Blutwurst, or How I Went to Heaven without All the Hassle of Dying

Ever since my tender years when I read Patrick McManus describe the process of making blood sausage, an unshakeable certainty lodged itself in my mind that any food product made by killing a pig, draining it of blood, gutting it, then pouring the blood back into the guts again had to be a taste extravaganza of divine proportions.
Today I learned anew how feeble the imagination of man is in comparison to the wonders of God, for if blood sausage was not made specially by God at the very moment of Creation, I have no idea where it could have come from.
I should have known I was in for a treat when I saw that the name of the dish at the biergarten where I was making my evening repast was "Himmel und Äd," the latter being a word which escapes my feeble German but surely means something suitably Germanic, like "The being-in-itself-ness of deliciousness." The sun shone ever so slightly sunnier the moment the order passed my lips, and I swear I heard choirs of angels take up their places in the wings, clearing their throats and humming softly to keep themselves in tune. I, foolish mortal, paid little attention to these signs and turned back to my book and beer, quietly sipping (the beer, that is) and reading (the book, mostly) as I waited.
Presently I noticed something was astir when celestial trumpets blew and the angels let off their hemming and hawing to burst into full-throated song as they formed with their bodies a shining corridor for the small old German waiter and his precious burden on his way to my table.
On the table before me lay a sizable sausage that had been split into two halves, fried, and nestled into the warm embrace of golden mashed potatoes. The sausage was extremely black along its surface, barring little white lumps of fat that dotted its surface like gems on a medieval sword.
Time seemed to contort strangely around the sausage, filling my head with visions of all that is good and beautiful in the past and future. Ignoring such oddities, I took a bite.
The Cathedral in Cologne is a sprawling masterwork of Gothic architecture, with twin spires rising over 450 feet into the heavens, untold numbers of statues, and hundreds of delicately crafted stained glass scenes. The interior is just as impressive, from the quiet peace of the underground crypt to the near-infinite heights of the soaring arched ceiling. The entire building was created to be a monument to the goodness of God, proclaiming the glory of Creation through the perfect harmonizing of mundane physical elements. Space, shape, line, and perspective collude with the senses to overwhelm the mind with unimagined beauties.

This was like that, only located comfortably between my tongue and teeth.

Mere words cannot explain what it is like to have a mouthful containing the sum total of all that is good in the world working its way around your tastebuds while you have a whole plate of the stuff smiling beatifically up at you from a foot and a half away. All I can say is that you will not regret it if, upon reading this, you quit your job, sell everything you own, fly to Cologne, and make a living eating blood sausage before crowds of amazed onlookers. I practically guarantee it.