher. Mr Fero was not around when I visited, but the man in glasses was a font of knowledge. He gave me tips, the names of a good sausage making book and website and made sure I knew to store the casings in salted water when I returned home.

I ground, mixed, stuffed and twisted, occasionally watched a clump of sausage meat go flying across my kitchen. All that was left was for Phil to come home and sample my sausages with mashed potatoes, red wine and caramelized onion gravy and peas. In the end it was a smashing success.

Now I want to be clear, the sausages I am made are not Lincolnshire sausages, but Lincolnshire style sausages. I am only attempting to emulate greatness and as I am not in or from Lincolnshire I cannot claim their name. If I did, I believe the Lincolnshire Sausage Association would have a thing or two to say about it, not to mention I think the EU has rules about that sort of thing. I have also not gotten too fancy with the spices and just followed the guidelines set down by the    Lincolnshire Sausage Association. Additional spices are acceptable, but I thought this first time out I wouldn’t mess with success.

After this foray into the world of sausage, I am in even more awe of the butcher’s craft than I ever was. I hope many of you are inspired to make your own sausages and to visit your local butchers shop*. While butchers seem to be experiencing a revival here in the U.S., I understand in the UK they are in danger of dying out and with them the wonderful Lincolnshire sausage. Please support your local butcher.

Since this is a special post for me, I have asked my dear friend Leslie to share with us her ex-pat perspective on adjusting to food and life in the East Midlands. She and her husband are actually responsible for my introduction Lincolnshire sausage at the Victoria Inn in Beeston . I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Sausage

Stanley Kubrick and I have another thing in common:  We are (were?) both Americans transplanted to the land of the Cumberland, Suffolk, and my favorite, the Lincoln sausage– just to name a few.  When I first arrived on these distant shores nearly five years ago the very sight of these British staples had me running for the hills.  Why are they so big and what are those specky bits?  I admit that at times I can be, like a petulant child, somewhat slow to try new things.  I was brought up in a house where the only sausage was a Jimmy Dean, while in my twenties eventually graduating to a spicy Polish sausage on a stadium roll, with grilled onions and cream cheese, while stumbling out of the clubs of Seattle’s Pioneer Square.  The age-old cliches surrounding the inedibility of British cuisine, compounded by my dad’s retelling of his experience growing up with an English mother and her food, and my grandpa, more than sixty years on, still lamenting the warm beer served to him while he was a GI in London, did nothing to assuage my fears.  To make things worse, my English husband’s diet, before I civilized him, consisted of as many things as he could think of to put on toast as possible, from the admittedly tasty cheese, to the still baffling spaghetti. 

Oh, how I longed for the familiar in those early days. All of that being said, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that British food has made leaps and bounds since the time of my grandmother, and while I still struggle to find a decent cheeseburger, long gone are the days when the British believed pasta grew on trees (thanks to a BBC prank in the 50s).  The UK is now home to world renowned chefs and their restaurants, and even if you’re not going to spring for the tasting menu at Heston Blumenthal’s Fat Duck, it is still likely you’ll be able to sate yourself with quality fare at your favorite local pub.

Erin asked me if I would describe how I eventually came to love the sausage; I’ve racked my brain, and I don’t think my evolution came with an epiphany moment, but rather just a gradual erosion of my initial fears and apprehensions stemming from a severe case of homesickness.  As of now,  I still refuse to spell color with a ‘u,’ my daughter when she is old enough to talk, will call me mom, not “mum,” and I still strongly object to the skin being left on my order of fish and chips, but, as time has gone by, I have definitely found myself softening to my new surroundings, and these days, not only am I calling pants “trousers,” but one of my favorite treats is plate of sausage and mash and a pint of bitter.  Whether I’ve prepared it myself or I’m eating it tucked away in a corner of an old, atmospheric pub, it is a combination that is hard to beat, particularly for comfort value on an characteristically cold, gray British day.  I’ve experimented with a few different recipes recently, seeing if I could somehow improve upon perfection, but as I should have already known, uncomplicated is always best.  In my humble opinion, nothing can top simply roasting your sausages, piling them on a plate of creamy mashed potatoes and finishing it all with a rich, roasted onion or red wine gravy.

