‘Sausages,’ my son says to me, leaning forward from the back of the car, with the authority and confidence only a three-year-old can truly muster. ‘Sausages?’ I reply distractedly, while navigating a particularly awkward roundabout. We’ve been talking about my job, but I assume his train of thought has taken a lunchier direction. ‘Yes, sausages. You write about sausages. And… things like sausages.’ He sits back, satisfied in his career analysis, probably contemplating whether lunch can indeed also feature sausages.
I briefly consider explaining to him the craft of writing, the wider implications of food on politics, race and class, maybe even clarifying that at one point I was in fact gainfully employed as a criminal barrister, but conclude not only that now is not the time, but that he is correct. Because, yes, writing about sausages is quite a large part of my job. I think of the next recipe sitting open on my computer, ready for me to write: sausage rolls.
A sausage doesn’t stare at you from the fridge like half a sad broccoli or an opened pot of taramasalata
Of course, this is an enormous privilege. While food is complicated and food writing shouldn’t solely be about the pleasure that food can bring us, pleasure can and should be a huge part of both cooking and eating. And I love sausages! A well-made sausage is a thing of joy. And they’re practical, too. You never don’t know how to use up a sausage. It doesn’t stare at you from the fridge like half a sad broccoli or an opened pot of taramasalata. A sausage is a solution, never a problem.
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