“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” my father tells me every time I do something that reminds me of him. I am not too dissimilar and there is little doubting I am my father’s son, so I am told.

I made a ragu from a combination of things I found in my fridge and pantry. It is the kind of thing my dad would have done. Neither of us enjoys wasting things. His soups, which he made the day before my mother re-stocked the fridge, were constructs of limp and passed-their-best vegetables. They were delicious. Always.

I started with the meat drawer and found a handful of short ribs that had been bought for a soup, only half of which had been used. A pound each of pork and beef mince, similarly close to their sell-by date. It was a slow-cooking kind of day and I wanted something that would feed me through the weekend. The resulting ragu was as good as anything my father would have produced, though he would have probably thrown in a mouldy cabbage for an extra je ne sais quoi.

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