Monday, May 18, 2009


Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own begins with lunch. Novelists, she observes, might write about meals, but “seldom spare a word for what was eaten.” So she furnishes her meditation on education and living in the margin with an extended description of dining at a men’s college. She revels in the radiant, animating provisions set before the men, the serenity of the fish dish, the poise of the sauces, the rise and sparkling fall of desert. Good food fuels a casual, naturalised intellectual bonhomie amongst the fellows:

“And thus by degrees was lit, half-way down the spine, which is the seat of the soul, not that hard little electric light which we call brilliance, as it pops in and out upon our lips, but the more profound, subtle and subterranean glow which is the rich yellow flame of rational intercourse. No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself . . . how good life seemed, how sweet its rewards, how trivial this grudge or that grievance, how admirable friendship and the society of one's kind, as, lighting a good cigarette, one sunk among the cushions in the window-seat.”

But Woolf, of course, must rouse herself from the upholstery of male fellowship and trudge her way back to the women’s college. And the dinner that awaits her there casts a pall. Set on obtuse china, the fare is dull and muddy – insipid soup, yellowed vegetables, dry beef and biscuits. The final insult is the pudding:

“Prunes and custard followed. And if anyone complains that prunes, even when mitigated by custard, are an uncharitable vegetable (fruit they are not), stringy as a miser's heart and exuding a fluid such as might run in misers' veins who have denied themselves wine and warmth for eighty years and yet not given to the poor, he should reflect that there are people whose charity embraces even the prune . . . One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. The lamp in the spine does not light on beef and prunes.”

Most outcast fruit, the prune! Woolf assaults it with a scorn borrowed from the boniest schoolmistress. The fricatives and plosives of her derision – the same mouth shapes as spitting out pits – are saved for this fruit, as an emblem of the dried and withered place of women in education. Girls are fed on dreary food and drearier thought, both provided by women – governesses and headmistresses – who themselves are overlooked, overcooked, overripe – spinsters, maiden aunts. They are Prunes. Educated women are cut off – cut themselves off! - from the succulent, the affable, the luminous dining table. Virginia Woolf is right: privilege smells, feels and tastes different to privation. She is right, too, that our very being is formed from within our gut: “One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.” But is she right that “The lamp in the spine does not light on beef and prunes?”

It is certainly no easy task to rescue the prune, for its degradation has been a long time in the making. Stewed prunes have suffered from a forced association with institutions of discipline. Their affiliation is with the thick-lipped – but somehow always chipped – china bowls of the school, the boarding house and the nursing home. These houses of shrivel stored prunes in dusty tins the size of Gladstone bags. When finally released, the prunes were the colour of cockroaches and smelled thinly of death and dustballs. They leaked their embalming fluids into the thin, livid yellow custard in which they were always served. And worst of all, we who were served these prunes knew, with precision, that they were sent to discipline us. From the inside, out.

For it has to be admitted: the stewed prune was conscripted by the regiment of women who knew “what's best for you” and had seized on the bowel as their territory. These enforcers– the nurse, the nanny, the sports mistress, the hair-netted dinner lady – took charge of your insides with a noxious mix of no-nonsense affect and shaming euphemism. Accompanied by the whiff of disinfectant, brusque insinuations of “regularity” and “movements” turned the poor prune into a purgative.

The prune, then, is prim and it is puckered. In Little Dorrit, de facto governess Mrs General recommends that her charge says “papa” rather than “father,” augmenting her advice with a little elocution exercise: “Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism, are all very good for the lips: especially prunes and prism. You will find it serviceable in the formation of a demeanour, if you sometimes say to yourself in company or on entering a room, ‘Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism, prunes and prism.’” This is Dickens engaging in the ready sport of governess-baiting. Mrs General’s advice on how to properly pronounce the name of the father, inadvertently shapes the girls’ lips into pursed and pretty sphincters – her lessons in prunish prudery turn her girls into kissable (if nuttily muttering) bits of skirt. And so it was that the banal prune was yoked to the flashing prism, all under the sign of propriety. In the twinkling of a bedpost “prunes and prisms” passed into literary idiom, an easy way to catch women between the rock of sedimented virginity and the hard place of harlotry. D.H. Lawrence – scholarship boy and one-time junior clerk at a surgical appliances factory – mocks a character for her “‘prunes-and-prisms’ manner” and when Jo in Little Women yearns to be a boy and run away with Teddy and “have a capital time,” she breaks off and moans “’Prunes and prisms’ are my doom.” Since she is a girl, she must be “proper” and “stop at home.” Oscar Wilde’s governess Miss Prism may be missing her prunes (and her 3-volume novel), but her easily mocked high-tones remain.

