When I stomp my way off this mortal coil, let them take from my earthly remains any organs, sinew, lymph nodes or fibres they think will be useful to anyone else. Summon the vampires for my blood. The heart they can have, the kidneys they can have, and, though they might find the liver beyond use, the bone marrow too is theirs the taking, so many unctuous spoonfuls of the stuff have I myself taken in my time on this earth.
I’m pretty keen on offal in general, but I love bone marrow. I’ve eaten it most often at my friend Gareth‘s house, roasted and served on charred bread with garlic rubbed all over and parsley sprinkled on top. The marrow itself, jellylike, savoury, salivation if not salvation-inducing, is like nothing else, and whenever I insist on him cooking for me, this is what I always demand.
Marrowbones are very easy to get from a proper butcher and not particularly expensive. Tonight’s are from the strapping lads at Turner and George.
If, as is perhaps not entirely outwith the bounds of all rational possibility, the state asks me what I should like as my last meal, marrowbones will feature after the oysters and before the dim sum, served, I should’ve thought, with some sort of robust Germanic wine.
Bone marrow. I love bone marrow.