Barbequed Sausages

Holidays usually mean relaxed reading, mostly in the form of thick paperbacks with curling-up corners, or loads of magazines. The kids do the trashy stuff, regaling us with what’s up, who’s up, and who’s paying. I rather like the glossy food mags full of stuff I’ll never cook, but love to think I might. I always think that perhaps by reading these and watching a fair amount of Masterchef, the process of osmosis will take over and suddenly I’ll be a whiz in the kitchen. Never happens, of course, for many reasons, not the least of which is that I never have the ingredients they demand. Not in my own kitchen, and, surprisingly, never in the bach kitchen. If one could call it a kitchen. It’s more a corner of the room where the fridge, stove, and sink seem to be. And a moveable, lockable pantry. So the holiday cooking goes by the boards and just becomes what my mother used to cook way back when I was a kid. Minus the boiled-egg-beetroot-lettuce-with-highlander-milk-and-DYC-vinegar-salad-dressing. I never liked that then, and can’t abide the thought of it now.

We didn’t have bbq’s in the very early days, and the first I remember was one Christmas when I was about 10, Dad bought us (my sister and me) a small, circular bbq on three legs. It was speckled dark blue, and had a half-shield with a small rack. The grill was circular and could be turned easily. I think it came with charcoal as I don’t remember rushing around my grandmother’s garden looking for bits of dry wood to burn. That bbq was the best present I’d ever had and almost cured me of my deep, abiding hurt of not being given my very own washing-machine when I was three. That was probably the time I began to suspect Santa of his miraculous powers of perception, kindness, and endless bounty. Anyway, back to the bbq. After we’d spent each Christmas and New Year with my grandmother, my father returned to work and my mother took my sister and me to friends at the beach. This was, as far as I could see, my annual reward for ‘being good’ throughout the duration of the grandparent time. What I didn’t realise then, but do now, is that it was equally a reward for my mother. The beach holidays were the best. Born within 12 days of each other, my girlfriend and I were more like sisters, and our little sisters were only there to keep each other amused and out of our way. Our families had been friends forever, so growing up together has continued over the decades.
But the new bbq – well, that was a winner. We cooked everything on it we could possibly find. Sausages were the main plat du jour and we would cook up a storm. I don’t remember how they tasted, but quite possibly that was of minor importance, as being responsible for the evening meals suddenly became a position of responsibility which demanded a great deal of attention. The parents were probably in the kitchen knocking back a few g & t’s while whipping up the obligatory condensed milk & DYC vinegar salad dressing for the aforementioned salad, and boiling a few new potatoes for good measure.

Time has passed since those halcyon days, and we no longer go to the old bach at the beach. We still Christmas together, but it’s more refined these days. But, still, what could be more Kiwi than bbq’d sausages? The Aussies have their prawns, the Kiwis their saussies. It’s the only way I can endure the least interesting preparation of the end bits and pieces of meat wrapped in intestines; heavily smoked on the barbie, slapped between the halves of crusty French bread and smothered with tomato sauce. But not on a gas bbq – they’re just a waste of space. Invented by those who, for some reason, do not enjoy the endless search for tinder, the smoke which always blows towards you, or the slightly charred edges of whatever might be thrown on it.

So, today, at some stage towards feeling-slightly-peckish-time (no watches worn on holiday), I set about firing up the old concrete block bbq that sits a few feet from the bach. As the flames licked upwards, I became slightly nervous and thought I’d better chop some of the dried pig-fern that was leaning rather prettily over the flame site. It was then that I heard the siren, way down in the bay, indicating some sort of trouble. Minutes later it was followed by what sounded like a fire engine racing its way from the next town to our area. At the same time, a small plane flew across. Dear God, I thought, I wonder if there’s a total fire ban and I hadn’t been aware of it? The fire wouldn’t stop pouring out smoke and the hazardous fernery started to look like a real problem. I picked up a pair of choppers and began to slash away some of the fronds, while listening attentively to the siren now racing towards us. Nervously, I looked at the younger daughter who comforted me by saying, “well, there’s nothing you can do about it now!” I pictured the fire engine struggling to get up our long narrow track and wondered where on earth it would be able to turn around, once here. What sort of fine would they dish out? Had I completely ruined the holiday for everyone, all for the sake of a couple of saussies? The siren continued to make its presence felt by screaming up the hill, but mercifully it continued past our driveway and down the other side of the hill, its racing engine out for someone else and not for me.

Instead, we enjoyed the lamb & mint sausages, now frizzled and charred into submission, on their nests of crusty bread, smothered in tomato sauce, with homegrown beetroot on the side. Who wouldn’t?