I’m not quite sure how this has happened over the years, but Britain has had a meteoric proliferation of faggots taking over the country. Perhaps it’s something that has evolved from our childhood, perhaps it is a cultural matter – because we most certainly notice more in the Midlands than we do down here on the South Coast. But no matter how you look at it, faggots have become part of our modern culture. Truth is - they probably always were around. It’s just that they weren’t discussed as much years ago. Some families were almost ashamed to acknowledge that they had them in their homes. .
Our schools tried banning them several years ago, but the Ministry of Health decried this action, saying there was absolutely nothing medically wrong with them and in fact, as baffling as this may sound, they claimed that having a few at school were excellent for our children’s healthy development.
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Nowadays there are parties for them; we’ve even had parades and competitions where children competed in voting for their favourite faggots. In general I’d probably be rather circumspect about them. But having worked in all four corners of the world, I’ve become a bit more temperate in my views. It does fascinate me though, as just say the word to some people and they’ll squeal in delight. But others will look at you, almost with contempt for having even mentioned them.
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And after spending nearly a fortnight with Luigi and Alfredo, I must admit, I did have my curiosity. Italy is quite close to Romania and every now and then I’d hear comments made by Luigi that made me want to approach the subject. I already knew what Mrs Higgins felt about them – crikey! I’ve been listening to her go on about them for years!
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As we walked from the train platform to the car, preparing for the last few miles drive along country lanes to our village, I thought I’d broach the subject for the first time. After all, it was nearing the end of their visit and I didn’t wish to say anything to make either of them uncomfortable, or spoil the heretofore enjoyable time they’ve clearly had during their visit to Sussex.
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Alfredo had placed himself at the left side of the car, positioning himself so that he could sit in the front seat. We already knew about his idiosyncrasies – he’d been riding ‘shotgun’ ever since he arrived. Luigi was quite happy to sit in the back with Mary and Mr Piddles.I placed my key in the door, about to unlock it, but looked across the roof of the car towards the boys and asked ‘What do the two of you think about Faggots?’
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I’m not quite sure why, but the look on Luigi’s face could have been chiselled in stone. ‘Mi scusi?’ Luigi asked. Before I could say anything Alfredo, with a broad grin and a sweep of his hands in the air shouted out ‘Amo Piccole fascine! Sono così caldo in inverno!’ (Something to the effect that he loved them as they made him feel so warm).
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Luigi snapped at Alfredo, saying almost in a whisper ‘No, idiota, egli intende l'altro tipo!’ As best my Romanian version of Italian is, I understood this to mean ‘No, idiot, he means the portly porky kind
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Luigi climbed into the car and sat there in silence. Mary and I glanced at each other with confusion, as she slipped in behind the drivers seat and I closed her door. Mr. Piddles, always preferring ‘shotgun’ just like Alfredo, jumped in and ran across onto his lap, prepared for departure. As I climbed into my seat I took a brief glance at my passengers and everyone but Luigi seemed content. Luigi, for lack of any other way to describe it, was almost...well..stewing a bit.
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I guided the car out of the station car park and headed down the country lanes. We turned down the lane that runs behind Battle Abbey, heading towards Mr. Piddles’ favourite village –Catsfield. Mr 
Piddles thinks the lane that runs through the village and past the local pub should be called ‘Smörgåsbord Lane’ because he always sees cats looking out of the villager's windows. Mr. Piddles is certain they’re mocking him!
Piddles thinks the lane that runs through the village and past the local pub should be called ‘Smörgåsbord Lane’ because he always sees cats looking out of the villager's windows. Mr. Piddles is certain they’re mocking him!
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Up and down the rolling hills, past the vast golden rape fields we travelled, lost in our own thoughts. You could feel Luigi almost disconnected from the rest of us. I was scouring my mind trying to imagine what this was all about. Alfredo, feeling the same deafening silence, finally turned around in his seat, twisting his neck far enough to look Luigi in the face and demanded ‘Qual è il tuo problema?’
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Romanian is to Italian what Spanish is to Portuguese. You might catch a familiar word or two, but there’s no way you can decipher what one Italian is saying to another, especially when it’s in full-swing, along with the culturally typical flaying of hands and gesticulations for which the Italians are so well known.
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Whatever it was that Luigi said made Alfredo guffaw! His laughter was so hard Mr Piddles became quite concerned and jumped into my lap. Alfredo’s dismissive response angered Luigi, but only briefly, as whatever it was Alfredo next said to him caused Luigi to burst into a roaring laughter and on the two of them went, all the way to the vicarage!
