Saturday, 27 September 2008


Hmm. Been thinking since reading Seaneen's post yesterday about disability and proving it to them wot don't want to know, etc.

The photo (taken by my six year old) is my lame and half-hearted response.

The trotters were very good by the way. Cooked in a stock for 2 and 1/2 hours, then deboned, and crisped up in the oven. Eaten with green lentils and watercress and spring onion. Almost palatable.

The butcher, bless him, who has always been interested in my occupation in an appalled sort of way, was apparently very sad the other day when my wife told him I was ill. He let us have the trotters for free. Usually they're 25p each. I'm not slagging him btw - the opposite. He's a lovely chap. Somedays he's on top of the world, others he's got the whole weight of it on his shoulders. I have a lot of time for him, but haven't been in for months, because I haven't wanted to burst into tears etc. Isn't it so silly? All this 'ill' stuff? I've been crippled for the best part of a year, and my every fibre now is in denial. Ho hum. Ramble on.

Trotters. The way forward. The drug of choice. Um....

This is the third time in my life I've dared cook them. I have come to the conclusion that no matter what you do, they still taste like pigs' feet.

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