Will’s World: My recipe for the ‘full Evans’ farm breakfast
© Richard Stanton A fry-up. A cooked breakfast. A full English. However you refer to this most quintessential of British meals, it’s what Sunday mornings in the Evans household primarily consist of, and we look forward to it all week long.
I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of the art form, and I’ve done my best to pass on my skills to my numerous daughters, who are now as particular about them as I am and will doubtless carry on this noblest of culinary traditions.
Although, taking their individual orders last weekend – and having them put in varied and detailed requests as if I was a junior waiter at the Ritz – did leave me wondering if I’ve made a rod for my own back.
See also: How a pig bed and breakfast has added value to family farm
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Daughter number two even insisted on her tinned tomatoes being served in a little pot on the side, as if we’re some kind of trendy hipster restaurant.
At this rate it won’t be long before they’re refusing plates altogether and demanding that the whole thing is served on a wooden board by a burly man with multiple tattoos and a large beard.
In the meantime, they’ll have to put up with me wearing the present Mrs Evans’ Wonder Woman cooking apron and singing along to Bruce Springsteen’s greatest hits.
Hot stuff
As far as I’m concerned, though, there are certain non-negotiables around this most cultural of institutions, and they start with the accompanying drink: tea, not coffee.
It must be strong and served in a large mug; the kind of tea that Wellington’s doughty scoundrels gulped down just before they stuck it to the French at the Battle of Waterloo.
The bacon should be sourced direct from a fellow farmer or local butcher and, crucially, be thick-cut.
Somehow, we ended up with some from a supermarket a few months back, and it was a pale imitation of the genuine article. Thinner than newspaper and about as tasty too. Sunday ruined for all of us. Utterly grim.
It’s a similar thought process with sausages: the higher quality the sausage, the higher quality the breakfast. I’m partial to a good Cumberland, but appreciate other regional varieties too.
Black pudding is a must, and I judge harshly anyone who refuses it. You wouldn’t want a black pudding conscientious objector alongside you in the trenches, would you? Get it down you, you cowards.
Fresh eggs from our own hens. Nothing else will do. When push comes to shove, I’ll usually choose fried, but I’ll also enjoy poached or scrambled with equal enthusiasm.
One won’t be enough, either. Two are required for the correct yolk-to-bacon ratio – that’s been conclusively proven by science.
Taster menu
Mushrooms go without saying, and I’ll accept fried or grilled. A spoonful of baked beans, no more, no less, and a sausage should be used as a bulwark between them and the tomatoes, so the juices don’t mix.
We’re not barbarians, after all.
Fried white bread, and definitely not that bland and invasive incomer from across the Atlantic, that grey squirrel of the breakfast world – the hash brown.
If it was up to me, I’d lock any menace to society who disagrees with this in the Tower of London for a month, and then add their names to a watchlist.
Sauce wise, I’m a purist, so it’s HP for me, but I won’t be too hard on someone who chooses ketchup; they can’t help it if they were dragged up by the ears.
However you have yours, there’s one thing we can all agree on – it’s the breakfast of champions.