Perhaps it’s because I remember happy seaside holidays and those weirdly shaped shrimp nets at Hunstanton as a child. Or the dinkiness of the little tempting pots that hold them in all their buttery glory. All I know is that I’m passionate about potted shrimps.
Danny does not share my love for this culinary delight. So generally I buy potted shrimps when he is away. The little pot is something of a Tardis – as the contents will always cover two slices of gently browned toast. And of course this always adds to the enjoyment – going steady on the first slice and then the greedy guzzle of mini shrimp mountains on the last.
Yesterday Danny bought me a pot as a treat. Better than flowers or chocolates, they were dreamed about and devoured during an indulgent solitary brunch this morning. Back door open, birds singing and crisp sunshine. Perfect.
Although the Min Pins watched every delicious, lingering bite they didn’t get a look in – even the plate was licked clean.
This summer I’d love to drive to Hunstanton, buy a decent Shrimp Net and harvest my own. As far as I remember, catching them was easy. But did my mother do this, or even secretly buy them? She would rent a beach hut for these holidays. With a little heater and stove. Is this where they were cooked? I need to investigate to find out more.
A small frozen supply would lighten even the darkest days. And I’m happy to share with my mum as like me she adores shrimps.
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