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Speaking of food, novelists
and philosophers occasionally do just that.
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"The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute, Mrs. Cratchit entered - flushed, but smiling proudly - with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-quartern of ignited brandy, and with Christmas holly stuck into the top. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said." |
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