The galloping gourmet

Horse meat again. Don't know where, don't know when. But I know we've not seen the last of the equine puns. With dodgy processed food still in the headlines - it's been the mane news, you might say - we'll be hearing these jokes furlong time. We're saddled with them.

However, the curious incident of the horse in the lasagne isn't an unbridled disaster. It's made many of us aware of the vast amount of food miles in a processed meal... and it's encouraged people to visit their nearest butcher rather than a supermarket. Here in Ringmer, we have an outstandingly good one. He's definitely able to assure you of the provenance of his produce - yet too much information can sometimes seem uncomfortably personal. I'm reminded of a holiday during which the local butcher recommended the lamb because "you can taste the heather from the hills here". That's only one step away from meeting its parents and seeing photos of it as a baby.

In case you're wondering, I've been a vegetarian but at the moment I'm a carnivore. My return to flesh-eating started innocuously enough: I wouldn't buy meat although I'd eat it if invited to dinner at someone else's house. Seemed rude not to. But before I knew it, I'd begun feeling sorry for left-over food. A couple of reduced-price kidneys at the end of the day?   I tracked down a recipe and dined on devilled kidneys for just 50p. Three miserable looking sardines?   Grilled with a green salad (and gutted with guidance from Delia, who helped me discover that the fishiest smell in the world could be found inside a fish. A bargain nonetheless). I had become a kind-of culinary St Francis, saving the least loved creatures for my plate.

Today, I've put my 'sad food' phase behind me. But it's left me thinking about a solution to the crisis that's hit our meat industry. First of all, if you're worried about what you're eating, simply buy something recognisable. Rabbit looks a lot like rabbit. A pork chop will contain 100% pork. You're unlikely to mistake a chicken for too much else. Oxtail is disconcertingly tail-like. Retailers need to start promoting animal-shaped meals.

And if that doesn't increase sales, I have a second plan. I suggest giving every animal a name that engenders sympathy - maybe Brunhilde for cows, Enid for chickens - and labelling its products with a photograph of the creature looking particularly depressed. I reckon that would work well... at least until someone asked "why the long face?"

First published on vivalewes.com 21st February 2013: http://vivalewes.com/

When the cat’s away…

My mother's been counting birds, she tells me. There was an RSPB survey the other week that involved her tallying the number of visitors seen in an hour. Rather like Neighbourhood Watch but without hiding behind a curtain. Perhaps that’s why some people call it ‘twitching’. Anyway, she ended up monitoring the garden for two hours and then struggled to decide which hour to submit. One had more variety - woodpecker, blackcap, assorted finches - but the other was a larger total. Eventually it was quantity that won, disproving the idea that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

I mention this because until recently I'd not seen many birds in our Ringmer garden. Sure, we have jackdaws on our chimney pot and seagulls circling overhead. I've even spotted a heron on the village pond. But feathery visitors have been few and far between, mainly because of our two cats.

When I say "our" I don't mean mine. I have no cats. In fact, I've heard suggestions that no-one really owns cats; it's cats that own people. Semantics aside, the cats were already living with my wife when we first met, so they're definitely not mine. (Except when they need feeding or a trip to the vet, of course). Anyway, I reckon they’re slowing down. It's the weather, I'm sure. Outside is cold, indoors is warm... and because I spend much of my time working from home, the cats now spend much of their time in the lounge. The sofa is rarely cat-free except when I plug the sofa-cleaning attachment into the vacuum cleaner. But there is an upside. These days I'm noticing more bird life in our garden. Whilst our neighbours have spent many years encouraging feathered friends onto a gazebo that's guarded by a small terrier, we've been more worried than joyful whenever a robin lands.

However, in the last week or so there’s been considerably less cat activity in the garden and more cat inactivity indoors. I’ve even taken to regularly gazing out of the window to watch an occasional blackbird hop across the lawn. Such joy.

At least, there was joy until an unfortunate incident the other day. A thrush landed on the garden path. I looked around; both cats asleep. Lovely. All’s well with the world. The thrush hops down the path, showing off its speckled waistcoat without a care. And then it spots a slug. It stabs the poor slug with its beak and pounds it against the ground again and again. I can’t bear this. Surely it’s time to send the cats out.

First published on vivalewes.com 8th February 2013: http://vivalewes.com/