By Daniel Bazzinotti

The first piece of biroldo (Tuscan blood sausage) that I tasted was handed to me by an 89-year-old butcher named Severino. Standing in a small family salumeria (a traditional Italian shop found in every neighborhood in Tuscany, specializing in cured meats) overlooking the ancient walls of Lucca, Tuscany, I watched as Severino chopped braised pork from the head and jowls of a local pig before sliding a small piece across the table. Smiling, he said in Italian, “This is my favorite part of the head. It makes our biroldo unique.” It was the tongue—rich, tender, and deeply flavorful from hours of slow braising.

Moments later, his son Gino carried in a white bucket filled with fresh pig’s blood. Together, they mixed it with the meat, tasting the uncooked mixture several times while adjusting the salt and their family’s closely guarded spice blend, droga—a name that literally translates to “drugs” in English—until Severino nodded with approval. The mixture was then hand-stuffed into beef casings and gently lowered into a century-old copper kettle filled with the broth used to braise the pig’s heads. Severino mentioned that the century-old pot was the key to successfully cooking the biroldo. Then, the sausage was poached until Gino felt it was firm. After their biroldo was cooled, it was ready to be sold in their shop.

As I watched this father-and-son team work together, I realized that I was witnessing much more than the preparation of sausage. I was watching knowledge pass from one generation to the next, not through written recipes, but through observation, repetition, taste, and trust. As Gino explained, he does it the way he does because his dad did it that way, and his dad has done it that way because that’s how his dad did. Thankfully, his great grandpa knew what he was doing! That experience forever changed the way I teach charcuterie and salumi and respect the tradition.

When my Banquets and Catering students at Johnson & Wales University learn to prepare blood sausage in my class, they are often surprised to discover that there is no single recipe. Blood sausage exists in countless forms throughout Europe: black pudding in the British Isles, boudin noir in France, morcilla in Spain, blutwurst in Germany, and biroldo and sanguinaccio throughout Italy. Although each begins with the same basic ingredients, blood, fat, meat, and seasoning—every region, village, and family has adapted the recipe to reflect hyper-local ingredients and family traditions.

As such recipes crossed the Atlantic, they continued to evolve. Familiar ingredients were not always available, American tastes differed, and regulations including the prohibition on collecting swine blood during commercial production for much of the twentieth century – forced producers to modify traditional practices. Some families carefully preserved recipes handed down for generations, while others adapted them to new ingredients and new audiences. Like those who carried them, these recipes changed while maintaining a connection to their origins.

Today, another transformation is taking place. Traditional blood sausages are becoming less common as eating habits change and fewer people continue the craft. What was once an essential part of whole-animal butchery has become unfamiliar to many younger cooks and diners.

In my classroom, I try to bridge that gap. Rather than simply teaching students how to make blood sausage, I teach them why it exists. We discuss cucina povera (the poor kitchen), the Italian tradition of resourceful cooking, emphasizing whole-animal utilization, its relationship to sustainability, and the cultural traditions that gave rise to these foods. What begins as a lesson in ingredients quickly becomes a discussion about migration, adaptation, and cultural identity.  Once students understand the story behind the recipe, they begin to see it as an expression of ingenuity and respect for ingredients.

From there, I encourage them to adapt these techniques using their own culinary backgrounds. For example, one student from the American South created blood sausage using cornbread and Creole spices. It was unmistakably inspired by Tuscan technique, yet distinctly Southern in flavor and identity. The recipe had traveled once again—not by abandoning tradition, but by building upon it.

That lesson is perhaps the most important one I can teach. Recipes are not preserved by remaining unchanged. They survive because each generation learns the techniques, understands the history, and thoughtfully adapts them to new places, cultures, and ingredients.

The biroldo I helped make in a small Tuscan salumeria is different from the blood sausage my students prepare in New England. However, they remain connected by something deeper than ingredients: they share a commitment to craftsmanship, whole-animal utilization, and the belief that food carries history with it. Every time a student creates a new interpretation of an old recipe, another chapter is added to that story.

 

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