There is no doubt about it. Since buying a jar of preserved bone marrow from Islington based butchers Turner & George, breakfast time in my house has been transformed. For a period it was looking quite souless. Grey mornings sucked up by dried flakes and clusters. Dusty nuts and morose seeds upon which sat iddy-biddy bits of rabbit poo, all floating around in watery, dank milk. Staring into that bowl was totally depressing and how I managed to move on and drag on a fresh pair of pants and socks afterwards is beyond me. Some days, I would just turn everything inside out and carry on getting dressed. It was that hard.
But the bone marrow has come along and suddenly, everything has changed. No matter how dark it is outside, no matter how much the rain batters or however much the wind howls, knowing that a pot of glutenous joy is waiting downstairs does wonders for stretching that foot out from beneath the covers. I have been dancing down the stairs lately and once in the kitchen, when I fling open the fridge door, the rays that burst out and illuminate my beaming face seem to blast with the full power of an orchestra. Centre stage stands that jar and it croons, in sweet melody a simple song:
"Good morning, good morning, we've danced the whole night through. Good morning, good morning to you."
I reply "Good morning, good morning, I am going to make some toast and then I am going to take a lovely scoop of you and smother you all over my toast and bite down into your lovely beef richness and most likely get a glistening slick of fat all over my chin as a result."
Which doesn't really scan but it doesn't really matter.
Even less edifying is the image of yours truly dancing around the place with bone marrow quivering atop a knife as I sing in a holey, manky dressing gown but the fact remains, I have sort of fallen in love with this stuff.
And when you are in love, you don't really care.