The chef on the radio this morning was tempting my taste buds with talk of long slow-cooked casseroles and hearty red wine – perfect when it is cold and wet outside. For dessert she recommended a tarte tatin, but made with pears instead of apples. I swear I started to drool.
Until she said that she would add raisins as “an extra bonus.”
“Raisins?!” I felt like shouting at her in disgust. “How could you ruin such a decadent, fantastic, timeless classic with raisins?!!”
As you’ve no doubt realised, I’ve never liked raisins ... or sultanas for that matter. They used to spoil those old English puddings my mother used to make (like bread pudding). I would carefully pick them out and pile them on the side of the plate, generously and thankfully donating them to my father at the end of the meal. He loved them.
It was the texture I couldn’t stand. Urrghh! That squirt of the sweet flesh into my mouth even now makes me want to shudder.
Some children at school used to have raisin sandwiches. They called them “fly cemeteries.” Perhaps that is why I’ve always felt as if biting into a raisin or sultana was like biting into a fly’s body. A culinary treat I can do without.