I beg your parkin?

It’s officially my favourite time of the year. As a retired Goth, this weather does my heart glad (no more freckles). There are leaves to kick, the air is crisp (or ‘cold’ for the more nesh readers) and I generally feel more alive and motivated (note the lack of blog posts over the summer *moves swiftly on!*).

One of my major passions is food, eating it, cooking it, wearing it – well, maybe not the last bit – and, for me, Autumn means parkin. Lovely, sticky (if it’s done just right), comforting, tasty, no-it’s-not-the-same-as-gingerbread-you-daft-southerner, parkin.

As a South Yorkshire lass now living in Hull, I see the munching of parkin a November essential so, imagine my foot-stamping horror when I couldn’t find any. I tried the local bakery and two fairly big supermarkets close to me with no luck. Never one to give up at the first sign of trouble, I decided to bake some of my own but couldn’t find any black treacle in any of my local shops either. Cue barely restrained grumbling and potential munk on, much to the bafflement of my Suffolk born beau who, as much as he is used to humouring me, doesn’t quite grasp the importance.

So hurrah for Mum, coming to the rescue as Mum’s the world over have been doing time after time, year after year. Apparently her local Tesco sells it. Disaster averted (Drama Queen, me?!). I shall now await my food parcel, open mouthed and with a rumbling tummy.

Now if I could just find somewhere that still sells Rum Babas, I think my life will finally be complete.

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