A whole lot of baloney
Good fellowship and good food in Freeburg
Posted: 2/10/04
By David Heiller
Argus News Editor
You wouldnít think that metal building behind the Goetzinger barn in Crooked Creek township could hold so many guys.
Yet there they were on Saturday morning, January 24, about 18 Goetzingers and Franks and Langes, all working with a precision that would make any Bauer cookie baking clan proud.
I entered cautiously, camera and notebook in hand. You donít go into a den of lions like that lightly.
But after the customary insults that greet a newcomer, with Rick Frank leading the charge, I was able to blend in and watch teamwork that would rival the 1970 state wrestling champions.
They had a mission that almost equaled that milestone -- they were making venison bologna!
Les Goetzinger served as my guide and interpreter while I moved around to take it all in.
The process, which has about a 20-year tradition at the Dan Goetzinger farm, had started a week earlier, when the men had brought their venison and pork. They mixed and ground it to their own specifications, added salt, and put it in 50-pound bags marked with their names. There was about 800 pounds of meat.
Then at about 6:30 a.m. on January 24, men arrived in their pick-up trucks to set up work stations in Danís shed.
Rick Frank and Jeff Ranzenberger watched over the mixer. Spices were poured into each batch, and some water was added to get the right consistency. Rick held up a handful to show how it should be. ìItís soft but doesnít separate,î Rick said. ìYou donít want it too soft and you donít want it too stiff.î
Les had the same Betty Crocker vocabulary. He opened a bag of spices and had me take a big sniff. Good spices, like that fresh ground coriander, are the key, he confided. They get the spices and casings from City Meat Market in New Albin.
Russ Goetzinger said he got the Goetzinger recipe from an old-timer named Russell Gaustad of Houston. Mr. Gaustad would bring some bologna into the liquor store there. ìSo Iíd have to bring him a 12-pack and heíd give me one more ingredient,î Russ said. ìTook me about two years.î
The Franks have their own recipe, with a 50-50 mix of pork and venison, and throw in a little extra basil for the batch for Rosie and Ray, thank you.
A woodstove hissed in the back of the building, with a cast iron skillet sizzling on top with fresh sausage. The smell filled the room, and if your mouth isnít watering now, then youíve never tasted fresh venison sausage.
Over on the other side of the room, three pairs of men were filling bologna casings. Don Frank and Isaac Goetzinger were working on an old casing-filling machine.
ìFound that up in my mother-in-lawís attic,î Don said, as if he had found an old violin with the name Stradivarius inside.
He would slid a casing made of pig intestine onto a tube on the side of the machine, Isaac would turn a crank, and a tube of bologna would appear in a second.
These would get passed to the next table, where another group of teammates would tie off the open end of the tube, then tie the two ends together. These guys had tiny cuts on their hands from the strings digging into their fingers.
ìKeep each batch separate,î Les said to me and perhaps to anyone who cared to listen.
ìI like to get my own meat back because I know itís shot legally,î Don Frank chimed in.
I asked Don if he liked natural or artificial casings better. ìIíve had both and I canít tell the difference,î he said.
Les said the mixer belonged to Willie Karels. Heís married to Suzanne Frank. Thatís Rick, Jerry and Donís sister.
So is everyone related? I asked.
ìWeíre all deer hunters if that can make you related,î Tim Lange said, summing things up in pure Lange fashion.
Over in another corner of the building, Dan Goetzinger and Steve Ranzenberger were sliding rings of bologna onto poles. ìWhose is this?î Steve called out. I mentioned that it could be mine. That got only a polite laugh. You donít joke about taking someoneís venison bologna. The contents of Fort Knox donít get a closer scrutiny than Freeburgís Finest Baloney.
Not that they donít share. Russís son, John, was guarding that skillet of frying sausage like a Rottweiler, but he offered me a piece. I took two, and had enough sense to leave the last one for him. ìItís good stuff,î John said in the understated style of a true Goetzinger.
Dan and Steve marked their pole of bologna rings, carried them outside to a smaller shed, and hung them from racks. The ceiling of the shed had hundreds of rings of venison bologna dangling.
Later that morning, Dan would make a fire, bring it down to coals, add some green hickory, close the door of the shed and wait about eight hours.
Then the venison bologna would be done. Nirvana.
ìIt gets a nice red color to it,î Russ said.
The trucks and their drivers would return the next day to pick up their treasure, and another yearly Freeburg tradition would be over.
ìYou canít buy this stuff,î Jerry Frank told me as I packed up my camera and notebook. True enough.
It was a lot of work, but it brought a bunch of guys together in an old-fashioned community chore that you donít see every day. You canít buy that either.
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