Yesterday, while rooting through the kitchen for something to eat during an attack of the munchies, I came across an unexpected treat: a scotch whisky cake which Stense presented me with last Christmas. I had completely forgotten about it.
Although it was past its consume by date, I reckoned it would still be all right to eat: it was made from dried fruit and malt whisky, for Pete's sake—how could it possibly have gone off?
Stense, it was fantastic, thanks. Mind you, what else should I have expected? The clue was in the name:
whisky / cake
