They’re My Lobster

If you have ever been to a Red Lobster, you will fully understand why, yesterday, I broke the diet I have been so dutifully following. One word: biscuits.

If you have never had the pleasure of visiting a Red Lobster, you have my heartfelt condolences. I can’t bear seafood (aka Spiders of the Sea), so I’ve avoided the place since I moved here, but  yesterday was Dad-in-Law’s birthday and, consequently, I was dragged, kicking and screaming, into a restaurant full of fish. And thus began my voyage of biscuit-based discovery.

 

I’ve been told about these things, I’ve seen pictures of these things, they’ve been used in an effort to tempt me into the building full of sea-spiders. I even, knowing they’re a family favourite, gave making them several goes under the instruction of my copycat restaurant recipe book. I was quite pleased with the results at the time, but I laugh in the face of their doughy, gooey, garlicky cheesiness now, having tasted the real thing.

I don’t understand. I simply don’t understand how they make them so fluffy they fall apart in your mouth once you’ve bitten through the wonderful crust. I am ruined, no other biscuit (or scone, if one is using proper language) will ever again satisfy. Worst of all? It’s a 100-mile drive to the nearest Red Lobster. Life, why do you hate me so?

 

 

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