On Mondays, Eugène or Julia would yank a rabbit out of its hutch, kill it with one brisk corkscrew twist of the neck, flay it to its blueish plum-colored stretch of newborn baby skin, and hang it next door to a twist of bluebottle-encrusted flypaper until Sunday, when it would be jugged and slowly cooked with prunes, its liver either eaten as a starter or added to the stew to deepen it up.
This is from Patrick McGuinness's Other People's Countries (2014), which I'm currently reading. What a wonderful book! It’s an evocation of the ancient Belgian town of Bouillon, where McGuinness has a house, inherited from his mother’s side of the family. Eugène is his grandfather. Julia is his great-grandmother. I relish the specificity of the description (“blueish plum-colored stretch of newborn baby skin,” “twist of bluebottle-encrusted flypaper”) and the vivid, active verbs (“yank,” “flay,” “hang”). “Jugged” is inspired! The whole sentence is inspired – a surprising, delightful, original combination of words and images.

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