Dickens – that rag and bone man – didn’t invent the prunish woman. The old maid was a figure of fun long before he steamed into print. And if we unflinchingly follow the history of the prune, it turns out that it was once associated with the oldest of “maids.” Behind the prune-wielding disciplined ranks of the governess, the nurse and the headmistress, lounges the most venerable professional woman of them all: the whore. We still sometimes call a brothel a “stew” and it is because of the innocuous stewed prune. A 1612 collection of satirical poems called The Knave of Hearts features a whoring knave who takes “Burnt wine, stew’d prunes, a punk to solace him.” And in a similar collection published a year earlier, The Knave of Spades, a wanton entices a young man into her house of vice:

“—He to his liquor falls
While she unto her maids for cakes,
Stew’d prunes, and pippins, calls.

Some scholars claim that dried cakes and stewed prunes were considered prophylactic against the pox and used as prescriptions for syphilitics. But whatever the reason, most scholars who interest themselves in Ladies of the Night agree that a bowl of prunes was the trading sign of a brothel. In Wit’s Miserie, or the World’s Madnesse (1596), Thomas Lodge says of a bawd, "you shall know her dwelling by a dish of stewd pruins in the window, and two or three fleering wenches sit knitting or sewing in her shop.” And Shakespeare goes to town on prunes and brothels. In The Merry Wives of Windsor, Master Slender pleads lack of appetite for food and women, claiming sexual mishap has put him out of action: “I bruised my shin th' other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence; three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes; and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since.” And in Measure for Measure, a play which gleefully compromises attempts at astringent morality, Shakespeare gets right to it and relishes the visual pun between the creased, globular fruit and a pair of bollocks nestled in a certain kind of “dish” – Elbow’s wife is led into a brothel by her craving for prunes. Pompey explains to the law that she was “great with child, and longing,—saving your honour’s reverence,—for stewed prunes. Sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit-dish, a dish of some three-pence; your honours have seen such dishes; they are not China dishes, but very good dishes.”

Our post-industrial association of the prune with dour desiccation is a mean-spirited corruption of earlier ages’ earthy and bawdy prune play. A prune can be more than a faded plum. Juicy and vital and a little sultry with fruit-sugars, it might never intend you to remember the plum. This prune is bold, not grudging or grasping. Preserved into opulence, it pleases itself. It doesn’t mourn or imitate its juvenile state, but, flashing black as the pupil of your eye, transforms it into something else again. It is as scented and reflective as tobacco, and it takes you from the schoolroom to the brothel and all regions between and beyond.

This prune, the prune of my dreams, met me recently in France. I had been happily invited along on a women’s college alumnae tour of the Dordogne Valley. These were women reconvening after time in the full glow of life, and together we spent an idyllic week of food, wine and conversation. The Dordogne lays an expansive, seasoned table for its guests. Its culinary specialties are mostly dark and unctuous: duck, goose, foie gras, truffles and walnut oil. It is food that takes time to prepare, and time to eat; it eases the clockworks of conversation back to a sauntering pace, and doctors, lawyers, senators and novelists found themselves suffused in the lamplight of conviviality. A linguist gnawed on yet another leg of duck confit as she explained to an enthralled audience the symbolism of the string skirts worn by such well-fed prehistoric beauties as the Venus of Willendorf; a casual mention of lace elicited an impromptu lesson on “death bobbins,” whittled by the makers of filigree to commemorate the execution of bloodthirsty murderers; a porcelain expert, class of 1950, fois gras trembling on the end of her fork, described how she once landed a distressed hot air balloon on a boat in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay. By day, our bus wove across a region made of castles and cliff-dwellings, rich furrowed soil and corrugated precipices. We trekked into painted caves where tens of thousands of years ago bears bedded down together and, upon waking, flexed and sharpened their claws on the walls, carving a tally of another year. The folds and creases of the landscape accommodated this group brought together by friendship and education, by plenty, by loss, and by the diverse pleasures of society of one’s kind.

