Translation of Dutch shortstories by Yara Dhont.


4. Everyday Sausages

I like sausages. Every Friday we eat sausages. And also the day after; the leftovers of Friday. But nothing is as tasty as a good, fat black pudding with applesauce on a Sunday. The apples we pick from the neighbour’s garden. Sometimes there’s also dessert, only then it really is a banquet.
When I hear my parents quarrel about money I think about sausages in the weekend and I become completely relaxed. Then I start drooling and I can smell the butter in the frying pan. Also, I can hear the hissing of the water that spats out of the sausages as they fry when my mother is squealing.
She is a quarrelsome. Always she has a comment ready. It is never good enough. She pulls my ears when I don’t want to go to bed or school, even when I can’t swallow the little food we have. Dried sausages I can eat at any time. Then I enjoy the cracking of the skin between my teeth.
The taste! Oh! The taste of sausages is heavenly! It is a different sort from all other sorts of meat. No salami or chicken sausage is the same. They are individuals, you see? Every sausage has its own identity.
What I like most of all is that my friends think about it just the same as I. We share the passion for sausages in our secret society. Even though Jef has his own definition of sausage. This friend of mine always considers my talking ambiguous. He becomes a red tomato in the face and makes a prier just like his grandmother taught him.
I have tried many times to eat my vegetable like a man. One time my mother even fooled me and said that sausages are also veggies, just like carrots, pickles and cucumbers. Those are also oblong, but you can’t compare them to sausages. I told her that. As a reward I received a whack in my face and an extra bunch of vegetables on my plate, which I still refused to eat. That’s why I am built really lean, because only Friday and sometimes in the weekend I can eat properly. And I am much smarter than my mother concerning sausages. She doesn’t know a thing about it.
Since April last year I am the one who fetches the meat at the butcher around the corner. With a lot of pleasure I give him the little money in exchange for sausages.
The butcher once showed me how sausages are made and I was also allowed to taste. The beer of the Father a little further pleased me less, but sausages are my destiny.
It’s amazing how the meat is seasoned and grinned in the machine and how it comes out the machine as a sausage. It is a big spectacle for me; the birth of Christ; the origin of the sausage.
That’s why I want to become a butcher later in life, so I can eat sausages every day. And my wife and children will also eat sausages, together, cosy at the table. I will spoil them every weekend with a banquet and apple sauce. Never ever again I will have to eat vegetables, only sausages.

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