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Mary and the boys went into the vicarage to greet Mrs Higgins. Mr Piddles and I took a brief wal
k around the church, so Mr Piddles could check his ‘Wee-Mail’ and we could have a chat with the 'Clip Clop Clock brigade' about general world concerns. For those of you who have lives far more important than wasting your time reading the tripe I’ve written, 'Clip Clop Clock' is the vicarage’s organic alarm clock. Each morning, rather than one of those high decibel, electronic, ear piercing devices that sound like a mother-in-law on a rage, we swear by the traditional resolutely British ‘Clip Clop Clock.’
k around the church, so Mr Piddles could check his ‘Wee-Mail’ and we could have a chat with the 'Clip Clop Clock brigade' about general world concerns. For those of you who have lives far more important than wasting your time reading the tripe I’ve written, 'Clip Clop Clock' is the vicarage’s organic alarm clock. Each morning, rather than one of those high decibel, electronic, ear piercing devices that sound like a mother-in-law on a rage, we swear by the traditional resolutely British ‘Clip Clop Clock.’
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Sadly, not everyone has shared the joys of the 'CCC' organic alarm system, but I attest to it with unfailing approbation and offer my highest recommendation that you consider getting your own! Each morning, beneath my bedroom window, Munchy Trot, Take Two, Beau Brummell, Maggie Thatcher, and Mrs Slocum take their morning walk from their paddock to the field. They follow a set time prescribed decades ago by our Milkman, Mr. Williams’ arrival to begin his morning rounds.
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Their gentle plodding along the cobblestone walkway, past the vicarage, around the corner through the cemetery, and into the field, moves with a precision that even ‘Temps Atomique International’ (the planet’s most precise clock) can’t maintain! Without question and without fail, when 0430 comes round, neither rain or snow, nor dark of night, the Equine Parade takes place.
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I’m also blessed with an organic snooze alarm. Whilst I may choose to languish for just ten more minutes, that’s all I’m ever permitted, because the snooze alarm goes off in a way similar to having a small heart attack. It’s like having one of the horses sit on your chest. In truth, it’s just a small Jack Russell, but your heart doesn’t tend to recognise this at 0440 in the morning! If that isn’t stirring enough, having a Jack Russell on your chest so early in the morning, plus a bit of morning dog breath in your face and one need not worry… So up I am!
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The footpath alongside the field leads to the forest. Mr Piddles and I meandered down the path and gathered a 'faggot' (or a fine bundle of sticks), for the fire this evening. I suppose it’s my age, but I still love a roaring fire in the house, but what I love even more is walking through the village and experiencing the scent of coal burning. It reminds me of the steam trains that ran through the villages when I was a child. And I knew coal was the lead in the pencil, so to speak, that provided those wonderful plumes that dotted the skies on a chalkened winter day. At least it keeps our chimney sweeps in business each year!
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By the time Mr Piddles and I came out of the forest the evening fog had begun its crawl and was coming in quite heavily. I could just barely see the horses waiting for us to come up the path. As I entered the vicarage there was a wonderful aroma greeting me. Thankfully, Mrs Higgins only had to prepare the Spotted Dick. At the rise of 'Clip Clop,' I had prepared our main dish before we travelled up to London: Faggots with Onion 
gravy.
gravy.
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Faggots have been part of British Culture since time memoriam. They are made in several ways - mine not quite being too close to the original, only because I’m not the greatest fan of offal. But I still use a little. I thought they would make a wonderful compliment to a cold winter’s night, along with my famous (infamous) lumpy mashed potatoes, fresh spinach, and baby carrots prepared with honey and ginger.
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As I placed the faggot into the fireplace, both Luigi and Alfredo again broke into laughter. They had nestled into the sofa and were browsing through several of my cookery books. Luigi said he had to apologise as he had been in America for so long that he had completely forgotten that the word faggot means a bundle of sticks.
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Alfredo had been singing to Luigi the old English pub song ever since: 'Diddle Diddle Dee, Finding Faggots in the Park and They’re All For Me!' Luigi thought I was being derogatory towards the other type of Faggot – that delicious meatball made with combinations of minced pork shoulder, bacon pieces, heart, liver and caul fat. All combined and served as a meal with vegetables and mashed potatoes. Luigi sees faggots as a dish with roots to the ‘Old Country’ in Tuscany.
