England, inexplicably, has a food culture ahead of the U.S.
There are stricter regulations on where meat comes from, labeling, organic and free-range and a lack of an abundance of scary chemicals in processed food. The aforementioned seems to co-exist nicely, believe it or not, with the repulsively unhealthy beloved homegrown dishes. Bacon butty, anyone? Me neither.
There is such a desire for things to be free-range, that the following brings a smile to my face every time I pass it in Regent’s Park:
I always like to imagine an actual sausage, with spindly cartoon legs and arms outstretched, running joyfully through colorfully flowered valleys and over green hills, skipping, twirling and practically sing-songing with exuberance from the depths of its sausage heart.
I am no grammar expert, but I am pretty sure the term free-range has to apply to the type of meat, not the after-product. But then, that wouldn’t be as much fun.