On Cookery Week: Part III
Another visit to the world of Delia Smith, only without the 'Sausage Sandwich' win bonuses that might explain Norwich City's slump over recent seasons.
Today, in our attempt to join the elite world of popular, award-winning food blogs, we venture deep into Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall territory, across that line that separates the rest of the world from the West Country, where men are men, their sheep wear wedding rings, and death by mangle-wurzel awaits at every turn. Whenever we're in Cornwall, we like to try this little number, which we call:
Ingredients: A fucking great Land Rover
Method: Drive around country roads in a fucking great Land Rover. You may pass the same wizened old yokel leaning on a five-bar gate on several occasions, as Cornish roads were laid out by Helen Keller having a game of Twister.
Wait until you hear the satisfying thump of tyre against badger.
Get out of the car, remembering your Highway Code: Mirror – Signal – Manoeuvre, and bag your still-twitching prey.
Beat off any local type who is trying to snaffle your WIN from under your nose.
Err... that's "Beat off with a stick", not "Beat off enthusiastically with your sleeves rolled up like a slattern on Falmouth Harbourside". You disgust me. This is a clean-minded, entirely serious, popular, soon-to-be award-winning food blog, I'll have you know.
Fuck it, kill it, cook it*, eat it. Remember to cut out any trace of rabies, as this is – by and large – a bad thing
Leave the washing-up for somebody else
As the name implies, this dish goes down particularly well at church-organised "surprise" roasts. There's nothing the faithful like more than the sight of God's creation depicted in a freshly steamed roadkill buffet.
I still remember the screams of delight.
And the projectile vomiting.
The sommelier recommends: Freshly-squeezed hedgehog juice
* This part optional