Comfort

I am having a strong urge for comfort eating. The kind my mother excelled in (no emotional problem to large or small that couldn't be lulled with a steamed sponge pudding or something greasy and sweet drowning in custard ) -the kind that I just can't eat any more.

I 've always used food as a buffer between myself and the world and I'm not sure it is a habit that I will ever break. That, culturally, we use food as both a celebration and a comfort (think Christmas dinner, think funerals...) and are seen as odd if we refuse the biscuit from the shared staffroom tin or dolefully deny ourselves dessert at social events, just adds to the confusion of the recovering fudge-doughnut addict.

So maybe I'll make do with licking the squares of the screen above in a coolly scientific combination of flavours. (Or maybe I'll cruise the aisles of M&S, drooling over the sticky toffee puddings until I get physically removed by the security guards....) Either way, today I feel like cramming my face with something bosomly comforting, tooth-achingly sweet, warm, syrupy and cinnamon scented.