Chorizo. Chuh-ree-zow. Just the very sound of the word can set my mouth watering. This deep-red, paprika-infused meaty cylinder of joy holds the esteemed number one slot in my list of favourite cured meats (yes, I have a list). Just like it’s porcine cousin bacon, there are few foods that are not enhanced by the addition of this artery-hardening, piquant wonder sausage.
There was, however, a (blissfully short) moment in time that this same word would conjure up an uneasy queasiness within me, and the urge to drink a pint of mouthwash. That moment was around the period when I attempted to make one of these spicy delicacies by myself.
The chorizo-making kit was a birthday present, the sort of gift I receive after always insisting on “something different than socks”. Inside the box was everything except the fresh ingredients needed to create a chorizo of your very own; Sausage casing, a piping bag and nozzle, and a sachet of magical powder labelled “chorizo curing mix”. After a short trip to the supermarket to procure the minced pork, lardons and red wine (for the recipe, not for me. Mostly.), it was sausage time!
Step one was to blend the chorizo curing powder with the assorted flesh, fat and booze. According to the instructions, it was made clear that a thorough mixing made the difference between the end result being properly cured, rather than just being basically 5-day old meat. This resulted in me spending considerably more time getting intimate with the pork than David Cameron (allegedly) before reaching a point when I was ready for piping.
This next stage involved taking the combined concoction and, using the piping bag, pumping it into the casing to make what would result in something more sausage-shaped. This step required quite a lot of dexterity, to get a uniform sausage thickness, with no air bubbles or gaps, whilst simultaneously trying not to be too grossed out by the feeling of the tubular casing swelling in your palm like…well, you get the idea.
I’ve mentioned in previous posts that I’m not the most dextrous chap, so needless to say, this is where it all went wrong. The first attempt resulted in an overly-heavy pump on the piping bag and the sausage shooting comically through my hands and across the kitchen. On another attempt, trying to rectify a limp, underfilled effort, the casing split, spilling out it’s contents over the countertop. There was a lot of swearing involved, and it was becoming clear that “sausage maker” was not going to be a credible entry onto my CV.
For a kit that proclaimed to make up to 6-8 sausages, I ended up with serviceable lone chorizo, and a kitchen that resembled a serial killer’s lair. Maybe quality over quantity would prevail? After tying up the ends and fashioning a holder from a coat hanger to hang the lonely sausage on, all I had to do was to wait four to five days for it to dry out, and it would be ready.
By day five, the thing left on the hanger didn’t resemble the picture on the box of my beloved chorizo at all. What I had expected to bloom into a deep-red porky delight was now very brown and lumpy. It looked like a prop from the Walking Dead. Or a turd hammock. However, I was committed to tasting the outcome of the process all the way through to the bitter end. It was time to snip the string to release the “chorizo” from bondage, and to tuck in.
Let’s just say that it was…not good. The best I can do to describe the experience is to say it tasted *exactly* how it looks in the photo. I didn’t die of food poisoning, but for a few seconds, my taste buds did not want to live.
With another experience ending in disaster, I decided that the art of charcuterie was best left to master porksmiths rather than a bloke with a mail-order kit, an unsteady hand and mince-covered walls, and in the future I would stick to buying the real deal from the deli counter.
Failing At Leisure 
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