I mean, I'm already scared to death to let any character created by Steven Moffat climb anything higher than a step stool. (If you are familiar with Mr. Moffat's work, you know his penchant for sending his characters hurtling off buildings to their permanent or temporary death. If you aren't familiar, well, consider yourself warned.)
But now, as a voice in the sustainability movement, I have to consider the dark path that British television is leading me down and its impact on my ability to eat local. Folks, I speak of my addiction to imported British food.
Oh, it started innocently enough. A couple of digestive biscuits during Doc Martin (although I soon started preferring HobNobs). A black and tan and a plate of fish and chips when we went out on Friday night. A nice bottle of brown sauce in the fridge to dress up our at-home meals. A "cuppa" tea in the afternoons while I write and a new-found appreciation for gin when I'm not writing.
But now it's out of hand. Jelly babies and Jammie Dodgers eaten during Dr. Who. And the overwhelming sense that I'm not just not eating local, I'm going out of my way to not eat local. And I'm doing so while declaring the British -- the British, I tell you! -- the best cooks on the planet. I mean, at least if I had gotten addicted to French food, I would have snobbery bragging rights because of their historic position as gourmets. To fall in love with another culture because you like its junk food and its television can't be good.
In any event, I justify my little addiction knowing that, for as much of the year as I can, we eat local. Our meat is all raised locally, as are our eggs. We are making a slow switch to local milk, and we use local honey. And our vegetables come from the back yard during summer.
Surely that's worth a few boxes of imported digestives and a handful of jelly babies?
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