The Musings Of An Opinionated Sod [Help Me Grow!]

And I appreciate the last couple of weeks have seen me write a bunch of particularly sentimental posts …

Identity.

Belonging.

My childhood in Nottingham.

… and guess what, here’s another one, albeit a slightly more tragic one.

Chips.

No, not the stuff Americans and Kiwis think they are … I mean hot chips.

The stodgy magic you smother in ketchup, mushy peas and gravy.

God I love chips.

British chips.

Golden pillows of burning hot majesty.

Food that fills you up and warms you up.

When I was growing up, you could get chips on almost every corner.

20 pence for a bag of them or a tray of them.

It could be a reward … a celebration … or just a way to bond with your mates.

But it was only when I left the UK that I realised the magic ingredient of chips.

Vinegar.

Specifically malt vinegar.

Specifically Sarson’s malt vinegar.

Acidic drops of heaven … sour death on their own, addictive temptation on chips.

I am still in shock how few people outside the UK like vinegar on their chips. I am horrified at how many look at me with revulsion when I suggest it. But then I also look at these people with pity because they don’t know what they’re talking about and have absolutely zero taste.

Ask me what I’d want as a final meal and after a massive bowl of pasta [olive oil, salt, no sauce – sorry Mum] I’d say a tray of chip shop chips, mushy peas and gravy with some salt and positively drowned in vinegar.

OH. MY. GOD.

You can screw your Michelin restaurants …

And why am I saying all this?

Because like a few weeks ago, when I got some mushy peas I recently got a bottle of Sarson’s.

Oh my god, how happy I was.

Sarson’s … the fluid of fantasticness.

But better yet, it was a present … a present from Jill.

Let me tell you, nothing says love like a bottle of Sarson’s.

So thank you Jill. You may regret your decision, but I’m so grateful for your bad taste.

Literally. Hahaha.