Sassermaet: A Shetland ‘delicacy’ made from ground, spiced and salted beef, occasionally lamb or mutton trimmings. As in the English ‘saucermeat’. Recipés range from district to district and family to family.
Clatch (Shetland dialect): literally “a smear”. Cooked sassermaet slightly liquified, with added potatoes, onions, tomatoes if available and cheese. In the approximate form of a hash or shepherd’s pie. Recipes vary.
Inspector Perdita Jimenez took the call at 4.00am on a bleak Monday morning. She wakened in the midst of tortuous dreams where she was feasting on sweet Shetland delicacies such as hufsie, iced fancies, cupcakes and millionaire’s shortbread, only they were all made of wool. This was a result of the previous day’s Sunday Teas in the village of Brae, and the knowledge that a local surrealist craftswoman was producing trompe l’oeil knitted confectionery; this had already resulted in three hospitalisations, a medical evacuation via helicopter and several dozen cases of severe laryngal itching. She noticed bite marks on her pillow
“Perry?” It was Sergeant Gloobus Otravine at the Lerwick station. “We have a problem. Three dockside deaths from suspected sassermaet overdoses this the weekend. There’s a new batch on the streets, and even one slice is enough to block the fastest-flowing of arteries
“That’s bad news, Gloob.” Perry wiped the night’s memories of textile ingestion away as best she could. A stray feather fluttered from her face. “Is it related to the Ollaberry batch?” This was a recent consignment of illegal sassermaet intercepted on the way to a so-called kye rave in Sumburgh, where three native cows were due to be spit roasted over burning tyres and diesel in a nod to a famous, now banned cookery technique.
“Twice as much fat,” said Gloob. “It seems to have been artificially injected with huge quantities of genetically modified triglycerides. There were two fishermen from Peterhead who’d been seen earlier trying to score some sassermaet in the Hub Bar. Hopeless addicts. They were found stone dead with only half a slice consumed. Surrounded by dead scorries who’d presumably been pecking at what was left.”
“That’s all we need,” said Perry. “The RSPB’ll be down on us like a ton of mallie vomit. Have you rounded up all the local dealers?”
“Aye, and checked with the licensed butchers too. They’re all denying any knowledge. They’re already calling it...The Death Slice.”
“Bloody hell. And what happens…” Perry flushed at the thought…”if people start using it in clatch? Surely they’ll notice the amount of fat?”
“Not when it’s that hot. The way this has been engineered, and our forensics team is saying that the fat may have been produced offshore, perhaps in China or Fetlar, the fat appears silky and delicious when heated above the temperature of the body. Only on being ingested does it solidify, clogging arteries almost instantly and in some cases, preventing the ability to breathe. Those Peterhead men...they were lying there, surrounded by dead seabirds, and it was like a morning after Up Helly Aa frying pan, only without the lost dentures. They were nearly ankle deep in solidified beef fat. The birds looked like they’d been confited. So did the fishermen. Scottie confit!
“Right,” said Perry. “I’m on my way.” She got out of bed and headed downstairs, where the delicious smell of frying beef, bone, offal and fat was irresistible. Her husband Tarquin Krummick (she had resisted that surname) was frying a batch of sassermaet on the industrial range that took up most of the croft’s ground floor. Clingfilmed boxes of plain cardboard were piled neatly against the ben wall.
“Tark,” she said. “I think we need to go easy on local distribution for a while, and possibly ease up on the Fatlar fet...I mean the Fetlar fat. Sooner we can get the shipments down to NorthLink and away the better.” She grinned, “the test marketing has been...instructive. We have a brand, though. Forget Taste of Shetland.”
Her husband lifted his head from the stove. His long beard was coated with solidifying fat where it had been dipping into the pan. “My love,” he said, “tell me.” He handed her a Waas roll filled with glistening compressed meat, and spooned an extra ladleful of hot fat onto the absorbent bread, where it cooled almost immediately into an opaque white layer.
“The Death Slice,” said Perry. And we can market The Killer Clatch too, once we get the HIE grant for a factory. The council are already on board. Here. Make sure you take your pills.” And she handed Tark two rugby-ball-shaped white capsules. “160mg of Atorvastatin, four times a day.” She swallowed her own, then took a bite of the sassermaet roll. She grimaced.
“Didn’t you put butter on this?” she said.
Scorrie: generic term for seagull
Maalie: Fulmar
kye: cow
But end: cooking and living area of a crofthouse
Copyright Tom Morton 2021. All rights reserved. The pictures of sassermaet are of products known to be low in harmful triglycerides and extremely healthy. They bear no resemblance to any mentioned in this work of pure fat. Or fiction.
Brilliant … gawd I’m hungry
Brilliant, love it :-)