Sausage

When I was growing up, my family always raised a hog or two with my paternal grandparents. I remember clearly the gruesome beginnings and ends—spring castration and fall slaughter. Afterwards, though, there was so much to do I quickly forgot the barbarous scenes; by the time the first shoulders were barbecued, hunger obliterated any sentimental memories of raising tiny pink piglets. Each autumn my grandfather would also grind the sausage, pungent with red pepper and aromatic with sage. Home