Poem for the week: "My Good Neighbor"

My Good Neighbor

He’s an old sausage maker,

my good neighbor, who brought

this old custom with him from

the old country when he was only

seventeen, and he picked up a pork

shoulder and casings for me in the

city so I could make sausages like

my parents, but I found my good

neighbor in his basement getting

the meat ready for the grinder so

we could make my sausages together,

and when he had stripped the skin

and most of the fat off the shoulder,

he cut it into small pieces for the

hand grinder, and when I ground all

the pork he added the spices—salt,

paprika, and chili flakes (like my

parents, I like to add fennel seeds;

but my good neighbor didn’t like

fennel in his sausages, and I relented

to his preference); and then we got

the casings ready, washing off the

salt with cold water and lemon, and

then he slid a casing onto the funnel

for me to grind the spiced meat into

the casing; but before we stuffed the

casings, we fried a patty to taste and

added a touch more paprika, and he

pricked them so they could breath

and we tied the links and hung them

in his pantry, and the next morning

I picked them up and Penny and I

packed them into freezer bags to use

when we needed them (we love them

on pizza, spaghetti sauce, and with

my own recipe of pasta aglio e olio),

leaving two sausages out for our eggs

and sausage breakfast; but the next

time we make sausages together, I’m

going to add fennel seeds because he

refused to take any of the sausages

I intended to give him, because

my good neighbor, true to his nature,

loves to give more than to receive,

and my company was thanks

enough for him.