Across the course of seven breakfasts, seven lunches and seven dinners, no one ever set a prune before us. Virginia Woolf’s algorithm of food and education and sex had been inverted, and I had eaten her boys’ meal with girls. But I wasn’t happy about the still sacrificed prune, that third sex. So on Saturday morning I said a quick goodbye to the breakfasting sisterhood and set out with an empty bag and my dubious French at the ready. It was market day in Sarlat and I found the glorious Agen pruneaux, outside the hotel doors, in the bustle of narrow cobbled streets. A valley away from the Dordogne, Agen is the cradle of prune civilization. The jet-black fruits are made from the Ente plum, and their sweetness comes from being tree-matured and carefully dried to preserve their sugars. I had heard of these prunes – even tasted what I knew to be an over-dried specimen in England – and I was determined to load my suitcase with the genuine fleshy gems. I made my way between stalls groaning with sausages, fish, mustards, oils, vegetables, cheeses, strawberries . . . until finally I found, in the shadow of the old church, a stand full of the treasured prunes – ranked in size, labeled by humidity. They glistened under the quiet husbandry of a gentleman dressed in a plum coloured stripy sweater and plum coloured corduroy trousers, his scholarly face tilted over his produce, as if listening to them. I bought many bags from Monsieur Pruneaux, and then sought out a quiet stretch of medieval wall to sit on.

Solemnly, I dipped into my treasure. The prunes were so tender that the pits slid silkily from the flesh, and the flesh itself was almost cucumber green against the purple-turned-to-carbon- skins. They were tense and then yielding to the teeth, and they tasted of seasons turned, of nightfall. The flavour was as broad as a thumb, but bright too. Each small parcel had enfolded its sugars and its sunlight, and compressed them like coal. I brought the prunes back to the hotel and fed some to my new friends, and then watched as their faces registered the marvel: this is a prune?!

B and I ate most of the prunes straight from the bag across that week and on the long train ride back north, a thoughtful chew and an archaic smile their only condiment. But once back in London I wanted to make a prunes and custard dish that both redeemed and paid homage to the ridiculed genre of prunishness. I began with the idea of a clafoutis – a simple French dish of baked custard and fruit. The name of this dish might, some think, find its origin in the word meaning “to fill up, to stuff.” But other sources suggest a root meaning “to affix with nails.” Since clafoutis is most commonly made with cherries which film over with a skin of custard and bleed slightly as they cook, I’m convinced of the latter meaning – surely the dish acquired its name because it looks like stigmata? But mine would be made with prunes, and there is a Breton version of the clafoutis, slightly sturdier in consistency, made with prunes. It is called a “far Breton.” I decided to follow a “far” recipe, but borrow a little something from the clafoutis, too. In a clafoutis, it is traditional to leave the stones in the cherries, to impart a hint of almond flavour to the pudding. I thought I could mimic this, and get something of a brothelly “to stuff” meaning in my prunes – by removing their pits and replacing them with a nub of marzipan. In Far Breton and similar dishes, the prunes are sometimes soaked in tea or Armagnac to plump them up. My prunes had no need of such hydration, but it would be a shame to spurn spirits altogether, especially since I had taken care to procure a small bottle of Prune D’Ente eau de vie from the Sarlat market. So I added a generous tablespoon to my batter.

My final ingredient was a smuggled one. Before taking the train down to the Dordogne, B and I had eaten in a small Paris bistro. The crème brûlée we ate was scented, our menu said, with “Tonka.” The caramelized custard had a warm, round flavour, brown as leather. When we asked what “Tonka” is, the chef emerged from the kitchen (in a natty track suit) and presented us with a dark, hard, wrinkled bean. He left us the tactile little stone, which B put in her pocket and brought back to our London kitchen. It was an illicit trafficking. The tonka seed is toxic in large doses and is banned in England. Most compelling for my purposes of helping my prunes masquerade as cherries whose stones masquerade as almond, tonka is sometimes used in place of another forbidden flavour – bitter almond, favoured by suicides. We risked our livers, but tonka added the flavour of defection to my prunes and custard. You have to transgress, masquerade as what you might become, and damage yourself a little or maybe even a lot in order to steal the lighted lamp.


