Today was a monumental day for us in cuisine: we made sausage. And rest assured, it was every bit as juvenile and as sexual as you would imagine it to be. And gross, don’t forget gross.

Now, in modern times, there are machines that make sausage. You put the meat and seasoning in, put the casing over the end, push a button, and- voila! Sausage. But our school likes to keep us in the Stone Age (hence all the kneading and whipping by hand), so we put our forcemeat in a pastry bag with a medium round tip and piped it in. As you may be aware, sausage is greasy, and casing is thin and fragile, so this was not as easy as it may sound.

In my practical group of non-native speakers of French and English, I truly expected to be the one throwing out all the innuendo and bad jokes, but then the chef walked in. From picking up the casing and declaring it as a “not very effective condom,” to pulling the casing over the tip, wrapping his thumb and forefingers around it, asserting that anytime you hold something of this nature, your grip on the base should be firm but gentle, to letting out a passionate moan as he began to squeeze the meat out of the bag into the casing, the chef took the cake.