Our spanking new Harris Teeter has a gourmet British foods section, which to us snooty Americans, raised on Appleby’s Ultimate Trios (wonton tacos, steak quesadilla towers, boneless  mustard-honey wings,) sounds like a classic case of, whaddayacallit, oxymoron, but be that as it may, in among (or should I properly say amongst, paying respect to the Scepter’d Isle’s habit of festooning perfectly good words with extraneous letters, and don’t think I’m unaware that the more snark-prone among you are jumping up and down in your seats with your hands raised, dying to be called on so you can drippily observe that I, while advocating for economy of language, am still in the midst of sentence number one, and show no sign of employing a full stop any time soon) the various delicacies for which British cuisine is noted--such as clotted cream and mashed peas and, good god, barley water--I should spy a product which I have been obsessed with ever since the moment I first came across its name at age fourteen, a moment immediately followed by paroxysms of adolescent laughter which at some point landed me on my back unable to catch my breath, which event may well have been my last (one of the larger consequences of which would be that you would right now be engaged in an activity more productive than reading this sentence, the latter parts of which are way too liberally peppered with instances of the word “which”, which can’t be helped) if I had not been revived by my sister telling me to GROW UP.  Somewhere deep inside, I knew I would never be able to follow my sister’s advice until I actually got to experience Spotted Dick in the flesh, after which I could put the whole thing behind me. So, long story short, except it’s too late for that, I now have it, and apparently it’s some kind of sponge pudding in a can, talk about your anticlimaxes, and I sincerely hope you won’t. I can now plod into young adulthood an older but wiser man.