I have cooked smoked sausage more ways than I can count over the last 40-odd years: tucked into beans, browned with onions, simmered in beer, and yes, laid right on top of a big pan of sauerkraut the way so many of us across the Midwest grew up eating it. So when I decided to take a truly odd turn and braise my Fourth of July sausage links in a mixture of cold butterscotch milkshake, whole coriander seeds, and a hearty squeeze of anchovy paste instead of sauerkraut, I knew I was either about to discover an accidental wonder or make a memorable kitchen mistake. Sometimes curiosity gets the better of plain sense, and this was one of those afternoons.
What happened over the next 50 minutes was part kitchen experiment, part cautionary tale, and part lesson in why certain old-fashioned pairings have lasted for generations. I kept notes the whole way through: how the pot smelled at 10 minutes, what the liquid did at a bare simmer, how the sausages looked when I pulled them out, and most importantly, how they tasted. If you have ever wondered whether sweet dairy, fishy umami, and smoked pork can somehow meet in the middle, let me walk you through exactly what happened.
1. Why I tried this in the first place
Every summer, especially around the Fourth of July, I make some version of smoked sausage for a crowd. Usually it is 2 to 3 pounds of links, a sweet onion or two, and something tangy to cut the richness. Sauerkraut is dependable because it brings acid, salt, and a little bitterness, which smoked meat needs.
But this time I got to wondering about contrast. Butterscotch brings brown-sugar notes, coriander can lean citrusy and floral, and anchovy paste has that deep savory backbone that sometimes disappears into a dish in a good way. On paper, I could almost talk myself into it. In practice, as I learned, a dish can have interesting individual parts and still come together all wrong.
2. The exact ingredients and amounts I used
I used 6 smoked sausage links, about 2 1/4 pounds total. For the braising liquid, I poured in 4 cups of a thick butterscotch milkshake, the kind made with vanilla ice cream and butterscotch syrup. It was refrigerator-cold, around 38 to 40 degrees Fahrenheit when it went into the pot.
To that I added 1 tablespoon whole coriander seeds and roughly 1 1/2 tablespoons anchovy paste, squeezed straight from the tube. I did not add salt because sausage is already salty, and anchovy paste certainly is. I also did not add onions, cabbage, mustard, vinegar, or kraut, because I wanted to see this strange combination on its own merits.
3. The pot, heat, and setup mattered more than I expected
I used a heavy 5-quart Dutch oven, which is my usual choice for braising because it holds heat evenly and keeps scorching to a minimum. The sausages were arranged in a single layer and completely submerged. That part worked fine at the beginning because the milkshake was thick enough to cover them.
I started the pot over low heat for about 12 minutes, then nudged it to low-medium to bring it toward a gentle simmer. If I had rushed it over higher heat, the dairy would have split even sooner than it did. Even with care, though, this was a fragile mixture from the start: lots of sugar, lots of dairy, and a salty fish paste all sharing one pot.
4. What it looked and smelled like in the first 10 minutes
At first, it looked almost harmless. The pale tan milkshake loosened into a glossy beige liquid, and the coriander seeds floated and rolled around the edges. The anchovy paste took a few minutes to dissolve fully, leaving streaks that looked a little muddy until I whisked them in.
The smell, though, was the first warning. Instead of smelling rich or balanced, the kitchen filled with three separate aromas that did not want to join hands: candy-shop sweetness, smoky pork, and a salty marine note from the anchovy. None of them fully dominated, which somehow made it stranger. It smelled less like supper and more like somebody had spilled dessert into a bait bucket near the grill.
5. What changed at the 20-minute mark
By 20 minutes, the liquid had started to break. The milk solids began to separate, and small curds formed around the perimeter of the pot. The butterscotch darkened slightly, becoming more caramel-colored, but not in an appetizing sauce-like way. It looked grainy rather than silky.
The sausages themselves swelled a little, as smoked links often do in hot liquid, but their surfaces took on a dull film. Normally, when I braise sausage in kraut, beer, or broth, the casing stays plump and shiny. Here, the dairy clung unevenly, and the coriander seeds stuck to the links like little pebbles in wet sand.
6. What happened between 30 and 40 minutes
This was the stretch where I knew there would be no miracle turnaround. The liquid reduced by perhaps 20 percent, but because of the sugar and dairy solids, it thickened in a patchy way instead of a smooth one. There were glossy pools, separated fat, and grainy bits all in the same pot.
The smell grew stronger and heavier. Warm anchovy paste is not necessarily unpleasant in a tomato sauce or Caesar dressing, but paired with heated butterscotch dairy, it became cloying. The coriander seeds did contribute a pleasant citrus-spice note if I leaned in close, but it was far too delicate to rescue what the milkshake and anchovy were doing.
7. The full 50-minute result
At 50 minutes, I pulled one sausage onto a plate and sliced it on the bias. Internally, it was piping hot and still juicy, which is the one straightforward success here. The sausage itself had not dried out. But the exterior was wrinkled in spots, and the casing had lost that appealing snap.
The braising liquid had become a beige-brown, lightly curdled sludge with floating coriander seeds and streaks of rendered sausage fat. It was not a sauce by any reasonable standard. I would not spoon it over potatoes, noodles, or bread, and I certainly would not set it on a holiday table. If sauerkraut is rustic and homely in a good way, this looked rustic in the sense of a pot you quietly carry to the sink when nobody is watching.
