David Robbins: From rashers to kohlrabi, it's good to talk... about food
In my mother's house, there was one weekly event awaited with more eagerness than all others. And I don't mean Sunday Mass, or the 3.30 at Haydock, though these were much anticipated, too.
The highlight of the week was the visit by the man from Sinnott's butchers. My grandmother and her 10 children counted the days before his arrival. Lookouts were posted and glimpses of his van and brown work coat were reported back instantly.
I remember his deliveries well, for I was present for several of them before the great matriarch of the family moved her custom to the local supermarket.