I don’t miss blood sausage, but I’m certain my husband did (he just returned to France yesterday – I wouldn’t be surprised if he found a blood sausage and ate it for dinner).
In our village, there is a man who sells assorted cooked sausages and rotisserie chickens at our village’s farmers market each Saturday.
The first time we went, the man obviously could tell we were foreigners, and, when D. requested a “Boudin Noir,” he became worried D. didn’t know what he was asking for. The man tried to explain to us, in French, that this was made from blood, maybe we wanted something else?
However, he underestimated my husband’s love of bizarre meat products. Since that day, D. goes to the market often to request the sausage, along with the seasoned potatoes that accompany it.