It's Sunday and I've given in. Sunday tea is not Sunday tea without tinned fruit for afters. Graham had produced homegrown lettuce, beetroot, spinach and new potatoes to go with the remains of the pot roast, so deprived of my usual Sunday pancake-making I retaliated with Del Monte Fruit cocktail and, well, not ice cream I admit, but Greek-style yogurt.
At least the ring pull on Del Monte is a nice smooth one, unlike the supermarket canned tomatoes whose ring pull slices bits off your finger joint. But inside, oh dear, I had forgotten the miserly attitude that prevails in the fruit cocktail world. There were four titchy bits of something pink lurking among the peach/pear/pineapple bits. I think they were once parts of a cherry. Commiserating with them were seven grapes. I imagine there is a sensor at the Del Monte canning plant, or possibly a little man in a white coat with a magnifying glass, who sets off a DNEEP DNEEP DNEEP warning bleeper if a newly filled can steams past him containing more than four quarters of synthetically coloured cherry or eight flabby pale green grapes. He probably chuckled evilly to see that my can only contained seven.
Next Sunday I'm going to have wild strawberries in my yogurt, and bugger Del Monte.