RED Sausages: Remembering Love
From Chicken and Dumplings: Life is Meant to Be Savored
By Yolonda D. Coleman
Fried bologna sandwiches with crispy edges was one thing, but when I went to Garysburg, North Carolina and got hipped to red sausage I knew there was a God! A plastic bag full of those linked pork delights would be transported in a white styrofoam cooler full of ice in Grandpa Diamond’s blue Buick. We drove those babies north where I spent the remainder of summer break from school. I was born in Chocolate City., but my roots extended the length of I-95. I was shuffled between Upstate New York and Connecticut from the time school closed in D.C. until Labor Day weekend from ages 6 to 13. Going to the family reunion in Garysburg was an intermission that connected me to my southern family members. Many of my summer memories can be associated with food. I try not to live to eat, but food conjures up lessons learned to help me navigate the future.
I grew up during a time where the village truly reared me. There was no hesitation about releasing me in the care of Grandpa Diamond--a bachelor...kind of. Shell loved her dad. Grandpa Diamond loved his daughter, so he loved me as an extension of her. That was it. If ever there was a man responsible for spoiling me, it was Grandpa Diamond. He seemed to have an endless supply of resources. It wasn’t until I was 17 that I had to suffer the sound of his gentle no. He taught me a lot about life, love, and food; we ate a lot of food accompanied with bread that would add pounds to a skinny girl during the school year.
I knew sliced bread as a friend. “Special bread” was reserved for cookouts, birthday parties, and restaurants. If we ate hot dogs, we used sliced bread. If we made hamburgers, we used sliced bread. Prior to adulthood, I couldn’t tell you where to locate buns outside of the Wonder Bread store. I thought that was the only place to get hotdog and hamburger buns. As a result, it was nothing strange about eating red sausages enveloped in a mustard spread slice of bread. It was breakfast; it was lunch; it was dinner. Red sausage sandwiches were a meal that was best served on a slice of bread.
It wasn’t until I was married that buying buns became a thing. I felt it was wasteful, but my husband liked his cookout meat on the appropriate bread. Sliced bread was a great invention. Buns were as extra as a child crying for a hotdog on a bun but only wanting to eat the bun. Sliced bread would have served the same purpose. I later realized that it wasn't just the bun for the sake of bread, but that the bun complimented the protein--if we can call it that.
The world is made up of people who have to keep up with appearances. Between their bun is a lot of ground parts that when packaged looks enticing, but it is really nothing more than parts they hide in a mold. The bun camouflages flaws. I think about those red sausage links that traveled a far distance in packaging set in cold ice. I was never that person who could really be packaged and molded for presentation nor preservation. I had my own ways. Few people interrupted my process and let me become who I am. If I showed up on sliced bread or on a bun, my make up was authentic. I have a really hard time covering up lies, so it was always important for me to be truthful. When I’m silent, it is because I’m withholding truths that people either don’t want to hear or they’ll think I’m being overly dramatic about something. It’s then I just stay in my cooler and chill.
My edges are crispy. I stay in frying pans and get charred just enough to have a story to tell, but still survive. I am enveloped in sliced bread, but that’s just the covering of God to protect me from those who don’t know my value and want to reduce me to something less due to my appearance. Here’s what I remember about those long car rides from North Carolina to Pawling, New York. Grandpa Diamond would let me change the channel on the car as many times as I liked without reprimanding me--he let me discover. He never forced me to engage in conversation; talking was as much of an option as it was necessary. He never made me feel bad for falling asleep; he let me rest. If I was hungry; we stopped and I was not limited in my food selections or criticized for ordering more than I could handle. I could have whatever I wanted. When we reached Pawling, I had choices from going to the Chinese restaurant near the Ski Haus in Brewster, or spending time with Grandpa frying processed red sausages. Even though the world was at my fingertips, those red sausages on sliced bread reminded me to be humble because I’ve come a long way.
