‘Now, my dears,’ said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, ‘you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.’
My investigation into the differences between cooking in the city and rural gourmet life, led me straight to the hunt, the scent of blood and deadly revenge, all within the quaintest setting of a bloom-filled English cottage kitchen garden.
This rabbit, just like in the Tale of Peter Rabbit’s Father, munched on one two many lettuces, and this morning ‘he had an accident’, his luck ran out, just as once told by Beatrix Potter, surely one of the great cultural provocateurs of her time.
Rural cooking, then, has it’s perks, fresh meat delivers itself to you, and though you may regret the loss of hard-earned lettuces, at least that work has now turned into a plate of meat (though be warned: rabbit meat has no vitamins and without that cottage garden you wouldn’t last long either).
If it’s true that city folk really don’t know where food comes from, then village folk can show the way, in skinning, disemboweling and jointing.
A huge thank you to ‘Mr and Mrs McGregor’ who hunted and gathered this wonderful meal while the England team fought it out in the rainforest city, losing 2:1 to the jungle-fearless Italians in Manaus.