Unpacking the shopping yesterday, I discovered to my dismay that the can of corned beef I was shelving had one of these new fangled ring pulls.
I don't want a ring pull, I want an old school dangerous corned beef can; come to think if it, it is a tin can not a can.
When I was first fending for myself all those years ago I used regularly to come home, somewhat worse for wear, open a tin with the key (as illustrated) and then slice the top of my right thumb trying to get the meat out.
I imagine if you took my fingerprints you would see that I still bear the scars, but I'm nostalgic for the rite of passage.
Moving on, I cooked roast duck with berry sauce and celeriac puree last night, and very nice it was too. Merci, Monsieur Blanc.
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