It seems I've reached that peculiar stage of life where I'm prone to strong cravings for French Onion Soup. This has been going on for a few days growing slowly stronger. At first I ignored it as if was an invasive religious type of experience or possibly some weird and unpleasant sexual deviation arriving from nowhere. It however has persisted and thankfully at the moment seems related to neither of the possible causes mentioned. It may be I'm just feeling a little sympathy for the French, something to do with own rejection of any Brexit thinking and French comfort behaviours coming to the surface. Perhaps I'm just in need of a big dose of onions and a good dousing in their magical healing and restorative properties, facts the Romans knew all about. The other odd thing is rather than buy a tub of it or get some in one of those foodie influenced designer cartons I've decided to make it myself, from scratch and even consulted a recipe book. This is something I never do; recipe books gather large amounts of dust in this house despite being freely available to read and even consult. So I've got the ingredients, all I need to do is take my time and get on with it. I just hope it fills this nagging, empty void in my....someplace.
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