3 large eggs
2 cups (475ml) whole milk
½ cup (113g) sugar
½ grated tonka bean, or seeds from ½ a vanilla pod, or ¼ tsp vanilla essence
1/8 tsp salt
1 tablespoon prune eau de vie, or Armagnac
5 tblsp (71g) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
¾ cup (94g) flour
1 ½ cup (300g) pitted prunes
enough marzipan (or brandied marzipan) to stuff prunes – about 150g
If necessary, 1 cup hot tea, or ¼ cup Armagnac plus ¼ cup water for soaking liquid
Icing/confectioner’s sugar for dusting

Put eggs, milk, sugar, tonka/vanilla, salt and melted butter in a blender or food processor and whiz to blend for about 1 min. Sift in the flour and pulse the batter several times. Cover and refrigerate for at least 1 hour, preferably 3, overnight even better. (The batter should last several nights in a fridge.)

If soaking your prunes, put in heatproof bowl and pour over the hot tea or the Armagnac and water mix that you’ve warmed together. Cover and let stand.

Centre a rack in the oven and preheat oven to 375F/190C. Butter an 8x2 inch round cake pan or deep quiche dish and dust the pan with flour, tapping out the excess. Do not use a loose-bottomed pan. Put pan on baking sheet.

Drain prunes from their soaking liquid, discarding the remaining liquid (or better still, drinking it). If your prunes have pits, slice them open with a small sharp knife and remove pit. Tear off enough marzipan to roll into a nugget that will fit inside the prune. Tuck the marzipan inside the prune, closing the skin over it. Repeat until you have a plateful of stuffed prunes.

Remove batter from fridge, add the eau de vie or Armagnac, and whisk it lightly to reblend, then rap the pitcher against the counter to break the top bubbles. Pour batter slowly and gently into the pan, trying not to incorporate more air, and then drop in the prunes, distributing them evenly.

Bake for 50-60 mins or until top of cake is puffed quite high, has turned brown and a knife comes out clean. If the pudding browns too quickly, turn the oven down or even off and leave inside for the full cooking time. Transfer to cooling rack and cool to room temp.

You can now serve this straight from its dish, or attempt to unmould it. It will be fragile – only unmould if you have baked it in the right depth of pan, and if the bottom doesn’t seem to have stuck. Have a serving plate at hand. Run a blunt knife around the edges to loosen. Dust the top of the pudding with confectioner’s/icing sugar, then cover with a piece of parchment or wax paper. Place an upside down rack over the paper and invert the whole thing to turn the cake out onto the rack. Then quickly re-invert onto the serving plate. Redust with confectioner’s/icing sugar if necessary.


Blogger Rosi said...

Love it!!! I have been making prune clafoutis all winter long with prunes from your Tartine book!! Yours sound much more delicious... love the idea of the marzipan. The book recipe also calls for sugar at the end to caramelize the top, but it always failed (not like the cherry version). Something in the mix between alcohol, prunes and sugar? It was a mystery question I had it ready for you when you got back. I had even put a little note in your book to remember to ask the question.

10:31 am  
Blogger R. Schneider said...

I am chastised. I am penitent. I admit to the "boney schoolmistress" alarm. But recall a less glorious history of the prune: my own. Upon eating too many, each lunch in second grade, I was reduced to replicating their succulence for all of my schoolmates. For weeks, not 15 minutes after lunch, I began to reek – and though my prune repentances were silent but deadly, the children somehow knew it was I who was repeating . They began to whisper and point: “B’s farting again” at precisely 1pm. Our own schoolmistress, Mrs. Sanderson, was in her last year before retirement, and she was, though far from boney, almost completely deaf. And so the whispers became chants, and the giggles outright laughs whenever Mrs. S’s abundant back was turned. It was only when, after many tears at home and finally an agonized confession to my mother that I was cursed with a deadly 1pm problem, did I learned to blame the prune, and not myself. Only upon blaming the prune (and changing my diet), could regain any dignity at all. And, even then, only a prunish dignity, a small and wrinkled pit-filled dignity, did I regain. Not an Agen pruneaux diginity. MY prunes had not been glorious (though I’d loved them, I admit, and had begged Mother to include them every day). They were simple over-the-counter prunes, New England prunes, clapboard house and sidewalk, mid-century American prunes. They’d lain Monday through Friday tucked away in my little tin (with plaid design) lunch box, waiting through the morning like desiccated eyeballs from hell, sheathed in a humble plastic, fold-over sandwich bag. I’d loved them. I’d eaten them with public pride – staunchly defending them to the lucky kids with Wingdings or Twinkies. I’d considered prunes better – the best – and a worthy reward for having downed the troubled bologna sandwich in its Wonder Bread bed. So – MY prune story: A love story gone terribly bad, terribly rank, terribly terribly foul. You will forgive me MY associations, repentant as I am. Kellogg Elementary was no Bloomsbury. And Amherst, Massachusetts no Agen or Dordogne. I shall hold to my wariness. And you should be thankful that I do …

