One day I'm cutting energy bills to shreds; then I'm running the oven for seven hours.
Leg of pork, bone in, from the butcher. Slashed the skin, studded it with garlic, rubbed it with oil and salt, into a low oven for seven hours, the first twenty minutes on high.
The children are eating apples like there's no tomorrow. They leave them half eaten. So the uneaten parts are peeled and chopped and boiled and drained and pureed. There's your sauce.
Two onions - one white; the other red. Chopped finely, cooked gently in a little oil and white wine and a clove of garlic in a covered pan until soft and translucent. Generous salt and pepper.
Switch on the news: left-leaning inner urban newspaper saved by a rich West Australian female miner. Some ironies are beautiful in their completeness.
Now it's hours later. Baked leg out to rest under foil; skin off, skin back in oven with a dash of soy and a little honey, left to almost crisp.
Roast pork served with apple sauce, almost-caramelised onions and a mountain of mash.
Glass of red. Music.
That rind is addictive. Crunch.