We’re steeping a pot of what calls itself Cardamom French Toast Tea, and so far all things are promising. We gather from both grandmothers that Canadians -or perhaps its only our family -deem the correct way to eat this delicacy involves tomato sauce. As we’ve never agreed with this particular doctrine, we’re relieved to find the tea (it’s a black tea at its roots) tends towards cinnamon and maple, no tomatoes involved. It tastes of spice, which is more than welcome; we’ve long been partial to spiced black tea but ran through our Wittards stock some time ago. We’ll make do with other things, but there’s nothing like Wittards Imperial Blend, or Kusmi’s Prince Vladimir with its cloves and vanilla, to take the cold out of a winter afternoon. Cardamom French Toast does not fall short.
We’re seriously tempted this evening to give you the series of limericks about the Marschallin-cat. She’s at our elbow and most insistent that we pay her suitable homage. But there are almost certainly superior writers who have treated much the same theme. Our favourite comes from a collection that purports to be written by cats and begins, unforgettably, why are you screaming?
Why Are You Screaming
Why are you screaming?
Did I do something wrong?
Why are you crying?
How can I make it right?
Would you like it in a different colour?
Would you like it in a different size?
Would you like it in a different room?
I just wanted to show my love,
I just wanted to express my thanks,
I just wanted to lay a dead mouse on your sheets.
But now you are screaming,
And I don’t know how to make you stop.