No sex please, we’re British bakers

We were watching Great British Bake Off.
For those who don’t know, it’s a monumentally successful UK TV game show, nay a national obsession, in which contestants’ baking efforts are judged by professional, celebrity bakers. Yeah, I know. Could there ever be a TV show more quintessentially British!?

It was Batter Week.
For those for whom that makes no sense as a concept … oh, never mind. It doesn’t really matter.

The contestants had been set the task of cooking a dozen perfect, identical, heart-shaped, lace pancakes.
Again, if you find your head spinning with confusion at the mere notion, it really doesn’t matter. Just take note of the words, not their meaning.

Much as I often do when watching something about food, I got an attack of The Munchies.

Me: This is making me hungry.
Her: Really? You’ve just had supper.
Me: I know. It’s Pavlovian. I’m off to make myself some pancakes.
Her: Lace?
In my head: Rubber, more likely.

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