Chips Chips Chips …

I am – and have always been – a sentimental fool.
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.
Filed under: America, Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Comment, Food, New Zealand, Nottingham
I am – and have always been – a sentimental fool.
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.
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