Faggot Surprise

While on holiday at Lulworth Cove, an annual treat since the early sixties, we decided to go to the farmers market in Weymouth. Lucky day.
Among all the good things that life has to offer the hungry holiday maker with money in his pocket my eye lit upon what seemed to be a genuine farm stall piled high with all kinds of cooked and processed pork related products. I was drawn, Homer Simpson like, to the groaning tables. Drooling in a manner likely to frighten children at the sensual pleasures displayed thereon. Nestling among the mouth watering treats, was a plate piled high with faggots. Attesting to their home made authenticity, each was wrapped in its own white caul. This is important. It is possible to buy supermarket bred faggots in this country and while not inedible, they are definitely inferior to the free range varieties.
When we stay in Lulworth there are seldom less than nine or ten of us present. Thus I was trebly struck by the good value that faggots at three for a pound would represent. I got a bit carried away and wound up in possession of a most of their stock. A couple of faggots each for the grown ups and one or two depending on the size of the offspring. Not often you can feed a crowd of our size for around a tenner.
Like a dog with a tail more than it should have, I spent the day in pleasant anticipation of the treat in store that evening. Faggots, peas, and mashed potatoes. With a rich onion gravy.
Everyone was very polite. Even so I could sense that their enthusiasm was muted. After a minute or two my nephew, ever the last to spare a feeling, turned to his father and wondered aloud if the chip shop was open. After that it was a rout and before long I was crestfallen and deserted by all save She Of The Town House and the boy. And I could tell that even these two were torn between loyalty and the lure of deep fried food.
Well if you can get them up front then try round the back door. Ahem! The next night I made a Thai green curry. Again featuring a number of ingredients picked up at the market the day before, along with some sauce from a little shop from the backstreets of Dorchester. The strong and vibrant eastern flavours effectively masked the fact that the lumps of chopped meat may have started out as something else. Everyone pronounced this a delicious treat. Except of course my nephew who wondered if the chip shop was open.
Yesterday She Of The Town House returned from Monmouth long enough to take a bath and throw what she laughingly refers to as underwear into the washing machine.
“There’s a present for you in the bag” she said.
As I opened it the generous savoury aroma of four home made faggots greeted me.

Today I have referred to faggot , sensual , back door , and underwear. That should rattle a few tins at Google.