When I say that certain things really only happen to me, I’m not being melodramatic. They really do just happen to me. If you don’t believe me, stop and ask yourself when the last time was that you pulled out an expired spotted dick from your kitchen cabinet. Never, you say? Wait, what the hell is a spotted dick and what was it doing in the kitchen cabinet anyway, you say?
Yea, well, welcome to my life. Things get weird. I find expired spotted dick in my kitchen cabinet. It’s totally the norm.
If you’re thinking that spotted dick is something freaky that I now own as part of my new single-girl-in-the-city life, well, first of all, you’re a perv, and second, spotted dick pudding (cause yes, that’s the full name) is actually a British dessert, a sort of custardy cake speckled with dried fruit. The particular one that I have is made by Heinz and comes in a can, and unfortunately, because it was hidden behind a box of quinoa and a couple of soup cans, went unnoticed and expired a few months ago. Woops.
I originally bought it at Myers of Keswick in the West Village way back when I bought the treacle sponge pudding I wrote about here, but alas, it was forgotten and now who knows what’s going on inside that can.
It’s a shame too, because it would’ve probably been pretty hilarious if next time one of my friends—or God forbid, my mother—called and asked what I was up to, I answered, “Oh you know, just hanging out, eating some spotted dick.” I mean really, these things only happen to me.