Apparently, it’s brunch time.
Goody, goody (chic alors). Brunch means toast. Toast means jam. Some would kill for chips (ah, “Carfax Chippy”- sweet Oxonian memories), I, on the other hand, would quite happily kill for toast and jam.
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Why is it that sometimes, however many pictures you take, your tarte Bourdaloue always ends up looking like a darn flying saucer? And why are there so many references to odd space crafts on this blog? Is this recipe part of a larger conspiracy? When life throws you quinces, throw them back and aim for the head. What? Oh come off it, doofus. (et puis quoi encore, espèce d’andouille?)  |
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