I woke up wanting pork. Not in a weird way. In a chef's way. There's something about pork that calls to you when you've been working with dough, cheese, and tomatoes for weeks on end.
Something primal. I wanted to grind meat and season it and shape it into something that sizzled. Italian sausage. Specifically.
The problem: no casings. I checked everywhere. The butcher in the market square looked at me like I'd asked him for dragon intestines. Which, now that I think about it, probably exist in this world and probably cost a fortune.
So, ground sausage it was. I'd been stockpiling pork shoulder for a week. Bought it from a different butcher each time, so nobody asked questions.
Had it sitting in the cold room, wrapped in cloth, waiting. Fennel was the bigger problem. This world doesn't have fennel. Not the bulb kind, not the seed kind.
But I found a local substitute — a spice the apothecary called "sweet-herb seed." Tasted licorice-adjacent. Close enough. I cleared my morning. Hung a sign on the door that said "CLOSED FOR PREPARATION" and ignored the confused looks from the early regulars.
One of them, an older guy I recognized — regular who always ordered the diavola — knocked anyway. I waved him off. He shrugged and walked away. Sorry, buddy.
Sausage waits for no man. Al watched from the corner as I set up the grinder. The thing was ugly as sin — cast iron, bolted to a wooden board, with a crank I'd had to oil three times before it turned smooth. But it worked.
That's what mattered. "What are we making?" "Sausage." "We do not have sausage." "Exactly." He didn't ask more. Just poured himself tea and sat down to watch. Pizza Cat jumped onto his lap. Traitor.
I'd been feeding him for weeks, and Al gets the lap time? Unbelievable. I cubed the pork shoulder. Two pounds of it.
Kept it cold. The fat was marbled through the meat in thin veins, the way good pork shoulder should be. Too lean and the sausage would be dry. Too fatty and it'd grease-bomb in the pan.
This was right. I could feel it in my fingers as the knife passed through. I ran it through the grinder. The first pass was coarse — big chunks, uneven.
Second pass tightened it up. The meat came out in ribbons, pink and white, piling into the bowl like fresh snow. The smell was clean. Bright.
No off-notes. Good pork. Mixed salt, pepper, the sweet-herb seed ground to powder, garlic minced fine, a pinch of sugar, and a splash of red wine. I worked it with my hands, folding the seasoning into the meat, feeling the texture change as the proteins started to bind.
First batch: I eyeballed the ratios. Big mistake. The test patty came out... okay.
Edible. But flat. The seasoning was timid. It sat on the tongue and then disappeared, leaving nothing behind.
The texture was fine, but the flavor didn't sing. No depth. No character. I ate the whole patty anyway.
Iron Stomach meant I could taste raw meat without consequences. One of the weirder system perks. Al watched me chew raw pork with an expression I couldn't quite read — disgust, maybe, or fascination.
"What?" I said, mouth full.
"Nothing, Sir."
"Judge me later. Right now I'm working."
Second batch: I measured.
Wrote everything down. 2% salt by weight. 1% sweet-herb. 0.5% pepper.
2% garlic. Splash of wine. Mixed it, let it rest for twenty minutes, then fried a patty. The smell filled the kitchen — pork fat hitting hot iron, the sweet-herb seed blooming in the heat.
Better. The fennel substitute came through. There was a warmth to it, a sweetness that cut through the fat. But it still wasn't right.
Missing something. Like a chord with one note out of tune. I stood in the kitchen. Stared at the bowl of ground pork.
Third batch: I added a pinch of red pepper flake. A tiny amount. Just enough to feel it on the back of the tongue. Bingo.
The patty came off the pan. I let it rest. Cut it in half. The crust was dark and crispy.
The inside was juicy. The fat rendered perfectly. The fennel, garlic, and pepper all came together in a harmony that made me close my eyes.
**New skill unlocked: Sausage Crafting (Novice).**
I smiled. "Al. Come here." He walked over.
I handed him half the patty on a small plate. "Try it." He took a bite. Chewed. His eyebrows went up.
"Sir."
"Yeah?"
"This is very good."
"It's pretty good. It's not great. But it's pretty good."
"May I have more?" I laughed. "Dinner. I'll make patties for dinner. With bread.
And maybe some roasted peppers if I can find decent ones." Al nodded. Went back to his chair. Pizza Cat looked at me like he expected a share. "Later," I told him. He meowed.
Insistently. I gave him a tiny piece of cooked sausage. He ate it. Licked his paw.
Demanded more. That evening, I grilled sausage patties in a cast iron pan on the stove. Eight of them. Laid them in the hot oil and listened to that first sizzle — the sound every cook knows, the sound that says this is going to be good. The edges started to brown immediately.
I watched the fat render out, pooling around each patty, carrying the seasonings into the crust. I flipped them when the first side was dark and caramelized. The second side took less time. I pulled them off when the internal temp felt right — firm but with a little give, the way sausage should be.
Toasted bread. Served them with a simple salad of bitter greens and something that passed for vinegar. The acid cut the fat. The bread soaked up the juices.
The whole thing was more than the sum of its parts — humble ingredients, cooked right, served honestly. Al ate three. Cleaned his plate with a piece of bread. Looked at the remaining patty on the tray. "Go ahead," I said.
He ate the fourth. I ate four. Then stood at the counter and ate a fifth standing up, because that's how you know it's good — when you can't even sit down to finish it. It wasn't Rome.
It wasn't even a good food truck in Brooklyn. But it was mine. All mine. The spices I'd hunted down, the ratios I'd sweat over, the hours of practice I'd put into getting the texture right.
"We're getting there," I said.
"Yes, Sir."
I scraped the grill.
Wiped the counter. Looked at the bowl of leftover sausage meat, wrapped and ready for tomorrow. I'd make a pizza with it. Sausage and peppers.
Maybe some onion. A red sauce. It'd be good. I leaned against the counter and realized I wasn't tired. A full day — grinding, mixing, testing, cleaning — and my shoulders weren't screaming. My back didn't ache. I'd worked through lunch without noticing. The blue interface flickered.
**Stamina Affinity: Threshold Reached. Fifty cumulative instances. Kitchen Endurance (Self) unlocked.**
I stared at it. Huh. Fifty times I'd served food that gave someone energy. Fifty customers who walked out livelier than they walked in. And now I didn't get tired as fast. I flexed my hands. Waited for the catch. Nothing. Just... less tired. I could work with that. The system didn't say anything else.
Didn't need to. The sausage said it all.