BBC, Tea, and Slavery:
an exploration of the Destructive Power of Netflix Instant Queue
Dear Mr. Netflix, Sir,
I am a girl obsessed. It’s become a problem. And Damn you for it.
Yes, Mr. Netflix instant Queue, damn you and your sly suggestion of all the BBC Masterpiece Classics ever made! I feel as though I’ve lost my freedom.
You know my weakness for Judi Dench in silken frocks, speaking pleasant witticisms to the busy-body Imelda Staunton who criticizes the socially awkward Michael Gambon while Julia McKenzie chases her balding milk cow down the lane.
And how Dare you tempt me with the adorable Simon Woods as both town doctor AND village heartthrob. He’s dreamy delicious.
You know how much I love tea and letter writing. It just isn’t fair.
I’ve watched every single one, Netflix. Yup. It’s disgusting. You’ve created my own little Anglophilic heaven.
I’ve been ignoring phone calls because of you, Netflix. Because of you and the BBC and these damn adaptations of every Victorian Novel ever. I love them. I would make them all biscuits and laugh at all their “What, What’s!” I’d even drive on the wrong side of the road for them. But I won’t. Cause that’s dangerous to do here.
So instead, I’ll make food, and eat it. We all have coping mechanisms…
~Destined for eternal servitude,
I made a 19th Century “ladies luncheon” because… I wanted tiny sandwiches. Something about tiny sandwiches makes me giggle. I also giggle at the word “sausage”. Weird.
Here’s the menu:
Cold Melon Soup with Mint
Smoked Chicken Salad sandwiches with Watercress
Sliced Tomatoes with Cracked Pepper
Lemon Shortbread and Fresh Figs
Even though it’s 100 degrees in my house, I turned on the oven. Stupid? Yes. But totally worth it. We all make choices.
my, my, my, how refined of us…