The cupboard was bare today. Going shopping was out of the question as the battery was down, meaning the Bronx must have been up, but that’s no help. There was, however, some shredded pork. This piggy confection was nestling under a layer of soft white fat in small white china bowl. He’s killing pigs and being very Fearnley- Whittingstall you may think. I lack the killer instinct for that; in fact Jenny and I feed the two sheep, who reside in the field next to our kitchen door, with brioche which is more Marie Antoinette than Hugh. Suffice it to say that the rillettes were transplanted from their pedestrian supermarket tub into a more aposite china bowl. Why is it that grilled bread is better than toast from a toaster? Maybe it’s not, but today it was. Soft rillettes melt into hot grilled country bread in a way that I’m determined is healthy. I like to add the vinegar sharp contrast of cornichons to the soft pleasure of fatty pig, in a Catholic way of expunging guilt with penance.