When the dog bites

A shimmering trout pulled with a yelp from a loch, cooked by dusky moonlight on a just made fire- stuffed with ripped handfuls of wild chives and garlic shoots.

A hut of mud, a woman who weaved, through a battered pot of only beans and water- something  magic that made it good. With chapatis from a glowing rock- then sublime.

A salty shack clinging to an Adriatic island- octopus, charred and with lemon. Tiny crunchy, stiff-fresh fish, head and guts- one bite- with the intensity of deep ocean.

So drunk with pints and shots and laughing. Hunger. All consuming, then bright lights and greasy meat and lacerating chillis and pungency of garlic. So important.  Feed me now.

These are a few of my favourite things.

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.