I've had a liking for strawberry jam ever since cute French Leo stayed with us. He made great strawberry jam, half fruit and half sugar and whatever else boiled up in a big pot. He made so much that he let me eat some of it for breakfast, or lunch which is when I tend to eat jam toast. His strawberry jam was sweet and tart and flavoursome. It had a lovely stiff texture, I mean, thick texture.
I'm still talking about, actual, strawberry jam, you understand, I have not strayed in to euphemism.
Although, I am sure Leo would have had sweet, sweet jam. Actually, I have never liked the taste of it, to tell you the truth, so I don't think sexy Leo would have had sweet... no, I’m not talking about strawberry jam any longer…
Can you imagine if men… came strawberry jam? Imagine how that would be transformative... well, it would have been for me. It would have help greatly as I grew up gay. Imagine all the knobs with which I'd want to have seen it through to the end. Imagine gobbling up that? You know, instead of spitting it at them and calling them pigs.
Chuckle. Oh… I have done that. Pfffff! “You dirty pig!”
He takes another bite of his toast and he sips his coffee.
But I digress, thick wholemeal bread, lashings of butter and that smooth, smooth strawberry jam, with just the right amount of tart to make the coffee wash done sublime after every bite. It is my very favourite thing, de jour.
No comments:
Post a Comment