Ok, this is totally a reprint of an answer to a question on yahoo answers, but it was so delightful I just had to post it here, if only so I would know where to find it if I need to read it again.
We make assumptions about how life is supposed to be, what we are supposed to do that will somehow "safeguard" us..and then we read stories like this. The moral can only be, live your life as you need to to find your happiness...and who knows you may live anyway. (grin)
What is a real fatty breakfast to eat? So fat that even McDonalds would not serve it up?
Additional Details
1 year ago
Cheers you lovely fatties! Nice suggestions there!
by Foghorn - Member since:
- July 18, 2006
- Total points:
- 5766 (Level 5)
Best Answer - Chosen by Asker
Ulster Fry. Bacon, pork sausages, egg, soda farl ( a flattish bread), potato bread and black pudding, all fried in lard (pig fat).
Absolutely scrumptious.
At the age of 52, my Grandfather, from Belfast, was told never to eat an Ulster Fry again by his doctor, as he had developed a heart problem, probably as a result of wounds from the battle of the Somme (he had a hip shattered by a landmine, had an eye put out by shrapnel and received a further dose of shrapnel in his testicles, and he was left lying in the mud for nearly 2 days until the stretcher parties found him).
The shrapnel in the testes did no lasting harm - he fathered three children. His view on the Ulster Fry was that he loved it, he could have died at 18 in French mud, and any Doc who said different could get stuffed.
He continued to eat his Ulster Fry, generally taken with a pot of tea and a breakfast dose of Jameson Crested Ten whiskey. He would then help my grandma make the beds etc in the successful boarding house that they ran together.(Fitzroy Avenue, Belfast) At 12 noon, he would go Lavery's pub in Shaftesbury Square, Belfast, and have three pints of Guinness and three more Crested Tens. He smoked 20 Gallahers Blue per day.
He would go home, have a nap, and then cook the dinner for the boarders, his wife and children, and himself, and then settle in his chair with the radio, and some bottled Guinness and some more Crested Ten.
He died, at 82 years of age, after falling off a stepladder whilst changing a light bulb.
There is a possible moral here - he survived serious wounds from World War One, he ran a succesful business with his wife, he ate what he wished to eat and drank the alcohol and sweet tea that he liked. He smoked unfiltered cigarettes, wore his medal ribbons on his jacket, and drank in Lavery's for 50 years - he was the only Protestant regular in what was, then, very much a Catholic/Nationalist pub.
Eat your Ulster Fry, and enjoy it. Just don't change light bulbs.