11:12 am  
Anonymous michelle m said...

A much-missed Berkeley bakery did have yummy prune muffins -- millet and honey and .. . it sounds dreadfully health-foody, but it was actually naughtily delicious. (And a regular treat when I was doing laundry at the neighborhood laundromat!)
Thanks for whisking me away. I spent a few days in Sarlat many years ago. It was peach season. Need I say more?

1:48 pm  
Blogger Jen said...

Randomly checking in and I find that there is a new entry! A thousand huzzahs, especially when I note it relates to prunes... which lately have been featured at a Reno cocktail party as a kind of mock medjool date for no reason other than laziness about a trip to the store. But now we are hooked. Agree with you v much (having never thought of it) about the source of clafouti being the stigmata. Which somehow makes me love clafouti even more.

1:16 am  
Anonymous emma b. said...

In the far-off days with my first college girlfriend, we became obsessed with Nadia, an adorable American-Assyrian femme dyke on campus (these were the days when the only dykes were androgynes in dungarees and we were starved... STARVED for lesbian glamour I tell you). We got ourselves invited over to her and her girlfriend's (June, who had photos of fast cars on the wall) house for dinner. Dinner was, sadly, a dour affair, totally salt - and hence taste - free. In my rudeness I even ASKED for the salt - but alas, they kept none of that forbidden substance in the house.

Dessert, thank god, was a revelation. A heavenly mousse-y, fooly thing, fulsome and creamy in the mouth, fragrant and heady to the senses. We were mystified. It was delicious! The hussies wouldn't tell us what it was! A warm pale brown affair, but certainly not chocolate. After much wondering and wild guesses the disclosure came.

Ever since that night, I have had awesome respect for the prune. And, once again, I wish I were tasting yours. Thank you for the evocations.

2:50 am  
Blogger Mike said...

Took me back to me early years when our ship would dock and we would scour the waterfront until one of us spied "the sign of the prunes" and would let out the general call to "arms"! Now in retirement I have dried cherries to me oatmeal, but this morning will stud the gruel with prunes and lift the bowl (the bowel?) in your direction -- How well ye write, Lassie! V. Woolf could, too, but she was often wrong about particulars, as she is about the blessed prune.

6:45 am  
Blogger Paul said...

Holy Crap, as B would say. I shall never wrinkle my face into a scowl at the sight of a prune again.

8:16 am  
Blogger Urban Forager said...

At last the poor maligned prune -- so scorned that the California fruit growers are now trying to rebrand it as a "dried plum" -- has a champion. I've always been fond of the California variety (well, I am a spinster), but I've never tried the famous product of Agen, and I am near tears after a fruitless Web search inspired by your lovely account. The only ones I've found for sale are candied and stuffed with mousse, and I want to try the unadulterated fruit. If only I had read your post before my trip to France a few years ago! I hope I'll be able to return someday and remedy my omission.

You tie the line from Woolf to the women's-college tour brilliantly. Did you remember her use of prunes during the trip or stumble on it later? It was uncannily appropriate. Encouraging young women to lay claim to the pleasures of privilege -- and further, to relieve them of the knowledge of how such pleasures are produced -- was surely high on the list of M. Carey Thomas' priorities as she shaped Bryn Mawr. A hundred years later, that seems regrettable. But I wonder if the academy would ever have turned its attention to critique, analysis, and even celebration of long-disregarded domestic arts without an advance guard of female scholars who got into the game by ignoring them. That question can't be answered, I suppose, so I'll just take comfort in the knowledge that that you are rehabilitating an unjustly disparaged fruit.

2:14 pm  
Blogger Laura H said...

Katie Louise,
This essay is you at your best. Food and all it means to us redeemed, embellished, savored. A very fine thing indeed.

