I was hoping to feed her with good, no-nonsence, and distinctly British food. The previous sentences all culminates to Christmas Pleasures which she won't ever be able to have had she stayed at the other side of the pond to get lost in the jungle of Manhattan, especially Sainsbury's bakery mince pie, which may be a bit tacky but still managed to trap me in livid daydreaming wet-drool-dreams for the whole week. Yes, Christmas means food and only food (and good carol singing) to me, the ever-gluttonous Agnostic. The list also includes Ploughman's lunch (which I get massive, unstoppable, unbeatable cravings for about every year, and am now in heat), marmite (to see her reaction), baked beans on toast, full English breakfast, chicken tikka masala, and other British food I thrive in. I close my eyes and momentarily paw after phantom Branston's pickle.
Alas, that is not to be. She wants to pretend she's back home, which I can heartily understand, but that means she demands full cuisine of home food. Meaning; more works on my part. Rice needs to be cooked, soups needs to be made, meat marinated, dumplings conjured up, and more bicycle raids to Mill Road. Not that I don't like home food, I will wither and die without a steady input of them. I just fancy she will accept one or two meals where I don't have to watch over three pots at once. (Little Voice Inside Brain: Pickles! Cheddar! Toast! Butter! Honey! Tea! Pickles! Cheese! Butter! Crusty Bread! *repeats infinitum*)
No, I don't trust her around the kitchen, unless it be around the sink for washing-up.
I swear to you, on Christmas day I will feed her with mince pies.
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The
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