Showing posts with label meat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label meat. Show all posts

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Raw Chicken

'Chicken' Paul Conneally 2014

There is nothing pre-packaged about the chicken on sale in the local street market in Les Arcs Sur Argen in the South of France. Here you buy it direct from the farmer, head and all.

In the UK the big supermarkets are now investigating the sources of their chicken after a report in the Guardian newspaper revealed atrocious conditions in the major chicken processing plants.

If you must eat meat know where it comes from.

summer vacation 
the farmer scares the kids with 
a headless chicken

Paul Conneally

July 2014

Saturday, June 07, 2014

Wound my heart with a monotonous languor


Today I met Paul Verlaine.

The great French poet's words were used to alert the French Resistance that D-Day was about to start. The BBC broadcast Verlaine's line "wound my heart with a monotonous languor" from the poem 'Chanson d'automne' to indicate that the D-Day landings would start within 48 hours of the broadcast, and they did on the 6th June 1944.

Seventy years on from D-Day I find Verlaine not on the radio but revealing himself to me from a butcher's chalkboard in Oakham, Rutland, England's smallest county. Below a selection of hams, plain, smoked, honey and mustard, there stands Verlaine, Lincolnshire chine.

Although not in Lincolnshire this butcher's shop, Leeson Family Butchers, servers up Verlaine daily in the form of cured pork interweaved with parsley, Lincolnshire chine. Verlaine lived and taught in Boston, Lincolnshire and in his time in the county developed a penchant for this delicacy. After leaving Lincolnshire he complained to friends that as hard as he searched he could not find Lincolnshire chine anywhere else in England other than around the county itself.

It's as difficult to find Lincolnshire chine now as it was then but when you do then pity the poor pig that was killed to produce it and instead of buying chine say hello to Verlaine who would, sensitive though he was, have perhaps given the pig little thought beyond its sensation on his taste buds, go home and read a few of Verlaine's poems.

This said, forgive me dear pig, the chine is fine too.

Paul Conneally

6th June 2014