Wurstfest is worth the walk, parking fees, and the yodel

Less is more when it comes to most things in life or on TV, but never when it comes to sausage. 

Want proof? Think of those sick little tins of pink hash that go by the name of Vienna Sausage and fall out, once clipped, like the innards of a pistol. (Armour is their company's perfect name, by the way.) Wurstfest — which started out in 1961 and originally called itself  "Sausage Festival" way before anyone thought that would become a pejorative aimed at flailing testosterone — is a bona-fide American phenomena. Don't believe me on that one? Then just check out the old Lawrence Welk footage on YouTube.

There are, of course, lots of reasons to stay away from a 10-day-long oompah music and slow yodel (and even slower carnival ride) county affair where you have to pay eight bucks for anyone who isn't under 12 after looking for parking (where you pay something like five to 10 bucks and still have to worry about the car), and where you will likely, if you have grown up anywhere in the area, end up queued up at a funnel cake cart behind someone you forgot you made out with once in high school.

Serious sausage eaters: You need to get past all that and move in for the main attraction.

Gathered under autumnal weather (this is Central Texas, so that happens in early November) is the great and slow-smoked show of the best of the wurst: you've got your standard kielbasa on a stick, but you've also got spiced experiments in hard cheddar, blood sausage, and that scary white wurst that goes well with pea soup; plus, there is venison sausage — which will take the edge off how carefully you feel you have to drive when you see all those Bambis on the road leading up to the Wurstfest Grounds in Landa Park.