There is a movement afoot, and it has a hashtag, to eat only what has wandered across one’s own lawn. Proponents, such as the formidable Madame Ysolde of Brackwater Lane, speak of provenance, seasonality and a short supply chain, by which they mean twelve feet. I attended a supper at her potting shed and was served a vole, fresh, unadorned, offered with what I can only call pride.
I declined. I explained that I was fond of the chef’s work in principle and my digestion in practice. She nodded with tremendous contempt. The meal, by the account of the other guests, was exceptional. I can only say that I have never sat so near to a thing so near to being a rival.
Leave a Reply