The Poetry and the Abomination

The Scotch egg, what can I say? Done well, it’s pure poetry, like Blake’s Jerusalem, encased in exceptional sausage meat, rolled in the crispest breadcrumbs, and deep-fried to perfection. Done badly, it’s an abomination, a thrash metal version of “Morning Has Broken” blasted out on cheap, tinny speakers. Once, I had such an egg.

Memory’s Cruel Clarity

For someone with such a dreadful memory, I can still picture the day with remarkable clarity. I recall the unbridled glee of seeing it on the menu and the excited anticipation as we waited. And waited. Finally, after treading water with a few more pints—so who’s complaining?—it arrived.

A Culinary Catastrophe

I say it, for it was not a Scotch egg. It may have had a common lineage, but it was as far removed from my poetic vision as a dirty dingo from a pampered poodle. Think of a hard-boiled golf ball encased in gravel and deep-fried in sump oil.

The Air Fryer Offence

From the undercooked flat bottom and charred sides, you could tell the nearest it had come to a deep-fat fryer was sharing the same building. Nor did you need the detective skills of Sherlock Holmes to detect the nefarious hand of the air fryer. I half expected Gordon Ramsay to leap out of the shadows shouting, “Stop, stop, stop!” To think that a pig gave its life for this monstrosity makes me weep.

A Meal Etched in Memory

I still cry now whenever I think of that dish; like Proust’s madeleine, we all have our culinary triggers, and this is one dish that can bring me close to tears. But it has nothing to do with the preparation, execution, or delivery and everything to do with time and place, circumstances and context.

Context is King

It’s amazing how with whom and where you eat can transform an evening meal into a last supper. Context is king, more potent than an ounce of saffron, more valuable than gold, sweeter than spigol, and hotter than piment d’Espelette. Company is the ultimate condiment.

Dear Lucy’s Last Treat

So whenever I see a Scotch egg, tears well up, and I think of my dear, dear Lucy, my pitbull, my departed dog and last of the pack. That day in the bar was a treat for her. In the final stages of her life, she loved to travel in the car. Something about the smells, I imagine. So we’d stop off in my favourite pub (before they did it up and did it down) for lunch and a pint on the way home.

Fortnum’s and Mum’s Eggy Gold

Admittedly, that dreadful pub grub had a pretty high bar of expectation to exceed or at least match, for as you would imagine from the company that invented this delicacy, the Fortnum & Mason traditional Scotch egg is unbounded pleasure in porcine form. It’s not the best, but it’s pretty close.

The Blackmore Gold Standard
The best Scotch eggs in the world are, in fact, made by Mrs S M Blackmore of Bideford, North Devon. Mum may not be the best cook in the world, and her policy of replacing missing ingredients with those of a similar colour may be misguided. But when it comes to Scotch eggs, she has the hands of God.

A Ritual of Risk

Perhaps her divine creations are the source of my obsession with eggy pork meat parcels. Whenever I see these flavour grenades, like a moth to the flame, I’m drawn to them. Do I or don’t I? It’s like playing Russian roulette with Porky Pig. It’s my litmus test.

High Stakes, Low Returns

Complete the task well, and there is a good chance the rest of the menu will be up to scratch. For someone who worships these things so much, it’s normally a blow. Self-flagellation and masochism sheathed in minced pork of disappointment, the crumbs of failure and fried in the oil of disaffection.

A Tribute to Context and Memory

Yet, memory and circumstance are transformative; they can take the raw ingredients of any meal and transform them into something special, way beyond the abilities of any mortal chef. So, the Scotch egg lives on as one of the sweetest meals ever consumed.

A Fitting Tribute

Thus, I hope it redresses the balance, not only celebrating my dear Lucy but also acting as a fitting tribute to the poor pig that gave its life and the hundreds of others who die daily so that we can eat pork.