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Guest Writer


A revolution in breakfast
Stuffing Things
by Ryan Douglas

friend once made the contention that if he were able to stuff a boiled egg inside of a sausage, then roll that stuffed sausage in bread crumbs and then fry that stuffed, rolled sausage in boiling oil until it was golden and brown, he would then have a delicious treat; a treat so powerful and unparalleled in goodness that it could bring about a revolution in breakfast.

At the time, I failed to find either logic or humor in his statement. Stuffing a boiled egg into a sausage is an absurd notion indeed.

Unbelievably, such a thing actually exists. I know this because I have seen and eaten one. Two dark and joyless years had passed since I first considered what an egg would taste like if it were literally squeezed into a sausage when I stumbled into a restaurant in Portland that has them on the menu. This culinary marvel goes by many names: "steaming hot miracle on a plate," or "fried bundle of heaven" (to name a few), but to most people, it is referred to as a Scotch egg. When considering the logic behind such a dish, one question comes to mind: from where could such a thing come?

The logical answer is that the Scotch egg comes from Heaven. Only divine inspiration could have hatched such an idea. Not even a severely deranged mind could demonstrate the willpower and internal fortitude necessary to create a thing like a Scotch egg unless he was drunk in the afterglow of a vision of God.

While nearly everything about the Scotch egg is mysterious, its roots are especially so. I have heard rumors that the plot of an ancient Greek drama from the 4th century is abruptly resolved when a mechanized God rains the egg-stuffed sausages from Heaven like a mad plague of joy.

Others, myself included, believe the eggs actually come from a medicinally lit factory hidden deep in the Black Forest of Germany. The stuffed bundles ride along winding conveyer autobahns before being dropped mechanically into wooden crates and hastily whisked away to drown the nagging demands of the planet's egg connoisseurs.

Sweaty, bearded men named Svelte populate the factory, all of them wearing blood-stained coveralls. All day long these men, while smoking dirty cigars and frowning, poke the dainty eggs into large sausages.

The art and science of Scotch egg-making takes years of practice and it makes the hands incredibly nimble. Amazing acts of hand dexterity are an everyday feat for the men of the Scotch egg factory.

Nimbler still are the fingers of the men at the turducken factory. This may be due to the fact that the only thing on the planet that is stranger than a Scotch egg is a turducken. The origin of the turducken can be traced back to the 18th century, but as a popular dinner item, it never really caught on. I guess that at the turducken factory, the conveyers must turn 24/seven.

The factory workers handle de-boned foul, which comes from the de-boning factory. The turducken assembler must select a proper-size turkey, duck and chicken or the entire process will be spoiled.

To create a turducken, a boneless duck carcass is first inserted into a boneless turkey. Often, a lubricating layer of oiled bread and sausage will ease the insertion process. Next, a boneless chicken is greased and inserted into the de-boned duck/turkey combo. The resulting heap of boneless bird flesh is then delicately hog-tied (the lack of bone structure generally leaves the turducken flaccid) and cooked in lukewarm ovens for the better part of a day.

After 16 hours of gleeful anticipation, the turducken is finally removed from the oven and inserted into an eager, awaiting mouth.

I have never had the privilege of eating a turducken. They are scarce creatures with large price tags. Someday we all should treat ourselves to a turducken. Until then, consider eating a Scotch egg. One can be bought for less than four dollars at a handful of local establishments. With its combination of affordability, availability, mouth-watering nourishment and wholesome fried goodness, the Scotch egg is the breakfast-food equivalent of the fifth Beatle.


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