In his quest for the perfect sausage, my husband Oliver has gone to extreme lengths. Surely even the keenest sausage aficionado would consider becoming a pig farmer a bit of a stretch. But not Oliver. He's breeding heritage Wessex Saddlebacks and making his own sausages from the succulent, fat marbled meat.
It’s fascinating to see which aspects of this endeavour he has sorted out in advance, and which are left in the lap of the gods. We have no business plan, for example; but when he raised the long meaty cylinder from the box where it lay coiled, his fingers nimbly twisted it into bunches of three as if this was something he did every day of his life.
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| My husband, master sausage maker |
‘How do you know how to do that?’ I asked, astonished.
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ he replied, enigmatically.
