One recipe is my mother’s: it is fourteen lines long (like a sonnet) and takes twenty minutes. She drains off the fat from the sausages and halves the cream. (In the margin, in little cramped handwriting: ‘22/4/07– Forgot cream – DGR gutted.’) The other is my dad’s: it is three pages long and takes two and a half hours. It has all the fat and all the cream. It wants nutmeg and demands sea salt. It even specifies Chianti. (His marginal note: ‘Great Sunday dish. Only one pan to wash up. Happy sausages, happy Sunday, early to bed. 19/2/06.’)
