I recently saw Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall refer to chicken stock as a drink and watched in horror as he proceeded to take a big gulp of the stuff from a jug. I’m not sure what exactly it was that repulsed me so. I know that stock (decent stock) tastes good. I eat stuff containing stock all the time. Perhaps it was Hugh himself that turned my stomach. I guess I’ll never know for certain but one thing I do know is that my stomach was indeed turned. Not quite to the extent however as when I watched Rick Stein lolloping along the beach digging wildly into the sand with his bare hands to retrieve some fresh razor clams. He coaxed them from their shells and squished their slimy bodies into his mouth along with a shit-tonne of sand. Sand is something that should never be willingly put into the mouth. Never! The thought of that gritty sensation between my teeth gives me the shivers, much like my childhood memories of coffee cake. Continue reading
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