At my local up the road I finally had a daub of French’s ketchup on some fresh cut fries. It was fine. I’m not gaga for ketchup, having been raised on HP Sauce. HP was always on our table and ended up on darn near everything except cereal. Whenever I see that distinct square glass bottle, I’m transported back to the old dining room, staring at a slab of my mother’s steak pie, which was actually just stewing beef and sausage from the slow cooker with a side of puff pastry. A tiny scoop of boiled veg was added for colour and all of it got slathered in The Sauce. Pure magic. Nostalgia is a powerful marketing tool. I’d pay nearly anything to revisit that scene, if only for an hour. I miss my mum and her crock-pot masterpiece on days like Easter Sunday.
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