It’s a bright spring morning, and I’m stuck in stalemate. My taxi is refusing to budge, and neither is the red-faced man in front of us, waving his arms out of his Toyota window. The two cars are nose to nose on a single-lane country road which was never meant for more traffic than one man and a few sheep. Lined by dry-stone walls, there’s little room for manoeuvre. So I sit and wait until one of them relents, and reverses back up the winding road to a lay-by….
For somebody who did an Oxford history degree, I’m really not very good at it. I have next to no memory retention, and not the biggest attention span. Dreadful, I know. Years of my Grandad quizzing me with basic history questions to try and find ‘my period of expertise’ has left me feeling quite defeatist about it all, and resigned to the fact that maybe I don’t have ‘a historical period’….
What better way to kick-start the blog than with a scotch egg?
This intrinsically British dish contains three potentially unsavoury ingredients:
- Hard boiled egg (delicious when done right, but so much scope to create a hard, rubbery monstrosity)
- Sausage meat (intimidatingly pink and fleshy)
- Deep-fried breadcrumb outside (reminiscent of a night-out-in-Scotland-gone-wrong ending with battered food of any genre– pizza, mars bars, haggis…)