68 feet of pure Wisconsin

A 68-foot bratwurst raises more questions than it answers, and many of them begin with an emphatic “why” or “how”: Why would anyone make one? How is it transported? Cooked? But mostly, why would anyone eat it?

While all of these queries can be answered specifically, it was Nicole St. Clair of Sun Prairie, toting a sun-reflecting 24-ounce can of Bud Light, who most concisely buttoned them all up: “It’s the largest brat ever. C’mon now, hey. This is Wisconsin."

Indeed it is.

And on Sunday, July 13, Jerry Stoddard of Stoddard’s Meat Market was the master of ceremonies, leading with 25 latex-gloved volunteers as the world’s largest bratwurst was cooked and eaten at the Northwoods League’s Fan Fest gala at Warner Park.

Stoddard provides all the normal-sized brats for the Madison Mallards, and when his son told him that he should make the world’s largest, he and the Mallards brass decided it was a fine idea. Originally conceived at 60 feet, 6 inches—the distance from the pitcher’s mound to home plate—the final product ended up being 8 feet longer for reasons that aren’t particularly clear, except that they had a custom-made grill that could hold it, and goddammit, grills in Wisconsin should always be full.

Weighing in at 45 pounds, the python-esque sausage (of standard brat-sized girth) was transported to the field coiled up in a nondescript gray crate, and with little fanfare, unfurled onto a grate covering a trough of smoking charcoal. Fans and players looked on, both bemused and confused, from beyond the special cooking area cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape.

In command at all times, Stoddard shouted instructions and blew a whistle to make sure the series of quarter- and half-rolls were executed flawlessly during the half-hour the brat was roasting. The only snag arose when someone noticed that a 6-foot section at one end was lagging behind the other 62 feet because the coals were exposed to the wind. Stoddard improvised a metal tray wind-block, and the cooking went on without incident.

First in line by at least 10 minutes was the terrycloth sweat-suited Randall Parker, an eager and willing guinea pig. When the call of “Let’s eat!” went over the P.A., Parker rubbed his hands together and said, “Good. I’m sick of looking at this thing.”

After handing over $10, which included a donation to the Wisconsin Children’s Museum, Parker received a hunk of brat and a T-shirt celebrating the event. He then took a bite and smiled. More people quickly stepped up to the plate, many proudly sporting moustaches. Somewhere, the God of Sausages looked down, and was pleased.