In the near future, the day will come when I will once again swap Old Blighty for the Emerald City, and I’ve decided the things I will miss the most will undoubtedly be the beer, the traditional pubs with their heavy drapery and ale soaked carpets, the cheese, and of course, the venerable sausage.  Fortunately, we’ll have copious amounts of espresso and Erin’s recipe for the divine and herby Lincoln sausage to lift my husband and me from any sort of melancholy that might result.

Lincolnshire Style Sausage

1 lb Pork Belly, cubed

3 lbs Lean-ish Pork Shoulder, cubed

1 1/2 cup Breadcrumbs

1 Large Onion, diced, slowly browned and cooled

2 TBS Sage Leaves, chopped finely

2 tsp Freshly Ground Pepper

2 tsp Sel de Mer or Kosher Salt

Natural casing, be sure to tell you butcher how much you plan to make, he or she will give you the proper amount.

Grind the pork into a large bowl according to the manufacturers instructions, using the coarsest setting. Add the other ingredients and combine using your hands. Stuff your sausages using a sausage stuffer, twisting the casing every so often to form individual sausages. Cook, refrigerate or freeze.

Makes about 20-40 sausages depending on their size.

Notes: When beginning your first sausage in the link, do not tie off the end of your casing until the first sausage has been formed and the opposite end twisted. Pinch it between two fingers, this will allow you to let out any air bubbles that form, I found the first one in the link is always a bit more prone to air bubbles. Make sure you leave enough casing free so you will be able to tie it off.

Be careful not to allow the casing to slide off the horn too quickly, this will lead to air bubbles, misshapen sausages and only partial fills. I held it on the horn and only released a little at a time. It takes a little coordination to do, but if you need help, recruit an assistant, to push the sausage through the stuffer while you control the link. My assistant was in Virginia Beach, so I had to get pretty fancy.

*Many are intimidated by butcher shops and assume they must be more expensive. In most cases this is entirely untrue. I have found that prices range from comparable to less expensive than grocery stores and with better quality. For novice and experienced cooks alike your butcher is your best resource for sage advice. I never visit my butcher without discussing my dinner plans, they always have an opinion on the matter.

For me, making stock is not a recipe, but more like “guidelines”. Each time I make it there is a different result depending on my mood. Today I am making ham stock with peppercorns, carrots and onion; it smells fabulous. I expect Phil will come floating in from work like a Looney Tunes character hypnotized by the intoxicating cloud my stock pot exudes. Some of you may be curious to know where all of my aromatics are. The truth is that with the exception of the pepper I just wasn’t in the mood for all of the extras. The ham bone is so full of flavor and depth that it doesn’t require much altering.

There are many stock purists out there who will tell you that unless you have prepped your classical mirepox and bundled your bouquet garni that you are not really making a stock. To each their own perhaps, but I really think they are missing out on the creative nature of cuisine. What could possibly be better as a base for avgolemono soup than a chicken or vegetarian stock flavored with fennel and onions with a bundle of dill and parsley thrown in for good measure. My cider roasted chicken yielded a beautiful stock subtly flavored with thyme and cider perfect for a delicately flavored vegetable soup or to add a layer of flavor to a roasted turnip and potato mash.

Cooking is a highly personal thing.  All too often people shy away from creativity and allow themselves to be intimidated by elaborate cookbooks and overwritten recipes. If I had my way every person who is afraid to stray from a recipe should stop themselves from tossing out those chicken/beef/lamb/etc. bones,  take a look at any leftover herbs and unused vegetables they have and make a pot of stock and see what it does to your food. There is no elaborate technique for making it and no matter what Larousse* has to say on the subject you can add whatever your heart desires. That being said, if your heart desires cotton candy in your stock, you are probably someone who should rethink your hearts desire.

There are only three rules that should be followed when making stock. The first is that if you are making a meat based stock, you really need to roast your bones first. This will increase the depth of flavor. Second is that you should not boil your stock, a gentle simmer is enough. The third rule is that you should always skim the fat. I know many believe fat equals flavor and often times it does, but unless you want a greasy feel to your soup, skim the fat. Below are the steps for making a delicious pot of stock, I have left the quantities up to you, just don’t be stingy with the goods, it will take at least one carcass for a pot of stock.

