Sausage

In Costa Rica, I saw how sausage gets made. I watched as workers pushed chunks and scraps of raw meat, ribbons of yellowed fat and a mix of pungent spices into a huge metal funnel with grinding beater blades. I remember the workers, in their red-flecked clothing, smiling and nodding their heads in greeting. I vaguely recall my very kind host, a consultant for the American Soybean Association, explaining the sausage program, funded in part by U.S. soybean growers. Most vividly, even 20+ years later, I recall the strong scent of spices and blood mingling and how my stomach hovered on the brink of nausea. I survived, although the faint scent of sausage cling to my clothing. I vowed to never again watch sausage being made. Tomorrow, I take the first step toward another sausage grind. I plan to attend a meeting to learn how to serve on a Missouri state board or commission. I am not adept at sitting still or wading through long agendas. And I possess a low tolerance for windbags. However, I am a sausage survivor. And in a state preparing to honor Rush Limbaugh with a sculptured bust in the Capitol building in Jeff City, that credential alone may qualify me for service.