In common with many other "modern men" (WHAT?!), tonight I shall be putting the pan on. And possibly even an apron.
I'll not bore you with the entirety of my chosen menu, which isn't desperately exciting in truth. But it's the mussels starter which has me ill at ease. Let me explain.
As I write this, the little creatures in question are chilling happily in their bag on the fish counter at Morrisons in Guiseley, unaware of their fate. And they'll remain unaware until around teatime when I pick them up and put them in another bag.
Another 90 minutes later, and they'll suddenly lose the ability to be aware of anything ever again - as I boil them to death in water, white wine, some butter and a few sprigs of parsley.
Aside from their actual execution, the bit that makes me most queasy it is the "debearding." For the uninitiated, this is the process by which you have to pull the bits of seaweed (which the mussel is presumably munching on - or maybe they use it as a comfort blanket) out of the shell, sometimes ripping the little fishy to pieces in the process. Before you lay each one gently in the pan / death chamber.
Anyway, bon appetit to you and yours.
