Sausages

My good friend, Mellowy G., bought some sausages the other day, from a quality butcher in Edinburgh. There were two types: venison with herbs, and pork with Mediterranean herbs. Starting with the venison, here is my review.

First impressions are good. These sausages have a decent weight to them, suggesting a high meat content. In their raw state, they are a characteristic speckled grey colour, rather than the unalluring pink of a lesser specimen. On cooking, very little fat was expelled, reflecting the lean nature of good venison. Venison is a very lean meat anyway, because deer get plenty of exercise running away from Sloane Rangers in Barbour jackets.

On piercing the skin with my fork, a satisfying ‘pop’ was given before the yield. Further penetration showed that the meat was finely ground and very dense. In a breakfast application, just one these bad boys is enough. The chew was good, with the skin providing only minimal complication. Consistency was excellent and firm, if a little on the dry side and I found the pepper and herbs to slightly obscure the taste of the meat. The gamey/grainy taste normally associated with venison had been bevelled off somewhat, but the combination of herbs and texture made for a highly satisfying munch.

Next up, pork and Mediterranean herbs, which I ate with mash and gravy (two sausages this time, as it was the only meat on my plate). These little monsters seemed lighter than the venisons, but nevertheless performed well in the turgor test (hold a raw sausage at one end, wave it around and see how floppy it is). The skin was nice and dry, leaving no fatty residue and, cutting them apart, they were a delight to handle.

Again, very little fat (for a pork sausage) was yielded, and the cooking smell was divine – unlike some lesser specimens, which can end up smelling like burned sausage fat. On the whole, I preferred these. They were indeed lighter, though with a satisfying density. The herbs were less potent and I could detect the more delicate flavours of rosemary and even mint. The mash and gravy provided adequate lubrication for any dryness issues, but I think these would have worked fine on their own, or even in a sandwich.

All in all, I preferred the pork with Mediterranean herbs. Venison feels more decadent, and there is no doubting that these are of a very high quality. I would certainly buy the venisons if I were in the mood. However, in terms of balance of flavours, subtlety, texture and general satisfaction, the porkies came out on top. I didn’t do a head-to-head comparison, plus I sampled the different sausages in different meals, but my overwhelming preference was for pork. This surprised me, since I normally prefer the more obscure meats. Nonetheless, a good effort on the part of both sausages and thank you once again, Mellowy G.

Cats and Dogs

I’d always identified as a ‘dog person’ rather than a ‘cat person’. This partly stems from the usual arguments about cats being aloof and dogs being loyal etc. On a more pragmatic note, dogs are historically more useful, although that becomes increasingly shaky, the more urban you go (plus, I’d rather have a pair of slippers lined with cat fur than dog fur). The other reason I didn’t like cats was the parental influence; dad used to have a dog (Prince) and mum got really angry when the neighbours cats used to poo in the garden. It was the only time the word ‘shit’ was legitimate when I was very young.

But I never really had anything against cats, other than they didn’t hang around long enough for me to cuddle them. Thinking about it, although I like dogs, I always found them rather smelly (breath and fur) and hate it when they lick me. I’d like to think my immune system can cope with it, but I get a bit sick of washing my hands after every dog encounter.

So I ended up with a cat. Working full time would have been unfair on a dog, whereas cats can look after themselves. And in fact, I’ve developed an affection for Jasper, which only became apparent when he disappeared last Saturday. It was horrible. After a long search, we found him yelling at the top of his voice from the fourth floor of a building marked for demolition. He wouldn’t come down and we had to leave him there overnight. The RSPCA wouldn’t go in (too dangerous), so Fire and Rescue were called on Sunday morning and we entered the premises on their authority. Jasper was rattled, but retrieved.

It was all very embarrassing. He’s fine now, albeit grounded. Turns out, the Fire Service hardly ever rescue cats. So there you go. Another piece of apocrypha bites the dust.

I’m Still Here

Hello, imaginary internet friends.

I’ve been on hiatus for a while. It’s a long story: there was an exam board (stressful, successful), then I had a job interview to prepare for (I got the job). Then two huge dogs came to stay, plus I’ve had homework to do. That’s why I’ve been somewhat inactive. Next stop is more Megamos, and I’m expecting to be back on track soon…

Apologies for the absence.

Mean Streets

I am from the south side of Gosforth – mean streets, filled with reprobates, scallywags, ne’er-do-wells and rapscallions; the offspring of the middle classes and the nouveaux riches.

During my night excursions, I have encountered an array (nay, menagerie) of individuals, including ‘Drunken Rabbit’, who’s been on the streets for about five years (he doesn’t know how long exactly), following a row with his wife over whether they should send their kids to an independent school. Hypothermia and depression turned him to alcohol: “I know it’s unfashionable, but I’m a fan of the Germans, like Gewurztraminer, or even a Riesling if I’m really desperate”. Soon enough, Drunken Rabbit had taken to life on the streets as if it were the only thing he’d ever known. He lost his left ear in a fight with a teddy bear.

Then there’s ‘Cabbage Patch Whore’, who lives near the bowling green. CPW is 12 and ran away from home when her parents told her she couldn’t have a pony. She now sells ‘hugs’ and ‘cuddles’ in Gosforth Central Park behind Sainsbury’s.

“I can make more money trawling the pubs on Gosforth High Street in one night than I could in a year selling lemonade and home made biscuits to the neighbours” she says.

But a life of vice must be paid for. “My psychotherapist says that the rejection of my parents, coupled with my pony fetish is manifesting as a sublimation of my desires into meaningless sex – and she charges £90 an hour, so how could she be wrong?”

We live in troubled times, readers. If you can spare a few pounds for a new ear for Drunken Rabbit, or a pony for CPW, then please get in touch through the usual channels.