Now, day seventeen and some of this is going to be a little bit rude. Brace yourselves.
I know that houmous has a bit of a look of… yeast infection in a plastic pot, but it’s fabulous.
When I grew up, the height of class and sophistication was a Vienetta. When I was young, my mother thought we were a bit ritzy because we usually had a tin of asparagus in the larder. When it was finally opened, the contents were borderline grey, and decidedly limp. I didn’t know until a couple of years ago that I actually liked asparagus.
I didn’t have an olive until I was old enough to vote. I was closing in on thirty by the time I got fancy-pants enough to discover houmous. And I am grateful for it. It has given me a truly wicked line of dialogue in book two, and, teamed with Pringles, it may be among the finest things there is.
Now, true, it’s crammed to the gills with fattening stuff and, okay, I should probably watch that as I get older, but I must insist: we could all go about living on organic vegetables and mineral water blessed by nuns, but there’s no point in being miserable for the sake of it.
Some of us can tell the difference between mayonnaise and light mayonnaise. And it’s devastating. Where do they get the gall to put a label on a jar to suggest that that light monstrosity has anything to do with mayonnaise? I saw something the other day, and I thought I might just die.
What is the blasted point?
Before I go, and in case you haven’t got to this point in book two yet – the line about houmous…
“He’s leaving. Some woman. Naturally. I think he must be smitten. Quite a lot of detail. Very vivid. My word.” He shuddered. “Still, you know what he’s like. He only wants to dip it into something damp and unfamiliar. Poor woman, she might as well be a pot of houmous.”
Excerpt From: “Sex, Death & Scallops” (Sex, Death and Dinner, #2) © Petrina Binney, 2018
So, there you have it, my lovelies. Houmous and Pringles. And it reminds me of this…