the scandanavian sausage scandal

sausages. A subject close to my heart - and probably around, clogging coronary arteries with cholestrol and such like. But still - ahem... Sausages - it's not really until you travel abroad to certain of our european cousins that you start to get the inkling that the humble british banger and it's many varied brethren are quite a special and prized species within the genus sausis-sausis. Now to quickly set out parameters and lay down disclaimers for my imminent tirade before it boils over into embarrasing indescretion: I have not been to eastern europe. Not even as close as the czech replublic, austria or the germany - the daddies of wurst you could surely argue. Fine. I just happen to have my mouth full at the moment, that's all, but look forward to stuffing fat german sausage down my suitably saliva lubricated gullet at the earliest possible opportunity (no classifieds please - PONY would be mortified). No my beef is not with them (couldn't resist- beef!) - I'm about to shoot off one about scandigs. Again. Of these I can clock up Sweden, Finland and Denmark, but not Norway (whale meat does sound enticing, though). I seem to have spent too many a night wandering around supermarkets in Sweden (Denmark this weekend) looking and longing for the right ammunition and ingredients for a simple sausage and mash supper. Pacing the full half-metre of the chilled meat refrigerator my gaze methodically works its way across and down rows of placcy wrapped packets filled with nondescript frankfurter like objects searching for something that isn't there - supermarket rage building up inside me (yes, I am middleclass). A mortuary of homogenised cooked meats differing only size and colour (infinte permuatations of pink, red & brown). A veritable mortadella nightmare (incidentally, italian mortadella was more commonly known by the name of 'balony' during WWII when yanks were so (un)moved by it that the word 'balony' found its way into common ussage meaning something both bland and boring). In contrast to the contents, the scando-food-stuffs marketing men have gone into 'pants on fire' overdrive with the naming of their paltry products. A particularly red 'sausage' is the 'fiery chorizo' - two claims easily refuted (all true spaniards march to Scandinavia and burn these false prophets of sausagedom!). And that's it. There are no 'fresh' sausages to be found amongst these genomic malformities, distant relations of our proud banger in name only. There are very rarely meat counters within these supermarkets. And butchers? Never. It's all a little too 'Soylent Green' for my liking...
And mashed potato? Oh! Dont get me started on potatoes...