Kielbasa

You might be wondering how someone can write a serious blog entry about a greasy piece of sausage. Well, I'm equally curious how someone can spend (waste) 5 minutes reading such an entry, so I guess that we're even. In all fairness, this weeks blog entry is not for the masses. It's directed at a very specific and special audience....those of you who grew up in Western Pennsylvania and remember these snappy skinned little delicacies as a staple of our youth.

In our house, you always knew what you were getting for dinner based upon what day of the week it was. Didn't matter what month. Only day of the week. Monday - meatloaf. Tuesday - mac-n-cheese. Wednesday - stuffed peppers. You get the idea.

But on those rare nights when my dad would come home early and override the daily menu by offering to cook for my mom, nine chances out of ten, he made kielbasa. Pan fried. With peppers and onions.

It's been four years since I've had kielbasa. You'd have thought that by moving to Europe, the ultimate home of kielbasa (Poland), that we'd have been swimming in the stuff. But it turns out that every country over here has their own version of sausage. Some good. Some not so good. But in every case they seem to be fiercely proud of the unique way that they grind the scraps of leftover meat and stuff it into a spent intestine. It's funny what falls under the category of national pride (aka, freedom fries or lekkere worst van de Hema).

Anyhow, I had almost forgotten about kielbasa because it simply does not exist in the local grocery stores. It wasn't until our trip to Copenhagen last month that I happened to mention it in passing when talking about growing up in PA to one of our friends.

"Polish sausage? There's a Polish store on the Amsterdamsestraat in Haarlem. You should see if they carry it."

Amsterdamsestraat in Haarlem is not in the...well... let's just say "nicest" areas of the city. I had never been there and had never seen the store before. But on our first day back after vacation, I hopped on my bike and raced down there after work.

PAYDIRT!!!! Polish Kielbasa. In connected links. In Polish packaging that I couldn't read. This was the real thing. The lady behind the counter was obscenely rude, but I didn't care. I wanted Kielbasa. I needed kielbasa.

That night, I surprised Beth by firing up the barby and tossing on the sausage, complete with peppers and onions. Some of you might think that this wasn't much of a surprise for Beth. But remember, she's from Western Pennsylvania too.

So we stuffed ourselves full of kielbasa and spent the evening reminiscing about dancing the chicken dance at a fire-hall wedding in some forgotten Appalachian hollow. Ahhh. The days of our youth...