4:59 pm  
Blogger Brie said...

Amazing! A Perfect sunny day in Brooklyn - one of the first - has been made complete by the thought of you and B in the countryside, dining, smuggling and resurrecting dried fruit. I miss you both!

3:34 pm  
Anonymous Bryn said...

I confess when staying at Rashleigh I stole a prune because I had never seen such a moist, tender, inviting specimen. Now after reading your blog, I know it can get better. All my life I've been collecting reasons to travel to France and now you've given me one more. Kramer would be pleased with your facility with bawd bard.

7:49 pm  
Anonymous Jeff said...

I enjoyed roaming through your food blog entry on prunes and, although it might be a right sneeze (very lame rhyming slang) to mention the last line, I laughed appreciatively at "You have to transgress, masquerade as what you might become, and damage yourself a little or maybe even a lot in order to steal the lighted lamp." I haven't decided whether I was laughing at the cheek or at the truth behind the statement. Plus, I even learned something--I never knew that prunes were associated with brothels! Interesting that a condition now associated with cleanliness (pruning up after a bath) can be also connected with something low.

I don't want to cheapen the great intellectual character of your entry but, aside from my own appreciation for prunes, my strongest association with prunes has to do with Worf, the Klingon on Star Trek: The Next Generation. Somehow, he decides that prune juice is the drink of a manly warrior, instead of its traditional use by the elderly, those seeking digestive aid (and, as you points out, controlling women). No one corrects his misreading of human culture; instead, it's played for laughs. Clearly some writer on that show, which frequently tried to portray itself as "literary," had some beef with prunes.

P.S. I like prunes--horror!

12:12 am  
Anonymous Drugstores Online said...

I never thought that we can do anything from a small prune. I really appreciate this one. Thanks for this wonderful information.

11:33 pm  
Anonymous B's Mom said...

Oh. My. Dear. I had no "Idear" as they say in Boston. The closest I have ever come to loving a prune was watching on many, many mornings, my lifetime mentor Elizabeth Berryhill eat three prunes in a little prune dish next to her bowl of cereal. She was a brilliant creator of theatrical reviews so funny I actually did once pee in my pants from laughing as Lady MacBeth strode out onto a lighted stage and commanded, "Out, out damned spot!" and one spot light went out. Then "Out, I say!" and the other went out. She was also a classic actor and director in a theater she founded in San Francisco after the Second World War, when she came home from being an officer in the WACS, assigned to entertaining the troops. She took her entire department of theater graduating class from the University of California in Berkleley and formed the Strawhat Theater, in which she received reviews in the Bay Area newspapers calling her a "genius." And she was. Near the end of her life, knowing I was going to lose her, I memorized her. How she sat, how she spoke, her gestures -- always slightly grand -- and her three prunes each morning. She prepared them with the dignity she had given as director to "All My Sons" and the drama she had evoked from "Toys in the Attic." You would have loved her, sylllabub -- to her, every thing -- every moment -- even eating an ordinary American prune, was worthy of careful preparation and utter attention. And she would have so loved your writing -- the elegance of it; the staging and the lighting and the performance of it. I thank you, love, and it is me, out here beyond the lit lamp in the spine, out here in the crowded audience, standing and shouting, "Bravo!, Bravo! Encore!"

4:20 pm  
Blogger racheleats said...


4:08 pm  
Anonymous we are never ful said...

excellent post! to bring in woolfe... awesome. i feel like prunes really do get such a horrible rap. mark my words - 2012 will be the year they become trendy in the food world again. everything comes back around again. i love the tonka beans in this.

11:38 am  
Anonymous anna said...

...almost a year since this post and i still keep coming back to see if there is anything new here...

8:29 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

IS VERY GOOD..............................

2:49 am  
Blogger Angel said...

What happened to you! Please post again!

12:46 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

KLOT - it has been too long since you posted. I miss Syllabub! Please post news from your fertile kitchen soon. Msksquared xxx

4:58 pm  
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Anonymous kamund said...


9:46 am  
Anonymous xavier said...

Nice one.
I agree "Good food fuels a casual, naturalized intellectual bonhomie amongst the fellows"
Nothing beats good food in terms of satisfaction

3:22 am  
Anonymous male extra said...

Great job

12:13 pm  

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