Some kids grew up on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, some on salmon-stuffed rice balls, or hearty chunks of roasted plantains. I grew up eating smoked meats. Smoked or fresh, grilled or boiled, sausages, cold cuts, and bacon were what my grandma and parents were feeding me, and I couldn't have been happier about it. 

 

You see, in Poland, where I was born and raised, the cylindrical meat holds an especially important place in culinary culture. We don’t eat them just between buns, and they are most definitely not reserved only for ball games. It’s an everyday type of food that is, I’ve learned throughout my life, more diverse than it leads on.

 

I was enlightened by the big bad world of cured meats when lived in Northern Italy, where I attended culinary school and spent my free time scouting out the best delis in Parma. Now, I had charcuterie on the mind: fiery sopressata, fennel seed-flecked finocchiona, homemade duck sausage. A new world of sausages had revealed itself, and I was all in. 

 

Later in life, in New York City, I worked under the tutelage of a Nordic chef who, once again, deepened my love for sausages. This guy was filling the skins with ingredients that would likely make my Polish grandmother scratch her head, and even though they were a far cry from those kiełbasa lisieckas I grew up eating, my heart beat with fervor. 

 

So when I moved to Bangkok in 2016, the lack of sausages in my daily life quickly became apparent. Sure, sai oua and sai krog Isaan are definitely something to write home about, but I craved the charcuterie and fresh sausages culture. So with a deep, gaping sausage-shaped hole in my heart, I decided to take matters into my own hands.