From what I’ve gathered, there are a few unofficial guidelines. First, bury it deep enough—about six inches—so a stray dog doesn’t turn your wedding prep into a treasure hunt. Second, do it together as a couple, or with a trusted friend (that was me, the designated sausage holder).
Third, and this is key: no peeking. You don’t dig it up after the wedding. You leave it. It’s a commitment to the future, not a science experiment. Unless you’re a geologist, in which case, please don’t analyze your marriage meat.
And yes, you can do it even if you live in an apartment. Claire’s cousin in a city high-rise buried a sausage in a potted plant on her balcony. The plant, sadly, did not survive. But the marriage is going on ten years strong. Coincidence? Probably. But I’m not risking it.
The Ironic Beauty of Superstition
Look, I’m a rational person. I don’t think a bratwurst buried in the dark holds magical powers. But I love that we pretend it does. It’s like a collective, playful wink at the universe. “Hey, we’re terrified of divorce, so here’s a sausage. Please be nice.”
There’s also something beautifully unromantic about it. Weddings are all about roses, lace, and perfect photos. Burying raw pork is the opposite. It’s earthy, real, and a little gross. It reminds you that marriage isn’t just about the cake—it’s about the messy, daily stuff. The groundwork.
Burying a sausage before wedding | Beachweddingtips.com
Plus, it gives you a story to tell. Imagine at your 50th anniversary, turning to your spouse and saying, “Remember when we buried that sausage in the yard? Best decision we ever made.” It becomes a kind of private joke, a shared secret buried under the begonias.
