Reminiscing on Blood Pudding

Spending the last couple weeks in the UK, I have had multiple opportunities to have all or some of the full English breakfast. As I've sat with knife and fork poised, I heard many native diners order their fry ups without this particular delicacy, "full English, no black pudding..." time and again. Perhaps they also know how the sausage is made?

Indeed, when I was a child in Antigua, I was witness to the life cycle of the common blood pudding (or black pudding, for those of a finer constitution). My grandparents had a farm, and used the land and animals to live. Pigs were raised each year and taken to the butcher...only the gigantic sow, was a long-term resident. Whenever a brood of piglets reached adolescence, we'd walk a fattened pig or two from our village of Golden Grove, over the hill through Nut Grove villagr, and on for about a mile into St John. At the butchers, the professionals turned pigs into parts to sell, then grandma emerged with a jug or more or pig blood and entrails (and presumably money). 

Back at home, grains spices and blood were prepared and packed into a sausage casing, sealed with string, then cooked in water until blackened like a scab. I recall trying this special treat once or twice, but no more. For I had seen how the sausage was made, and my delicate young constitution would not let me forget it. 

As an adult, I tasted black pudding for the first time at an Irish pub in Washington DC. It was fine. It was better than fine. It sparked a tiny nostalgic twinge in me, then brought back the quiet days in an uncrowded village, with time to play with cousins, chase rabbits, and climb mango trees. So, when it's in offer, I get the the black pudding.