#2 Snowflakes and white whales.
It has been a turbulent time in this corner of the galaxy since the last blog post. A dark time for the rebellion.
There was that whole affair where the wind turned easterly and turned those airborne water crystals into tiny ice sculptures of immense beauty. They accumulated quite a lot on this little island of Ireland. Skerries, my adopted hometown rarely gets snow, even when other places nearby get it. So, to see the islands and rocks surrounding the town bathed in white was a rare site. Ireland, not being accustomed to snow in any significant quality, put into action it’s national snow strategy, which I called “Project Armadillo”. Basically everybody stayed home, watched Netflix, and ran out of sliced pan. There were still three loaves of the sacred Brennan’s Family Pan™ in Skerries Costcutter shortly before the RED ALERT. Oh, my Canadian neighbour was much amused. Fie on Brennan’s bread! We had a breadmaker and we weren’t afraid to use it. And don’t even get me started on those Imperial walkers.
In my home, we didn’t engage much with the conditions outside. No snow angels, snow men, or, indeed any snow-beings or structures were ours to build. We didn’t slide down inclines or throw snow projectiles at anyone. We worked. Well, Kim worked. I cooked and cleaned and did bits of work in between - and occasionally ventured out to keep our stock of custard cream biscuits stocked. Something about the freezing temperatures made us both crave the ritualistic comfort and security and calorie intake that is dunking a custard cream into sugary hot tea. Oh yes. I know I’m skating on thin-ice here - see what I did there?- but there’s a whole other discussion to be had regarding the dark and ancient dunking arts, of which custard creams are a mere thin slice in the pie (or segmented Scottish shortbread biscuit) chart of the dunking biscuit galaxy. It would take another blog post, nay! a thesis to categorise and discuss the dunkable from the non-dunkable. And what, pray, is the dunking soakage structural integrity (the time taken for the submerged portion of the biscuit to detach from the dry part and plop distressingly into one’s brew? Never to be attempted with a rich-tea digestive.) Or the biscuit-to-fondant ratio? Double-stuff Oreos set the standard there. Then there’s the thorny issue of branding. Jacob’s is tolerable, Crawford’s the only sane choice and Bolands can die under a bridge. That’s a bit harsh, but my emotions are rather stirred up right now, swirling in a sugary brown maelstrom into which the undesirable mushy lump of political correctness has fallen into and dissolved, only to be guiltily ingested, furtively, at the last slurp.