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The etymology of the word faggot is rather interesting – it dates back to the 13th century and was most noted in Italian as ‘faggotto’ meaning ‘a bundle.’ It was used in later centuries in conjunction with heretics as the kindling used for burning them at the stake. The phrase ‘Fire and Faggot’ was the derivation of these.
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If some of you recall my missive about Pasties; it’s with interest that Faggots were also a popular treat for Welsh miners to have in their lunch pales. But those roots were traced to the Italian migrants who came to the United Kingdom to work. So I can see the roots for the lonely faggot in Italy. Certainly Luigi and Alfredo knew what they were, although Alfredo became confused thinking I was speaking of a bundle of sticks for the fire.
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Of all the meals I served during the Tutti Twins’ visit, the faggots seem to have gone over the best. Of course, kudos to Mrs Higgins’ Spotted Dick, which I suspect may have come from a Heinz tin, but I’d never let her know that I was on to her!
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On this cold, foggy, winter night, we gather around the table to give thanks for the bounties we receive from God’s earth. And we celebrate in the knowledge that whilst we may use different words, have different views, and different languages, ultimately, we are all the same – His children.
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Father Bill’s Faggots in Gravy with Lumpy Mash
What you’ll need: To serve four people
Serve with a rich onion gravy, ‘Lumpy’ mashed potatoes and your favourite veggie. (we prefer fresh leaf spinach and carrots with honey and ginger glaze)
4 oz/110g pork shoulder, roughly chopped or minced
4 oz/ 110g chicken liver, de-veined, & roughly chopped or minced
8 oz/250g fatty belly pork, roughly chopped or minced
4 oz/110g bacon scraps, roughly chopped
4 oz/ 110g bread crumbs
1 medium Vidalia or sweet onion, finely chopped
1/2 tsp mace
1 tsp allspice
2 tbsp finely chopped parsley
1 small red chilli, de-seeded and very finely chopped
Salt and Pepper
* Caul fat or Father Bill’s ‘Plan B’
Preheat your oven to Gas Mark 3 or 400F
Mince all the roughly chopped meats. If you don't own a mincer, then use a food processor or suitable blender.
Place the minced meat into a large bowl. Add the breadcrumbs, onion, herbs, spices and a pinch of salt and white pepper. Mix thoroughly.
Divide the mixture into 8 balls.
Wrap each ball in caul. Make sure the caul fully overlaps the meatball as it will seal as it cooks and hold the faggot together.
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Place the faggots onto a baking dish, cover with tin-foil and bake in the hot oven for 45 minutes minutes. After forty five minutes pour your hot gravy into the dish, return to oven for an additional 15 minutes.
Rantings: or Father Bill’s ‘Plan B’
About Caul and my alternative: In the United Kingdom we are still blessed with having our own butchers in the villages. In Central London alone there are no less than 20 ‘luxury’ butchers who will do anything from tying your crown of lamb, to smoking your ham in your choice of woods and spices.
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For the novitiate cook, Caul, or caul fat is the thin membrane which surrounds the stomach and internal organs of some animals, such as hogs, cows, sheep, and pigs. It’s also known as the greater omentum. Before you become repulsed by this idea, keep in mind that not only is it the membrane used for link sausages, it was also used for centuries as condoms.
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If you choose to use caul, ask your butcher to cut your caul into 4x4 inch squares (or larger). Before placing them on your chopping board, hold it up to the light and check to ensure that the membrane has not been broken. This prevents the content of your faggot from oozing through. I have a friend who uses both caul AND a strip of bacon to wrap her faggots. Whilst I thought the flavour was rather nice, it distracted somewhat from the overall flavour of the faggot.
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I’ve actually stopped using caul. I just found it to bee too fiddly. For the past 4-5 years I’ve instead added to my mixing bowl an egg and once I’ve mixed it thoroughly into the mince and herbs I add a tablespoon of grade 00 or double-sifted flour. It’s all a matter of personal preference. I suspect, in reality, I probably lose the right to actually call my faggots by their original name. But I’ve yet to receive any lightening bolts through the kitchen roof!
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More Rantings:
The traditional Faggot was always made with lesser cuts of meats and offal. This was a dish that served the poor, hence its popularity in the Midlands where Britain’s mines and steel factories were once located. To this end the traditional contents were pork shoulder, pork belly, pig heart and pig liver. When I’m at my mission in Moldova, our standard lunch is often a casserole made with pig hearts, carrots and onions – a traditional Carpathian dish. However, it is rife in calories and cholesterol. So to that end I have dispensed with any pork offal at all and instead use chicken livers. I believe it gives a lovely taste to the faggot and it removes some of the potential for too much grease. As mentioned I have also done away with my use of caul altogether.
