Sausages

When I was very young, sausages were a saturday night treat, at my grandmother's house. My job was to prick them with a fork before they went into the pan, a task I performed with such enthusiasm that they gave off multiple jets of boiling grease as they fried, resembling badly-punctured hosepipes. The reason advanced for the pricking process was that un-pricked sausages were liable to explode. Of course, I would have much preferred the drama of exploding sausages, but then I wasn't the one cleaning the cooker.

These days I never prick a sausage; I want the grease to stay inside where it belongs, and I've never yet had an explosion.

My grandmother was a wonderful person and a wonderful cook. She lived to a ripe old age, and would never have margarine in the house.