I had a conversation with my neighbor the other day with regard to the “Sale Pending” sign in our yard. He asked where we were moving and I told him the cross streets in Portland’s A-B-C District where we found an apartment. “That’s where my family’s business is located,” he said with excitement. I figured it was one of the many small retailers and restaurants that make the neighborhood popular. Instead, it’s a local sausage factory that I probably should have been familiar with the brand. It made me realize that I never knew his last name in the four years we lived across from each other. Sure enough, as I walked out on our new 3rd floor balcony, it was located right next door and I could see the steam rising from the rooftop vents. My new neighbor smells like sausage! 

Sausage is one of my most beloved foods. I typically order sausage links for breakfast with my eggs, and it’s the preferred ingredient atop pizza. Volcano Pizza was my favorite growing up and the standard for all things sausage. In my humble opinion, it’s not pizza unless it includes sausage. As the aroma wafts into my window each morning, I’m sure our dogs will go crazy, like cartoon characters lifted off their feet to follow the scent. I wonder now if I’ll crave it even more, or perhaps eventually be repelled by its constant presence? There’s nothing like a bad neighbor! 

Speaking of sausage, I clearly remember an office pool party years ago at my house. It was always referred to as “Marc’s Party at Mike’s house,” since it wasn’t politically correct for me, the boss, to host an employee party. When my bosses objected, I simply said, “it’s Marc’s party not mine, but you’re welcome to come. It just happens to be at my house.” This went on for years and became one of the most anticipated events for our staff. I’ll never forget the final year, a sales assistant introduced me to her fiance, who brought sausage for the grill. She told everyone that he was the “Sausage King of Chicago,” since his family was in the business. I couldn’t help but think of this when I was talking to my neighbor. We all enviously joked that it was the sausage he was packin’ in his pants – if you know what I mean? He ended up getting in a bloody brawl with one of my salespeople during a volley ball game. The incident was one of the reasons that the annual bash came to a halt. I also think there was some inappropriate nudity in the hot tub that also raised concerns within the company, whether it was “Marc’s Party” or not, it was over! I blame it on the Jello shots.

I think I’ll be fine with the sausage fragrance, as long as I don’t have to take a tour of the factory. I’m reluctant to find out what goes on behind those doors – the grinding and stuffing associated with its production. It makes me think of The Sopranos or The Godfather and where the dead bodies disappear. We’re all better off not knowing exactly what is in a hot dog or sausage, and just grow to appreciate its worldwide heritage. The word sausage comes from the Middle English “sausige,” which came from sal, Latin for salt. In France, they are sausissons, in Germany bratwurst, and kielbasa from Poland. The first sausages date back to Mesopotamia around 3100 B.C. My neighbor’s business started in 1927 and produces traditional frankfurters & bratwurst, Louisiana Red Hots, chicken sausages, Alder smoked hams, and bacon. I’ll see you in my dreams!