Stock

Step 1: Roast your bones and remove to your stock pot. (skip this if you are making a vegetarian stock)

Step 2: Cover your bones with water and bring to a gentle simmer, uncovered checking every so often for foam to skim.

Step 3: After 3-4 hours after about half of the liquid has reduced, add in your aromatics (herbs & spices) and roughly chopped vegetables. That is unless you added them in the beginning. Fill your pot back up with water.

Step 4: Simmer your stock another few hours, strain through a sieve, allow to come to room temperature and refrigerate.

Step 5: Chill your stock for several hours. The fat will solidify at the top making it incredibly simple to skim off.

Note: Sometimes I brown the vegetables before adding the water, it all depends on how deeply flavored I want the stock to be or if I am making a vegetarian stock. I know it strays from the norm, but what can I say; I like to rattle cages.

Also, if you aren’t in a foam skimming mood strain your stock through cheese cloth at the end or come to terms with the layer of film.

Somewhere Michael Ruhlman is having a mild aneurysm.

* Don’t let that comment fool you, I am passionate about Larousse Gastronomique and believe everyone with a kitchen should possess a copy.

** The sunflowers pictured are courtesy of Phil and Barney. When they picked me up from the airport Phil had them tucked into Barney’s harness.

Growing up my parents didn’t often keep butter around the house, we were more olive oil people. On occasion we would eat it with artichokes or pancakes, but we weren’t big into buttering our bread and it was sacrilege to put butter on grandma’s rolls. A few years ago, as Phil and I sat down to our first Parisian hotel breakfast when our server brought out the normal assortment or preserves and butter. Normally I don’t touch the stuff, but I thought; when in Rome . . . or Paris in our case, and proceeded to slather my baguette with the rich, creamy substance.

I was hooked. Actually, I developed sort of a ‘problem’ that eventually led to a wider notch on my belt before I took the matter in hand, limiting my buttery baguettes to my birthday and when we have guests. It is a bit sad, because a guilty pleasure of this magnitude should be savored . . . alone. As it happens we have house guests in the form of my in-laws this weekend. Naturally I have decided to make the most of my buttery indulgence by making my own butter*.

The process is simple (if you have a good mixer), and completely fascinating. Just toss heavy cream in a mixer, whip the daylights out of it until it separates, wash with icy water, salt and shape. I used my favorite coarse fleur de sel from Brittany in my butter. The coarse granules add little salty surprises which is lovely on bread and heaven on a radish. Also I used a good local organic cream with a high fat content which makes all the difference. While you can use any heavy cream, I recommend going whole hog to make this homemade butter a special treat.

Butter

1 pint heavy cream (at room temp)

1/2 tsp coarse fleur de sel

A glass of icy water

ice pack (optional, but helpful)

Place the cream into the mixer and blend at high speed using a whisk attachment. The cream will need to mix for about 15 minutes or so. Be sure to stop periodically to scrape down the sides of the bowl. Eventually little butter globules begin to separate from the buttermilk. At this point, allow it to go a little longer until the butter is almost floating in the buttermilk.

At this point, drain the butter and place it back in the bowl and add about a 1/2 a cup of the icy water and mix at a medium speed. This washes the remaining buttermilk out of the butter. You may have to drain and repeat this step a few times until the water is clear.

Drain the butter through a sieve and place it back into the mixing bowl. If the room is warm I like to use an ice pack around the bowl to keep the butter from softening. It may be overly cautious, but I don’t want the butter melting on me. Add the salt and blend on low until just incorporated. Place the butter in a mold or butter bell and refrigerate.

* I have wanted to make butter for a very long time; I don’t know why it took me so long. When I was six, my parents took me to Pioneer Farms where they had a hands on demonstration of pioneer butter making techniques. Sadly, it was a little more hands on for some than others, and I was edged out by a jar hog with a bowl haircut and Toughskins.

** After I finished writing this post, I wandered over to Chocolate and Zucchini to find that making ones own butter is apparently all the rage. Clotilde wrote a fantastic article on it for Saveur that you should really check out. I will be.