When I was a petulant adolescent I loathed, as one does, to be told that I was anything like my mother. However, I can now admit that there are many ways in which we are virtually identical. Observe:
Me: I also bought some Little Scarlet when I was in England (have you heard
of it?) despite the fact that a jar of jam is like the stupidest thing
possible to buy when overseas. It made it home fine, though. I also got a nice enameled pan with a spout: http://www.labourandwait.co.
She: I LOVE your pan. What is Little Scarlet? Inquiring minds may have to google it.
Me: Check it: http://www.littlescarlet.com/
She: OMG. Little Scarlet is perfectly calibrated to send my personal greedometer spinning round and round. Do tell me when you try it, and how it was.
I too bring jams and lemon curds and such home from holidays. It may not be practical, but it is still a better choice than the time I brought the stinky Limeswold cheese home in my hand luggage.
She: I LOVE your pan. What is Little Scarlet? Inquiring minds may have to google it.
Me: Check it: http://www.littlescarlet.com/
She: OMG. Little Scarlet is perfectly calibrated to send my personal greedometer spinning round and round. Do tell me when you try it, and how it was.
I too bring jams and lemon curds and such home from holidays. It may not be practical, but it is still a better choice than the time I brought the stinky Limeswold cheese home in my hand luggage.
In light of aforementioned family resemblance on display here, is the fact that I find this charming actually a reflection of sheerest narcissism? I fear that the answer is yes, or at least not entirely no.
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