As a baby, I liked pudding. I was fed alternate spoons of dinner and pudding and that is the only way you could make me eat my dinner. After I’d finished being a baby, I liked tagliatelle with cheese sauce and a bit of ham and I would eat it until it ran out. Until the world’s (my mum’s) supplies ran dry, and the world’s (my mum’s) wrist had béchamel fatigue and the very, very last strand of tagliatelle had been slurped from the world’s (my plastic red) bowl.
I am deadly serious.
I would eat it and eat it and eat it. I will still eat it and eat it and eat it. In bed. On a weekday. For Sunday brunch. Baked into macaroni cheese with stacks of buttery leeks (because my palate has ~matured~), by the spoonful out of the pan, on a crepe or a waffle, any time of the day, whether I’m happy or not.
I have a dream that one day I will dip chip shop chips in it.