I am inherantly British, both in my customs and cooking. Although I may make many a bowl of communal curry and flatbreads, sit around back garden fires chanting, and probably won't greet you with a 'How do you do?', there's nothing a cup of tea and a chip butty can't fix.
Which is odd. I'd much rather have been raised en France with an ocean of vineyards and fresh baguette and chouquette, Roquefort and Boursin. Ah well, life is a romantic dream of the unobtainable. Perhaps I will indulge the epicure within one day.
Though quite tempted to go with another meat fuelled breakfast based around bacon *slather drool* and leftover meatballs (which were so good even Mike at them in their pool of tomato sauce :P), I opted for a modest cup of tea and a plate of fruits. Fruit? For breakfast? WTF! I'm chaaaaanging.
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