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“Laws, like sausages, cease to inspire respect in proportion as we know how they are made.”
― John Godfrey Saxe

“You were sizzling, like sausages in a frying pan.”
― Kristina Adams, What Happens in New York

“Last night I read about a dish Gemma made for the staff for breakfast, which sounded really good despite its horrible name. Toad-in-the-hole. Seriously, British people, who names your foods? Spotted dick? Bubble and squeak? Bangers and mash? It's off-putting. But the recipe itself, sort of a baked pancake with sausages embedded in it, sounded really good. I have a package of sausages in the fridge, and the rest is just pantry ingredients and eggs, and the most complicated part is searing the sausages.”
― Stacey Ballis, Recipe for Disaster

“Liam's hash brown casserole can only be described as so over-the-top ridiculous I fear Paula Deen is sitting somewhere cackling about it. I can tell that there is cheese, butter, and sour cream in there, and do not want to know what else. It is delicious, as are the perfectly dried eggs, crispy bacon, buttery toast, and juicy sausages. The muffins are banana chocolate chip, otherwise known as breakfast cake.”
― Stacey Ballis, Recipe for Disaster

“One day they let me knead the ingredients for sausage meat, and the raw foods themselves seized me: lean pork and soft, white fat- The one talks to the other, said Carenza. Without the fat, the lean is too dry, and without the lean... she stuck out her tongue, too much. I grated some cheese: dry pecorino that had been in our larder for months, and some fresh marzolino, tasting both. Mace went in, and cinnamon, and black pepper. How much salt? Mamma showed me in the palm of her hand, Let me sweep it into the bowl. Then she broke some eggs onto the mixture.
This is my secret, she said, and grated the rind of an orange so that the crumbs covered everything in a thin layer of gold. Do you want to mix it, Nino?
Almost laughing with excitement, I plunged my fingers through the cold silkiness of the eggs, feeling the yolks pop, then made fists deep inside the meat. I could smell the orange, the pork, the cheese, the spices, and then they started to melt together into something else. When it was all mixed together I licked my fingers, though Carenza slapped my hand away from my mouth, and after we'd stuffed them into the slimy pink intestines and cooked up a few for ourselves, I discovered how the fire had changed the flavors yet again. The clear, fresh taste of the pork had deepened and intensified, while the cool blandness of the fat had changed into something rich and buttery that held the spices and the orange zest. And the salt seemed to have performed this magic, because it was everywhere, but at the same time hardly noticeable.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“I speared a sausage with my knife, bit off the end. Juice and fat exploded: the pork melted. I tasted chestnuts, moss, the bulbs of wild lilies, the roots and shoots of an Umbrian forest floor. There was pepper, of course, salt and garlic. Nothing else. I opened my eyes. The Proctor was staring at me, and quickly looked away. I thought I saw a smile cross his lips before he opened them to admit another wagon-load of lentils.
I tried a spoonful myself. They were very small and brown- earthy-tasting, of course. That I had been expecting. But these were subtle: there was a hint of pine, which came partly from the rosemary that was obviously in the dish, but partly from the lentils themselves. I did feel as if I were eating soil, but a special kind: some sort of silky brown clay, perhaps; something that Maestro Donatello would have crossed oceans to sculpt with, or that my uncle Filippo would have used as a pigment to paint the eyes of a beautiful brown-eyed donna. Maybe this is what the earth under the finest hazelnut tree in Italy would taste like- but that, perhaps, was a question best put to a pig.
"Make sure you chew properly," I mumbled, piling my plate high.
The serving girl came back with a trencher of sliced pork meats: salami dotted with pink fat, ribbons of lardo, peppery bacon. The flavors were slippery, lush, like copper leaf or the robe of a cardinal. I coiled a strip of dark, translucent ham onto my tongue: it dissolved into a shockingly carnal mist, a swirl of truffles, cinnamon and bottarga.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“It was a good-sized trout, opened out, salted, pressed, floured and fried. The entrails had been cooked with some vinegar and mint, mashed up and spooned onto the plate as a sort of afterthought. It was delicious: simple and honest. I ate it all, and didn't give a single thought for what it might do to my humors. I sucked every bone, washed it down with some thick, spicy red wine- peasants' wine- from the hills above the town. I knew that I was tasting the place itself: the fish from the river I had crossed on my way into the town, the pig that had rooted in the woods I had ridden through, olives grown a short walk away. The pig had snuffled under the pine trees whose nuts had adorned its sausages. I had eaten the land. The town itself will always be nameless in my memory, but even now I can assemble it from its flavors, because I have never forgotten any of them. A meal of pigs' liver and fish, served with apologies.”
― Philip Kazan, Appetite

“It’s like milking a cow. The table gets antsy if it goes too long without feeding people. And we’ll have to touch it anyway, to clean it.â€� Anjali lifted the lid of a dish. A savory smell, heavy on cabbage, filled the room. “Want to start with the sausages or the potatoes?â€�

“Sausages, definitely,� said Marc.
“Okay . . .� She lifted more lids and poked around with a fork. “You can have blutwurst, zervelatwurst, bockwurst, plockwurst, leberwurst, knackwurst, and, of course, bratwurst. And what’s this? Weisswurst, I think.�

“Some of each, please,� said Marc.
Anjali handed him a plate piled with wursts. “What about you, Elizabeth?�
“Um, I’m not crazy about sausage—maybe just some potatoes?�

“Okay,â€� said Anjali. â€�°­²¹°ù³Ù´Ç´Ú´Ú±ð±ô²úä±ô±ô³¦³ó±ð²Ô, kartoffeltopf, kartoffelkroketten, kartoffelbrei, °ì²¹°ù³Ù´Ç´Ú´Ú±ð±ô°ì²Ôö»å±ð±ô, kartoffelkrusteln, kartoffelnocken, kartoffelpuffer, °ì²¹°ù³Ù´Ç´Ú´Ú±ð±ô°ì±ôö²õ²õ±ð, or kartoffelschnitz? Or maybe some schmorkartoffeln? Or just plain fries?â€�

“I don’t know—surprise me.�
“H±ð°ù±ð. Ãœberbackene käsekartoffeln, my favorite. It has cheese.â€�
“Thanks.� It was delicious and very rich—tender potato slices, with a creamy cheese sauce. “How do you know all those names?� I asked.
“I looked them up. I wanted to know what we were eating.� Anjali peered under more lids.
“You know Anjali—she loves to look things up. Any ²õ±èä³Ù³ú±ô±ð?â€� asked Marc.
“W³ó²¹³Ù’s ²õ±èä³Ù³ú±ô±ð?â€�
“Sort of a cross between homemade pasta and dumplings,� said Anjali. “Oh, here’s hasenpfeffer! I love hasenpfeffer!�
“W³ó²¹³Ù’s hasenpfeffer?â€�
“Stewed rabbit with black pepper.â€� She dished herself a plate. “Mmmm! Don’t tell my parents—we’re vegetarians at home.”
― Polly Shulman, The Grimm Legacy

“Tender BBQ Chicken cut from the breast fillet. BBQ Chicken cuts are lean, delicious, and moist if left to marinade. An especially tender cut that is ideal to BBQ Chicken or pan fry.”
― Aussie Meat

“Ray picked up a slice of summer sausage and chewed, taking a deep breath when some heat kicked in.
"Watch out for that one. It's chili-spiked. Eat some cheese," Rick said.
Ray broke off a hunk of crumbling aged cheddar that had come from a nearby dairy. When he bit into it, tiny crystals popped on his tongue.
"Five years?" he guessed.
"Six."
"It's good." The cheese coated his tongue and eased the worst of the heat.”
― Amy E. Reichert, The Kindred Spirits Supper Club

“I pop into Barrett's, ducking beneath the bright-red awning into the tiny shop, which is packed with fresh cuts of everything, from delicate lamb chops to meaty pork roasts covered in thick layers of fat. Mountains of fat sausages beckon from within the glass case, in more varieties than I could ever imagine---wild boar and apple, venison, chicken and sage, beef and garlic. A musty funk fills the store, giving the place an air of rustic authenticity.
I order three Cornish hens (or, as the British call them, poussin) and then head back toward Pomona, the small food shop I visited this morning, remembering the fresh, crusty loaves of bread on their shelves. I grab a loaf of challah, its braided crust shiny and golden brown, along with some celery, an onion, some mushrooms, and a few spices. Before I pay, I also throw a bunch of speckled bananas, a pot of Greek yogurt, and some flour and sugar into my basket. The ingredients are slightly different here than they are back home---"self-raising flour," "caster sugar"---but I'm sure I can re-create the banana bread I developed for a famous morning-show host back in Chicago. It's one of my most popular recipes to date, and I'm sure it would taste great with a cup of tea.”
― Dana Bate, Too Many Cooks

“Ben looked at the sausages. The sausages looked at Ben. They loved each other so much!”
― Matthew Swanson, Ben Yokoyama and the Cookie of Endless Waiting

“The pink ingredient in your fried rice: it had to be these." Nagare produced a packet of fish sausages from a plastic bag at his side. "You must have noticed them in the rice?"
"Oh yes," said Hatsuko. "You know, I think I remember seeing something like that in our fridge."
"I picked these up in Yawatahama. A local butcher told me this brand was the closest you could get to the type Aihachi Foods used to make." Nagare set the sausages to one side, then produced another packet from his bag. "Now, this was the other reason for that pink color."
"What's that?" asked Hatsuko.
"A Yawatahama specialty. Kamaboko flakes. Just like bonito flakes, except made from kamaboko fish cake instead of tuna. They were invented back before people had fridges, as a way of making kamaboko last longer. Normally you'd sprinkle them over things like chirashi-zushi, but your mother decided they'd be a good addition to her fried rice. They make a pretty decent drinking snack too, by the way." Nagare opened the packet and retrieved a handful of the flakes, which he began to nibble on.
"So it wasn't just the fish sausage, then," said Hatsuko, also sampling the flakes.
"That's right," said Koishi, grabbing a handful for herself. "Given what they're both made from, it's no wonder you remembered the fried rice having a fishy flavor."
"As for the all-important seasoning," continued Nagare, "I imagine she used a mix of shredded shio-kombu and sour plum. That's where that tart aftertaste you mentioned came from. Then I realized: sour plum is pink too. It all fits the color scheme, see?" He showed her a can of the shredded kelp and sour plum mix. Hatsuko gave a deep, appreciative nod.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, The Restaurant of Lost Recipes