I was in a bad mood on Tuesday, so someone kind bought me a hot chocolate and a caramel slice. If a dessert can be judged on height, this slice was a clear success. In England we call it millionaire’s shortbread. I assume the name originated because millionaires refused to eat their shortbread without a towering layer of caramel, but I could be wrong. My mum has a handwritten recipe that sits among many faded pages in a small folder on the kitchen shelf. It is titled “Goo” and it cures the baddest of moods.
On Thursday I had only twenty minutes before I needed to leave for work and nothing in, so I toasted two slices of bread from the freezer then stuck them under the grill with cheese on top. The toast wilted with the weight of the cheese and sweated onto the plate. Even liberally-applied barbecue sauce couldn’t salvage this tasteless mass. I ate it all.
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