I remember the first time I ever had it. I was at my grandfather's house in Missouri. Grandpa John made us biscuits and gravy for breakfast. I used to love going down there. It was like another world, where Walmart was the place to be and meat really only came chicken-fried. For the longest time, I believed that my grandpa was Elvis in hiding (he had the dark hair, slanted eyes and liked bacon...how could he not be?). His wife, Ethel, was a woman who could only be described as "something else". She wore a big old puffy wig and talked about country music and television stars like they were old friends, ("You know, Vanna is pregnant. We are all so happy for her." "Is Vanna one of your neighbours?" "No, I am talking about Vanna White from Wheel of Fortune")
Ethel was the one who taught me how to crochet. She'd make us these ripple afghans that were just, unimaginable. We called them the nightmare blankets. One was a neon rainbow, the other was grey, black and neon orange...both so bright that if you fell asleep with one, you'd wake up with nightmares. But we kept them, used them, moved house with them. I even took the rainbow one to college. It seems strange to think that at the time things like biscuits and gravy and neon afghans were just normal, but now they are a treasured memory that get hauled out on days when I am feeling a bit homesick.
I wonder what Ellis will come away with. Will it be haggis, neeps and tatties whilst the neighbour practices the bag pipes? Or fish finger butties on the patio? Who knows, but I hope iit brings him some comfort when he misses home.