I loves me some crumpet and although I shouldn't be eating such lardy goods, my excuse is that before I re-commence my diet - I ought to eat everything left to tempt me in the cupboard first.
And you can't have a bit of crumpet without good spreadage.
In this case, Lurpak butter.
This is Ellie and I's only rich indulgence. Sadly, Mark has to have Benecol (usually the spread you have to have when you are over 50) because his Cholesterol is shockingly high (9!!!) but then that is down to bad genes as he doesn't eat unhealthy foods nor does he drink.
With this in mind, if I chose to have him assassinated, Id plum to ply him with thousands of eggy goods cos those little buggers are laced with cholesterol.
I don't know why I chose to blog about Crumpet.
I think, for a start, the word sounds funny and for a second - I think we are the only nation in the world that eats them (actually that could be a lie, I just Wiki'd it and it seems our cousins in Oz and NZ eat them too). You can stuff your puny Pikelets (the skinnier, less fat absorbing of the crumpet family) back in the cupboard - cos fat crumpets rule!
The whole point of gorging on these little bready sponges is so that it will soak up as much Lurpak as spongily possible thus lining your throat and your oesophagus with pure fat, which - when you follow it with an ice cold drink will harden and prevent you from getting any infections.
As I stood at my kitchen counter, sucking all the butter out and chewing on a bit of crumpet - now and again I could feel the dog's eyes penetrating my conscience. I have to explain to you that our dog is fed really good food (Dog food makes his breath smell like Grimsby docks) and he is loved and looked after like a family member as opposed to being "just a pet". He is fed best meats and chunky, meaty biscuits of which he savours. But you know, after he has troughed his way through such generous portions of fine food he can approach you with those devillish, sooty eyes which seem to say "Feed me again, you tight arse gits. Im frikkin starving here". No matter how much you try, you just cannot stop a dog from acting like it has never been fed. Even if the dogs food was overflowing from his belly, throat and ears - he would still think he had never sen a crumb of food before. Dogs are greedy little monkies and as much as I love my Eddy, this particular behaviour drives us insane.
Thus was the case when I was devouring my crumpets today.
I could feel a tractor beam of doggy death stare from his eyes to my crumpet and I could read the telekinetic messages from his mind to mine. Basically, my pooch Eddy, told me that if I dint give him a bit of my crumpet, he was going to cock his leg on all my Basic Grey and turn it yellow with a heavy scent of ammonia. How do dogs do that? (the mind game thing, not the cocking your leg thing). I really have to know because if I could do that, Id be minted.
So I tore off two small chunks to feed him. He took a sniff, a lick and a little chew but he didn't loik them and so spat them out. The little bloody sod! So in my dream-like crumpet state, i promptly picked them up and shoved them down my gullet before I could stop to think about if the floor was clean. Can you imagine eating dog chewed food off a dirty floor? Bluergh.
Somebody once claimed that Joan Bakewell was the thinking mans crumpet - its a famous quote. Being termed as a bit of crumpet is quite the thing you know. A bit saucy in fact. And if anyone asks you if you fancy a bit of crumpet these days it can mean one of two things.
A: Do you want a hot, toasted spongey thing - dripping in butter (lurpak of course)
B: Do fancy a bit of "hows your father".
Say no more.
Im laughing my head off here.
I don't know whats come over me with all this frank talking on my blog.
I blame the sluttish red bag I got yesterday, its made me feel all minxy.
Gotta dash, Mark is due home from work any minute now. I must go tie my pinny with a pretty little bow, sprinkle some suds on my hands, spray my brow with fake perspiration and make out that I have been slaving in the kitchen all day. As he walks through the door I can then offer myself over the kitchen table. I mean, offer him some crumpet on the kitchen table. Like, the real Warburtons crumpets, not the hows your father stuff. Tut tut tut.
**edited to add - erm, Im very grateful to all the poele vesting the interest in my call for a one wizzy wizzster to help make some cards with my new product but what i wasn't expecting was 106 entries (so far). Now I have the awful job of telling 106 minus 1 people I can't use their gorgeous talent. Someone help me!**