Whipping the Sticks

Aah, Hugh Fearnley-Whippingsticks (thank you to Helen for the new unofficial moniker), how I do love you with your foodie zeal, ability to deconstruct an octopus in the bath (or was it squid? I don't know, stopped looking when I realised the black ink was real) without vomiting, willingness to look like an arse by getting drunk on national tv and then experimenting with hangover cures, and your slightly degenerate curls (which sadly seem to have disappeared recently). You have been more of a food mentor to me than any number of Jamie'th, Nigella's (look at my heaving buns) or stormin' Gordon's.

No one else has quite made the bucolic life seem so damn attractive, or made me contemplate for one, to all appearances sane, moment the building of a Chickenopolis. No one else would have made me consider for a minute the stuffing of a large puffball mushroom. That I didn't is neither here nor there, the fact is that I considered it before wishing again we lived nearer civilisation and a Thai takeaway place.

Sadly, my dearest, I feel we may have come to a parting of the ways.

I know, I know, I feel and share your grief: the parting is not of my doing - I would continue to follow you culinarily through the highways, byways, sinews and guttings of a true foodie genius. However a line has been drawn by the husband. For lo, in last Saturday's Guardian, did you preacheth the way of the vegetable and it is a way too far for a man so committed to a meat-at-every-meal diet.

Yes, he does see your point that the pressures of such a diet forces us to factory farming and unsustainable fishing, he agrees fully that a middle ground must be sought. But the day I get him to willingly consider lentils and beans as a viable protein substitute to sausages will be the day the Bernard Matthew's empire seriously considers closing down. One of national and incredibly localised celebration and tears of joy being wept in the streets.
Whilst I may drool over the sweet potato and peanut gratin, imagining great shining spoonfuls of it, he will wonder where the steak has disappeared. Whilst I will overcome my distrust of the fresh chilli to consider the silkyness of the chard and new potato curry, he will want to know where I've hidden the chicken.

Still I'll remain forever true, buy a copy of your new book, wrap the cover in brown paper and read it late at night to myself. This may just reach the parts The Crimson Petal and the White has failed to reach.