I am honestly enjoying being in America, getting used to the quirks and differences between two Western cultures that enjoy so many similarities and yet at the same time are also separated by a chasm of differences.

I’m not referring to the American love of the letter Z and subsequent need to replace all the S’s they can find with the aforementioned character (organiZation, realiZe, paralyZe), nor their love of replacing the English unstressed -our and replacing with the slightly more sleazy -or as seen in such enjoyable words as colour, favour, neighbour and of course everybodies favourite, humour.

I’m talking in part about the weird way they approach biscuits, in their case choosing to label the entire spectrum of crunchy, crumbly deliciousness with the word ‘cookie’, and then what they refer to as a ‘biscuit’ turns out to be a small, soft cake thing, similar in appearance and texture to British scones, with a slightly salted exterior and soft, fluffy interior.

However, it’s not just the messed up classification that they give to biscuits, but it’s what they do to them.  The Hublet assures me that cookies are physically incapable of being eaten without being accompanied by a glass of milk and then subsequently dunked/soaked in the milk before being consumed, that this habit is as American as apple pie, moonshining and hunting cute furry critters, and that to try to eat them in any other manner while on American soil could trigger a sequence of events that could potentially bring about the end of the universe.

I just don’t get it.  I respect the fact that tea and coffee drinkers everywhere enjoy dipping a biscuit or three into their hot beverages and enjoying the softened texture and merge of flavours, but those self same tea and coffee drinkers would be able to tuck into a pack of custard creams without having to first give each biscuit a milky baptism.  Besides the fact that I don’t really like the taste of milk and have a bit of a dairy love/hate relationship, which means the concept of milk dunking, contaminating my delicious biscuit with cow juice, makes me shudder.

I’m not backing down on this, and neither is The Hublet, so whenever cookies make a (thankfully rare) appearance we’ll just have to retire to our respective sides of the table to glare at each other: me in a shower of dry biscuit crumbs flying everywhere and Him emanating the soft squelch of slurped cookies.


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