Until last weekend, the last time I’d had a mettwurst was 1987. What, you might ask, is a mettwurst? Ah. It’s a spicy, little-known relative of the bratwurst that’s only available, as far as I’ve ever determined, in a small radius around southern Ohio.
I mention the mettwurst only because sometimes, like the smell of your third-grade teacher’s perfume or a remnant of an old childhood toy found in an attic corner, it’s the little things that transport you most powerfully back through time. And so it was with the mettwurst.
