Bring Me The Head Of Runty Garcia

Sweet in the sty and even sweeter in the freezer

This week I have discovered some deeply disturbing details about the minds of the inhabitants of the islands commonly known as New Zealand.  The Government of NZ have, over the last few weeks, updated the list of names they deem unacceptable to name babies in their country.  As of this week the names Prince, Queen Victoria and (god forbid) 4Real are all off limits along with a further 74 names.  At present though you can call your New Zealand baby either Adolf Hitler, Mr Mucky Flap Flap or Fanny Pong, although I suspect the authorities would take a very dim view of the last one. 

I was musing on the subject of names this week because the pigs that we have been looking after for the last eight months went off on their holidays to the mystical island of abattoir.  They are currently residing in the freezers of a dozen unnamed families in the Aylesbury Vale area awaiting roasting, mincing, frying and BBQing.  Now, one of the golden rules of keeping animals for meat is that you do NOT, under any circumstances, despite how funny it may seem, name them.  We made a big mistake a few years ago with a sheep called Minty.  Anyone who has seen the episode of The Simpsons where Homer raises Pinchy (a lobster) and then cries through every delicious mouthful will know what I’m talking about.

So this year, no names no attachments.  This time it was going to be ruthless, professional and clean.  However, despite out best efforts one of the ten pigs managed to worm its way into our affections.  It was a runt, much smaller than the rest but with the kind of kick-ass, go-getting attitude you’d expect from a Jackie Chan hero.  This runty porker would muscle its way around the sty like it owned the joint (Mmmmmmmm pig joint).  It was top pig and made sure the rest of the herd knew about it.  So, naturally the runt became the most talked about pig, the one we would give a few extra scraps to, the porker who got the most pats and scratches.  Unnamed but very much loved.  My wife, in particular, became very attached to Runty and would often pepper our evening conversations with tales of their exploits. 

And so we come to the horns of my dilemma.  Each time we have pigs I always ask for a head so that I can make brawn and some amazing stock for gravies and stews.  This time I was told that the head I had been given was, yes you’ve guessed, the head of Runty.  I haven’t told my wife yet as I think she would find it all a bit upsetting.  In fact, the first she knows about it will be when she reads this column.  That’s right my darling, the gravy we had a week last Sunday was made from Runty and my god, wasn’t it wonderful?

My Mum's Toasted Cheese

Check this out and tell me it doesn't look like the most delicious thing you've ever seen with your own pair of eyeballs...

The other good news apart from the fact that it looks so damn good and tastes like Jesus and Santa have just butterfly-kissed your tongue is that there is absolutely no horse in it... whatsoever.

Now, when I say Mum’s Toasted Cheese I really mean Granny’s toasted cheese as my mum was given this to eat by her mum.  It’s a real teatime classic, the kind we used to eat in front of saturday telly when the final scores were rolling in but I think you could do it easily as a dinner party starter. 

Due to it's unbelievably high cheese content and the enormous wall of 40 that my life is hurtling toward I probably only have a few years left of eating this before my cholesterol level and furring arteries scream for me to stop.  This is not diet food.  Here's how you work this piece of culinary magic.

Ingredients

1 onion

A lot of a hard strong cheese like cheddar or Lancashire Tasty

Parmesan

Milk

Chop the onion and soften gently in butter, you don’t want to colour the onion but fry it until it takes on a glistening translucent quality.  Grate the cheddar or Lancashire Tasty and then layer in an oven dish alternating the cheese and onion.  Pour in a little milk, enough to come a quarter the way up the cheese.  Season with pepper and then grate the Parmesan over the top.  Put in a hot oven for about twenty minutes or until the cheese has melted and the top is lovely and brown.  Cut up a French loaf or grab some hunks of bread, dip in the fondue-y, melting, deliciousness and enjoy.

One family variation is to top the Toasted Cheese with sliced tomatoes before you place in the oven.  My family likes a green salad with it just to give some relief to the relentless richness.  My mum says that she even remembers having crispy, grilled streaky bacon with it, although how she is still alive if she ate this I do not know.  Enjoy.

They Eat Horses Don't They..?

One of these fillets used to be a horse and one used to be a cow.

This is an article I wrote a few weeks ago for Vale Life magazine.  I didn't imagine then that it would still be so topical...

You must forgive me if I’m not my usual self but I have just come out of the Seven Stages of Early Jan.  The first stage is ‘shock and denial’ (OMG did I really eat that much over Christmas?  There’s no way I ate that much over Christmas!).  Stage two is ‘pain and guilt’ (My stomach hurts bad, why did I eat three tins of Quality Street?).  Third stage is ‘anger and bargaining’ (Christmas pudding makes me mad! Please please please give me some more of that sweet, sweet Christmas pudding).  Next comes ‘depression’ (I can’t believe I’ve got to wait 348 days until I eat turkey again).  The fifth stage is ‘reflection’ (Boy we had us some good times at Christmas didn’t we?  Remember that slice of brie?).  Next is ‘acceptance’ (So I ate a lot this Christmas.  What are you gonna do?).  And lastly in the Seven Stages of Early Jan we come to ‘hope’ (Hey is that an Easter Egg?).

Well, in this post Christmas, post New Year, post turkey and all the trimmings, post staying up all night drinking kind of world we find that THE hot food topic of 2013 so far is… horses.  In case you missed it, certain burgers in certain supermarkets contained certain traces of certain horse DNA.  Not wanting to go into the “ifs” and the “whats” and the “d’you mind if I don’ts” of feeding things to people they don’t know they’re eating, I thought I would devote the first column of the year to the hidden hippophagist in all of us carnivores.  Why is it that we are happy to eat some mammals but not some others?  Cows, pigs, goats, sheep, deer and rabbits are all eaten happily by millions of people.  However, mention that a haunch of horse is on the menu for Sunday lunch and you’ll find yourself as popular as, well as popular as some horse DNA in a supermarket beefburger.

Equine or bovine.  So, do you feel lucky punk..?  Well..?  Do you..?

In talking to people about eating horse I heard the same story from virtually everyone.  Most people seem to think that they have (a) eaten horse (b) in France and (c) without knowing that they were eating horse.  Given these unusual set of facts I did what any self respecting food writer would do.  I bought a horse steak on the internet and cooked it up for lunch.  The horsemeat in question was lean and dark, a little like venison.  When fried up for a few minutes it was quite tasty with a firm texture and a distinctive ‘gamey’ flavour.  I also cooked a fillet steak for comparison and I am happy to report that despite looking very similar the beef won hands down for flavour and texture.  Would I eat horse again?  Yes, I don’t see why not.  Would I choose it on a menu over beef?  I don’t think I would.  Buckinghamshire horses can rest easy, they are simply not delicious enough for this hungry gent.