8. How the sausage actually tasted
The first bite told the whole story. The smoked sausage still tasted mostly like smoked sausage, which was fortunate. But the outside had absorbed enough of the braising liquid to leave a sweet, fishy, oddly perfumed coating. Imagine smoky pork followed by a candy sweetness and then a salty anchovy aftertaste that lingers at the back of the throat. It was not inedible in the emergency sense, but it was deeply unpleasant.
The coriander seeds added occasional bursts of brightness when bitten, but because they were left whole, they did not permeate the dish enough to tie anything together. In a better recipe, I might toast and crush coriander first, using 1 to 2 teaspoons. Here, the whole seeds were like polite little guests trapped at a very uncomfortable family reunion.
9. Why sauerkraut works and this did not
There is a reason smoked sausage and sauerkraut have endured as partners for generations. Sauerkraut is acidic, around the flavor range that cuts fat and smoke cleanly. It brings texture, too. When you simmer 1 1/2 to 2 pounds of kraut with sausage for 45 minutes, the cabbage softens, the pork seasons the kraut, and each improves the other.
But butterscotch milkshake brings sugar and dairy, not acid. Anchovy paste brings concentrated salinity and fishy umami, but no brightness. Coriander can bridge savory and sweet in some recipes, but it cannot manage that much sugar, smoke, salt, and dairy once the pot gets hot. In plain language, there was nothing in this mixture to balance the sausage.
10. The food science behind the failure
Dairy-heavy mixtures are tricky under prolonged heat, especially when combined with salt and acid, though even without much acid, salt and heat can stress the proteins. A milkshake contains milk proteins, sugar, emulsified fat, and often stabilizers. Braising for 50 minutes pushes all of that far beyond its pleasant cold-dessert purpose.
The sugar in butterscotch also intensifies sweetness as water evaporates. Meanwhile, smoked sausage releases fat and salt into the pot. Anchovy paste adds more salt and protein. Instead of creating a stable braising medium, the liquid separated into curds, fat, and syrupy patches. You could see the chemistry going wrong in real time.
11. Could this idea be salvaged in any form?
Not as a braise, no. I would not recommend repeating this exact experiment unless you are determined to prove the point for yourself. There are, however, fragments of the idea that could be repurposed. Coriander and smoked sausage can absolutely work together, especially with onions, apples, or cabbage. Anchovy can quietly deepen a savory sauce if used in a very small amount, perhaps 1/2 teaspoon melted into onions and mustard.
Butterscotch is the piece I would set aside completely for this application. If you want sweetness with sausage, use 1 diced apple, 2 tablespoons brown sugar, or even 8 ounces of apple cider. Those ingredients know how to behave in a savory pot. A milkshake does not.
12. If you want a sweet-savory sausage dish that truly works
One dependable version from my own kitchen uses 2 pounds smoked sausage, 1 large onion sliced thin, 2 tart apples cut into wedges, 1 1/2 teaspoons crushed coriander, 1 cup apple cider, and 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard. Brown the sausage in a skillet for 6 to 8 minutes, remove it, soften the onion and apples for 5 minutes, then add the cider and mustard, return the sausage, cover, and simmer 20 minutes.
That gives you smoke, sweetness, acid, and spice in proper proportion. If you want something more traditional, use 24 ounces sauerkraut, 1 small onion, 1 teaspoon caraway or coriander, and 1/2 cup beer or broth. Simmer the sausage nestled into that for 35 to 45 minutes. It will smell like supper should smell.
13. What my family said when they tried it
I have always believed in honesty around the supper table, and this dish received exactly that. One family member took a polite bite and reached for water. Another said, very diplomatically, that the inside of the sausage was fine but the outside tasted confused. That is a gentle Midwestern way of saying, “Please do not make this again.”
I took two full bites myself, because after all these years of cooking I feel responsible for my experiments. The second bite confirmed the first. There are failures that are amusing, and failures that teach you something expensive. This one at least only cost me about $14 to $18 in ingredients and one Dutch oven to scrub.
14. The cleanup told its own story
Once the pot cooled, the residue clung to the sides in a sticky, grainy ring. It took hot water, dish soap, and a good 20-minute soak before I could scrub it clean with a non-scratch pad. A proper sausage braise usually leaves behind browned bits and a savory pot liquor. This left what looked like sweet beige wallpaper paste.
Even the smell lingered longer than I expected. I cracked the kitchen window, ran the fan, and set a little saucepan of water with lemon slices on the stove afterward. That old trick usually freshens the air in 15 minutes or so. It had its work cut out for it this time.
15. My honest final verdict
Fifty minutes later, what happened was simple: the sausage survived, but the braise failed. The links were hot and technically edible, yet the surrounding liquid curdled, the flavors clashed, and the sweetness of the butterscotch fought every savory quality the sausage had to offer. The coriander seeds were too little, too whole, and too late to make peace between the rest of the ingredients.
After a lifetime in the kitchen, I can tell you that tradition is not always right just because it is old, but sometimes those old pairings endure because somebody before us already made the bad decisions and quietly learned from them. Smoked sausage wants kraut, onions, mustard, cider, beer, cabbage, or beans. It does not want to take a bath in butterscotch milkshake and anchovy paste. On this point, I am perfectly satisfied to let the past keep its wisdom.
