One afternoon a couple of days ago Lino and Gianna arrived in their small 4×4 carrying a plastic bag. We chatted while they toured our vegetable garden and let us know where we were going wrong: Tie up those tomatoes! They’ll blow down in the next storm! Look at how big those zucchini are – you need to cut them off when they’re still small! There are enough plants here for a whole village! How many lettuces did you plant at once? 40? No wonder you have to eat salad at every meal. I tried to take it all in the spirit in which it was intended.

After a time they moved towards their car. Seemingly as an afterthought Gianna handed over the plastic bag. Inside was a very large rabbit, almost the size of a hare, freshly skinned and cleaned. Typically of them, it was a gift for no other reason than they were slaughtering a few of their mature rabbits and thought we might like one. I thanked them and as usual got told off. Then we walked along the edge of a field looking for herbs to cook with the rabbit (wild fennel, sage, thyme, etc) while Gianna dictated cooking instructions to me.

Tessa’s parents arrived this evening and as a welcome dinner I decided to make rabbit stew. So I found myself in the kitchen around 5pm faced with a large whole dead rabbit with the offal still attached, holding our biggest kitchen knife and wondering where to start. Henry was at the table absorbed in a bowl of banana yoghurt and offered no moral support. So I called Gianna.

Me: Gianna it’s Casey, I’m making rabbit stew for Tessa’s parents. I’m not sure what to do with the offal. Should I cook it with the rest of the meat?

Gianna: Bring the rabbit to me. I’ll cook it for you.

Me: I really want to cook it myself.

Gianna: Well, I suppose the only way to learn is to make mistakes.

Me: I’m sure it will be fine.

Gianna: Eh.

Me: So what do I do with the offal?

Gianna: Don’t put it in the stew. It’s bitter so fry it with onions to make it sweeter.

Me: Ok thanks.

Gianna: Oh! Thanks for what?

Gradually I got the rabbit jointed and set the offal aside but I was left with a long meaty spine. Do you eat the spine? Didn’t mad cow come from eating spines? Is there mad rabbit? I rang Gianna’s house and Lino answered.

Lino, it’s Casey. What do I do with the spine?

Split it down the middle and then chop crossways into small pieces. What about the herbs, have you got your herbs?

Not yet, but I’ll add thyme, wild fennel, sage, rosemary…

Rosemary is for roasting – don’t add rosemary. I’d better come down and show you what to do.

No really, I don’t -

But the line was dead. Five minutes later Lino pulled up in the 4×4. Henry snapped out of his banana reverie and began telling Lino all the important news. Lino made a quick appraisal of the situation and, finding things more or less under control, he sent me out to pick herbs.

Back in the kitchen I tore up the herbs and added the wine while Henry pulled Lino towards the front door. Within a few minutes, Henry had manoeuvred him into the 4×4. Lino, unable to resist the will of our 18 month old son, leant out the window and said I’ll bring him back soon. And they left together, Henry driving the car from Lino’s lap.

Stewed for almost three hours, the rabbit was fantastic and the offal with onions was excellent too. Tessa’s parents, suffering from pasta overdose after a week in Puglia, were visibly grateful. Even Tess, who doesn’t eat rabbit because of associations with childhood pets, finished a large plateful though clearly she was trying hard not to think about it. The recipe wasn’t simple (or maybe it was just the execution that was complex) but in the end I think we did the rabbit justice.