An Ode to the Fry Up

It begins with the scent—deep, smoky, and unashamed. The perfume of sizzling fat hangs thick in the air, curling into the senses like silk. Each sound is foreplay: the gentle hiss of oil, the crackle of bacon as it stiffens and curls, the lazy pop of a bubble bursting in a pan of beans.

I approach the plate like a lover, already breathless. Golden eggs lie spread and sun-kissed, yolks swollen and trembling—fragile domes that beg to be pierced, spilling their warmth in slow, amber ribbons. Next to them, rashers of bacon glisten—pink, salty, and lacquered with lustrous fat, crisp at the edges, soft where it matters.

The sausage is no shrinking violet. Plump, firm, and peppered with promise, it yields only slightly to the knife, revealing its inner heat with every slice. The herbaceous flavour swamps the palette, and what’s that? A sweet kiss of clove at the swallowing.

Black pudding—dark, mysterious, unapologetically rich, offers a different kind of pleasure. A dense, primal bite. Earthy. Iron. Intense. My blood pumps hard, just as this blood sausage once did. The barley popping between my teeth.

A grilled tomato bursts on the tongue, tart and sweet, its skin splits, gushing forth it’s heated juice, and a sarcastic feeling of health. Mushrooms, buttery and wild, glide across the plate, supple and silent, soaking in every drop of indulgence.

And then, the beans. Glossy, slow-moving, comfort incarnate. They slide across the toast, dripping,c linging, a sweet, tangy mess that begs to be cleaned with fingers or tongue.

Toast itself is a stage: warm, crisp, a little rough at the edges. A surface built for contact. A foundation ready to soak with salty butter, to carry, to hold every pleasure at once.

And in the corner, a mug; dark tea, strong and steaming.

I sip. I sigh. I begin again.

My Scottish, Welsh and Irish brethren each have their variations, whether it be the addition of Lorne, white pudding, laverbread, tattie scones, or soda bread.

This calorific delight is a always a welcome sight. Whether it be before a big day of work or the morning after a big night out. Each meal a monarch in its own right and fuelled an Empire through the industrial revolution. From the gentry to the pauper, this ubiquitous culinary arrangement has satiated us through our brightest and darkest times.

It fills the heart with joy, even if it also fills it with cholesterol.

All hail the fryup!