Jack Spratt, we're told, would eat no fat.
I've just finished a rather nice dinner of roast leg of pork. A lovely bit of crackling, underlain by a gorgeous fatty layer. And it was just lovely. I've just cut a bit off the remains and scoffed it. Mostly fat. Yum.
And the crispy fat on a rib of beef. Mmmmm.
But Mrs. Hall and The Boy both eschew fat. When they eat, they first dissect the meat, picking out all the fatty goodness and leaving it on the side of the plate. It's like a surgical procedure. It takes Mrs. Hall a good five minutes to eat a bacon butty.
So where are you on the Spratt scale? Jack? Or wife?