Mangia! Mangia!
Cool days bring homemade memories
ANTOINETTE JACKSON

The Midwest's cooler days and longer nights stimulated our family's appetite for heartier foods.

Fall was the perfect time for Grandma Providenza and my mother to prepare their generations-old recipe for homemade Italian sausage.

Grandma, like a general in the army, took charge by directing every step of her time-tested procedures.

First, she had me to go to the refrigerator and reach way in the back for the round ivory cardboard box.

I gave it to my mother who opened the cover releasing pungent aromas of dried pork intestines and coarse ground salt into the air.

The casings looked like shriveled up yellow shoelaces as she pulled them out and put them into her favorite aluminum saucepan.

Next Grandma covered them over with cold water and told me to carry the pan of innards to the refrigerator where they could soak and expand overnight.

Only the freshest meat would do for this family recipe.

The next day, Mom and Grandma shopped, not at the A & P, but at Bertucci's Meat Market.

They carefully selected a pork shoulder with just the right amount of marbling.

Mr. Bertucci coarse ground it for them, wrapped it in pink butcher paper and sent them on their way.

As Nona Providenza resumed command of her army of two, I was assigned the task of cleaning our gray marble Formica kitchen table.

One by one my grandmother called out for the components to be retrieved from their storage places.

Mom brought out the large shallow earthenware bowl with a six-petal maroon flower in the center of it and initials R&F stamped on the underside.

She earned it by buying dozens of pounds of R&F brand pasta from Giatano's green grocery truck.

While it was the perfect utensil for mixing sausage, Grandma wouldn't let us serve food from the bowl.

She said in Sicily they fed the pigs, not people, from earthenware basins.

Next I brought the casings and Mom carried the meat and the seasonings to the table.

Without measuring, Grandma combined the ground pork, fennel, salt and pepper in just the right proportions.

Because of her bad finger, she then passed the ingredients to my mother to mix.

As a young girl in Italy, Grandma was helping her mother clean chickens.

A tendon from one of the birds jammed the muscle of the first finger on her right hand.

When the wound healed, Grandma's finger was permanently frozen in an Sshape, much like a talon.

While it got in the way, unless the weather changed and arthritis pained her, the paralyzed finger did not bother her.

Mom mixed the meat and seasonings until the bright red pork, the black pepper specks and the greenish brown fennel seeds were homogenous.

As Mom worked, I drained the casings and pulled them over the end of the funnel, called "muto" in Italian, and handed it to Grandma.

Whenever she made sausage, Grandma held the muto in her left hand.

With her right hand, she scooped the meat mixture into the wide end.

Then, with her right thumb, she pushed the meat through, leaving her bad finger moving up and down and over the top of the utensil, like a dancing flamingo.

It was humorous, but even as a young child, I knew it was wrong to laugh at her bobbing finger.

Inch by inch, Grandma pushed the bright red pork in the silvery tubular shape through the funnel.

Mom caught it, twisted the sausage into 4-inch lengths and then packaged it. Some she put into the refrigerator for Sunday's sauce; some was frozen in our small pre-war freezer compartment to be used later.

When World War II ended, my Dad contributed to the routine by buying a modern, hand-turned metal meat grinder.

He joined our assembly line by cranking out the links for us.

With Grandma always in charge of the routine, we continued to use the new device until her passing.

Then we bought most of our Italian sausage from Bertucci's Meat Market.

Today, I'm embarrassed to say, I buy my sausage at the local supermarket.

Five links of massed produced Italian sausage come packaged on a Styrofoam plate and shrink-wrapped in plastic.

It has no fennel seed. It has a mushy texture.

And, compared to Grandma's recipe, it's tasteless.

On the top shelf of my pantry sits a battered and worn black cardboard box from about 1946.

The bright yellow label reads "Griswold Combination Meat and Food Chopper, Erie, Pennsylvania."

One of these days, I keep telling myself, I am going to make homemade sausage, but I never do.

My husband tells me I should get rid of that old relic if I'm not going to use it.

But every time I look at it, I get a warm spot in my heart thinking about how on a cool day in autumn, three generations sat around our kitchen table and made the best tasting homemade Italian Sausage this side of Sicily.

Grandma's Italian Sausage

Modern mixers have attachments for grinding meat and making sausage. This recipe uses the old-fashioned method.

Natural pork casings

4 pounds pork shoulder, ground coarse 1 teaspoons whole fennel seed

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon coarse ground black pepper

Place rinsed casings in a small bowl, cover with cold water and place in refrigerator to soak overnight.

When ready to use, remove from refrigerator and drain.

Insert two fingers in casing and hold under running water, letting it pass through the casing. Tie a knot in one end and set aside.

Thoroughly mix pork and seasonings. Slip casing over the tube end of a 1 inch diameter funnel.

Press meat mixture through the funnel in to the casing.

As the casing is loosely filled, at about four inches in length, twist the sausage in to links. If air pockets develop, pierce through the casing with a sharp fork.

Cook sausage immediately or divide into serving sized packages and freeze for later use.

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Antoinette Jackson is a Bullard-area resident. You may reach her at Antojxn@aol.com.