Once upon of time, in my distant youth, ok probably still only last year, I could feast on a bit of roast pork. Delicious fatty belly, crisp crackling, potatoes roasted in duck fat, rivers of gravy.
Im not sure when my tastebuds changed. But no longer can I scoff down more slices than it is worth counting. Instead I get a queasy feeling on slice three. And there has even been crackling going into the fridge. I barely recognise myself in the mirror.
But when I bought a delicous bit of rolled pork belly today and found myself googling 'green apple salad' I knew that things were never going back. Maybe there is a weird undiscovered phenomenon of fathers of twins losing the taste for mountains of roast veg on top of mountains of roast meat? The Wife should do some research for me.
Thankfully my desire for mashed potato remains undiminished, or life would just not be the same.
