Saturday 4th February

Arriving at my parents, hungover due to quantities of a sugary alcoholic drink that turned my tongue blue, I slip in the side door with the intention of surprising my folks.

The kitchen has a deep, sweet, pork smell and I spot three freshly boiled pig feet on a plate by the stove. A large bowl of cloudy yellow stock is cooling by the sink and I take a lung full of the steam before dipping my thumb in for a taste. Just as I’m wondering what a bowl of this stock would do to a risotto, my Dad comes in from the garden and advises me not to get any ideas as he’s saving it for soups.

On a brighter note, one of the trotters has my name on it, and we sit down to suck and chew them with bread and butter. Pulling the a pigs foot apart can be very satisfying – the bones in the joints look a bit like human teeth so there are all manner of comedy gestures to be made. Sucking at the various bits of jelly is very enjoyable, especially when you get to the chewy salty bits in the middle, but I can’t take more than one without feeling a bit queasy. I start pondering whether they might be more satisfying roasted, or perhaps with a bit of sweet chilli sauce to dip into, but Dad gives me a raised eyebrow which suggests ‘stop talking shite’ and announces that the best way to eat pigs feet is in front of an open fire after six pints.

Dinner is a garlicy rib eye steak with the usual wedges salad, with a nice sangiovese which plays nicely with the garlic. I’m distracted throughout by the prospect of the cheeseboard though. Its bursting with British, French, Italian and Greek cheese and there are even a few grapes about. Most surprisingly the bottle of Warre’s vintage port that I brought home for Christmas still has some left in, so we sup what’s left and tuck into the well maintained cheeseboard, the crown of which is a hard French cheese that neither of us can remember the name of. I still can’t remember, so can’t blame the wine.