At the risk of sounding like the Prime Minister, my grandfather was a butcher.
Why is this relevant?
Well, because I think food runs in families.
I was reminded of this a couple of days ago.
Every Friday at Wylde HQ, we all sit down for lunch together.
This week it was Ella and Milo’s turn to cook. Ella’s job was to poach the eggs. She did so brilliantly. Beautifully shaped and with a perfect cuisson, they thankfully bore zero resemblance to the sopping wet, rag-tag affairs that pass as poached eggs in my house.
And then, as we sat down to eat, Ella admitted that - in her family - the ability to poach an egg is currency. Ottoman style, it’s how they all judge each other.
But apparently while they can poach perfect eggs all day long, none of ‘em can toast a piece of bread. It always burns. And that includes her granny, who has obviously had even longer to practise the ‘art’ of toasting.
Odd, isn’t it, the emphasis that – as families – we place on certain things and not others?
Later today, I’ll be barbecuing two of Ross’ chickens that my son, George, and I spatchcocked and brined yesterday. I taught George, my dad taught me, and his dad - also George - taught him.
So we’re pretty good at spatchcocking. But we’re terrible at poaching eggs.
Like I say, food runs in families. Doesn’t it?
Let me know what you think.
And did I mention that my grandfather was a butcher?
Nick
