Sausage stuffer at Stan’s Supervalu

Wishek Sausage is famous in certain circles. In fact, when I told a friend in Wyoming that I was moving to Wishek, he salivated right before my eyes and gushed about the local sausage. Many of our small town grocers make and sell sausage, each one with a slight difference. The favorite is always Wishek Sausage. I know this because wherever I go in ND–say the Barnes and Noble’s in Bismarck–and someone asks where I live, they also gush about Wishek Sausage.

I agree! Wishek Sausage is fabulous. It comes in links that are longer and thinner than brats and in bulk packs, like breakfast sausage. The link version, called fry sausage, is the most revered.  I do not eat much meat, but when I do it is small bits of Wishek Sausage in soup.

Fresh Wishek Sausage!

That is the background, here is the story: yesterday I decide to go grocery shopping. My list included Wishek Sausage. As I stroll to the meat counter, I see one package left. It is a bit bigger than I need, but I grab it anyway. The last package! Perhaps the last package until after Christmas. Mine, all mine. I silently thank the sausage gods for their abundant provision.

I have all my goodies and head to the checkout line. As the helper bags my things, a snarly man saunters up to the checkout, behind me. I wonder why he is in such a bad mood. He then sees the long package of Wishek Sausage sticking out of my bag. Mr. Grouch says to me, “I should grab that and run. I drove 30 minutes out of my way and all the Wishek Sausage is gone.” I am thinking, POO. Can’t I go to the grocery store without facing a large moral dilemma? Holy Scripture says to give the shirt off your back to someone in need. This is a public setting, and I should be acting all minister-like since people are watching.  Right?

Wrong. I have yet to find a passage that says I should give the last Wishek Sausage to a grumpy guy who is staring at me, burning a hole into my head so I will feel guilty and give him the sausage. I could apply the “Good Samaritan” story, but he was not laying on the side of the road bleeding. Besides, Stan’s Supervalu takes special orders, so he should have called ahead if driving 30 miles was such a big deal. The cashier continues to ring up my stuff and the man then opens a long, thin, beef jerky, also locally made. He takes a bite and lengthens the frown on his face. Silence. Time to pay, and I hear him sighing as I selfishly walk out of the store.

The sausage-deprived man comes out shortly after I load up and start the van. He stares at me again, looks the van over with a scowl, gets into his own car and –seriously–roars out of the icy parking lot and shoots down the highway. I am feeling fine about not giving up the last Wishek Sausage to him. I like to think that I would give the last package to friend or a mom with sad-eyed kids who would miss out on Wishek Sausage Christmas morning. But this guy! He radiated entitlement, anger and intimidation. A bully! He needs to learn you get more sausage with honey, or something like that.