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Father Bill’s Onion Gravy
2 medium red onions, peeled and thinly sliced
1 medium Vidalia or sweet onion, peeled and thinly sliced
2 tbsp vegetable oil
2 tbsp butter
1 tbsp sugar
1 tsp balsamic vinegar
3 cups beef stock
2 tbsp corn flour or half corn flour and half wheat flour
2 tbsp cold water
Salt and black pepper
Sprig of sage
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Melt oil and butter in a large saucepan over gentle heat. Add the sliced onions and cover with a lid. Slowly cook for approximately 10 minutes or until the onions are soft and translucent.
Add the sugar and balsamic vinegar to the onions and stir well. Add the sprig of sage, cover with the lid and continue to cook for an additional 5 minutes.
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Add the stock and boil gently uncovered for 5 minutes. After 5 minutes, remove the sage sprig.
In a heatproof jug or bowl mix the corn flour with the cold water into a paste. Pour a little of the hot gravy into the starch mixture and mix thoroughly. Pour the mixture back into the gravy, increase the heat to high and boil for 7-10 minutes or until the gravy is slightly thickened. Keep warm until ready to serve or add to the faggot dish.
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Final Rantings (I Promise!)
Just as with all of you who cook for a purpose beyond simple sustenance we develop our own rhyme and reason as to how and why we prepare our meals certain ways. For faggots, as well as several other dishes, my family insist that I serve my ‘lumpy’ mashed potatoes, fresh steamed spinach, and glazed carrots.
It’s that old one item compliments the other I suppose. So I’ll start with the most simple item and end with the slightly more pedantic item.
Spinach: All of you are infinitely more talented in a kitchen than I so I’ll leave it to you to know what to do with spinach. All I’ll mention is be sure to wash it and once you’ve washed your spinach thoroughly, wash it again! (we have lots of cats in the village!)
Glazed Carrots: I shave my carrots, trim the ends, then boil them whole. I create in a measuring cup a half-cup of Acacia honey, a tablespoon of butter, and a ¼ teaspoon of fresh ginger. I place the carrots closely together in a narrow casserole dish and paint the carrots with the honey mixture and cook until slightly golden. When I remove from oven I decorate with some fresh chopped parsley.
Daddy’s Lumpy Mash: I’m not quite sure what it is about lumpy mash, but my children are obsessed with them. By purpose, and with an element of pride, I have never once held in my hands one of those masher thingys that look like a pancake with holes in them, attached to a handle. Instead, I’ve always used a kitchen fork. In my early twenties, I once became rather obsessed with a girl who worked in a roadside café chain called Waffle House. Apparently, I wasn't the only one. We'd sit on the counter stools as she whipped our scrambled eggs into a frenzy. Some of the men had worked out a remarkable chain-line schedule, whereby there'd be a three minute delay in each breakfast order they'd place. Always scrambled eggs. This way, the poor girl kept gyrating perpetually as she fulfilled each order. To this very day, my cholesterol still remains high as a penance! Apologies....I digress.
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I can compete with the best of technology, whipping my potatoes into a fine mash that would compete with a Parisian soufflé! But in this case I boil my potatoes until they’re just slightly ‘al dente’ then add obscenely copious quantities of Danish or white butter, white and course black pepper, and double cream. (what is double cream in America? I have no idea!) Then I do my rendition of Little Richard, gyrations and all, and whip the mass until it’s creamy and smooth, yet still awash with little lumps of potato. For some unknown reason it drives my dinner guests into a frenzy, always doing their renditions of Oliver Twist asking for more! Strange.
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Curiouser and curiouser indeed!
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I can compete with the best of technology, whipping my potatoes into a fine mash that would compete with a Parisian soufflé! But in this case I boil my potatoes until they’re just slightly ‘al dente’ then add obscenely copious quantities of Danish or white butter, white and course black pepper, and double cream. (what is double cream in America? I have no idea!) Then I do my rendition of Little Richard, gyrations and all, and whip the mass until it’s creamy and smooth, yet still awash with little lumps of potato. For some unknown reason it drives my dinner guests into a frenzy, always doing their renditions of Oliver Twist asking for more! Strange.
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Curiouser and curiouser indeed!
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