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 know from experience not to ask where and when he’s been thinking about it. In the first months of our acquaintance, we were enjoying a moment of serenity and intimacy one Saturday morning. The sun streamed in through the window; the cat lay curled and warm at the foot of the bed. The weekend stretched before us; we were young and in love. I looked up at his face as he lay beside me, silently contemplative.
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Bacon and eggs.’ He never skipped a beat. I’ve never asked that question again.
So now, when we lie side by side at the end of the day, the house dark and all quiet except for the screech of possums outside, I don't wonder what’s on his mind. Because as he gazes at the ceiling with that enigmatic, faraway look on his face, I know for sure he’s thinking about stringing sausages.
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