Scientists are adamant: if all the chipolatas eaten in the summer were given in the morning, we could link the Earth to the Moon. It would be pointless, I agree, but we could. Finally I believe, in truth I am well aware that the chipolatas do not have hands and that I do not know any scientist specialized in deli meats. I know, I’m not yet 50, but I’ve probably already messed up my life. But let’s get back to the sausages instead.
All year round, Frankfurt and merguez have a good life, overwhelming with their superiority the chipos and other Morteau. Who wants sauerkraut or couscous with chipolata? Nobody. Even the most absurd test of “Top Chef” cannot fall into such delirium. And yet, I remember once when the candidates cooked trash. I think that’s about the time I decided to stop watching TV. But I digress once again.
In short, all year round, with the help of hot dogs and CGT demonstrations, orange sausage and spicy sausage are the queens of the ball. But when summer comes, when the cicada starts dancing, or singing, or twerking, I don’t know, while the ant continues to work while waiting to give it a big fat “Cheh” unconstructive, while the traffic jams and the melanomas rub their hands seeing the index 50 tubes left at the bottom of the beach baskets, it is there, just at this precise moment, that the hour of glory comes chipolata.
Ten months she was waiting for this, here she is finally on and in everyone’s mouths. At the supermarket first, where it is sold in trays, for a couple, a family, a regiment, depending on the size of said tray. It is sometimes on sale, but never on sale, at least not in summer.
We also find her in the markets where, like a fashionista in sausage meat, she knows how to vary fashions and pleasures all along the guts she fills. With herbs, nature, Espelette pepper to discreetly walk on the flowerbeds of its lifelong rival. It can also be artisanal, or totally industrial, it does not change much because once on the barbecue, it will suffer the same fate.
Because yes, the history of the chipolata has nothing to envy to the sacrificed heroines of the greatest Greek tragedies. Dido, Phaedrus Where Iphigenia would not trade their place for that of a chipolata. (Author’s note: you won’t read this sentence often in your life, I hope you enjoyed it.)
And the fate of the chipolata is to always end up burnt, in the best case on one side only, but very often on the whole of its surface. Because yes, the chipolata, although emblem of a successful summer, is always, at the time of its cooking, relegated to the background of life, behind more intense concerns such as, for example, refreshing a glass of rosé, refilling an ice cube tray because we put them all in the glass of rosé, saving a child from drowning or opening a jar of tapenade.
The chipolata is not moved. She knows very well that, like in Hollywood, the biggest stars are also the ones most likely to burn their wings. And the rest. The chipolata is the reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe (you won’t read this sentence often either), and its destiny is to pass like a shooting star in the barbecue sky of our lives.
It smells burnt, right?
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Not at all imaginary summer: the chipolata
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