Know what this is? First, it’s a bad photo – a Tone Deaf speciality. Here the words coruscate, not the pix.
Give up? It’s a sweet onion. Thin slices of which were lain on my new lunchtime preference: toast with tuna paté. But sweet onions are rarish in Herefordshire and it’s proof we were elsewhere this morning. Waitrose.
For foreigners who browse at TD I need to explain. Waitrose is a supermarket chain, but then the moon’s a celestial body. A seven-minute walk from Ch. Robinson brings us to Tesco, another supermarket. We shop there to sustain life. We shop at Waitrose to enhance life. Waitrose is twenty-five miles away.
Other stuff bought this morning. Six bottles of dry oloroso, a dark, deep-flavoured sherry normally sweetish. This one’s like Christmas pudding for adults: dry enough for a subtle aperitif.
Pain au raisin made with Charente butter. Had I held mine in my fingers and blown on the pastry it would have eroded and drifted away like autumn leaves.
Chard, Charente carrots, Welsh new potatoes. Quilted toilet paper (on offer) – for we must not ignore the mundane.
Once, years ago at another Waitrose, we bought a Welsh lamb crown roast. It may have been the most intensely flavoured cut of meat I have ever eaten.
Right-wing Republicans in the USA who believe Obama is planting rampant Socialism there should be made to shop at Waitrose for a week. Proof not only that Socialism works but is desirable. All Waitrose employees are shareholders in their employer. They’re invariably pleasant to customers, as well they might; each gets a large bonus, annually.