Dear Maggie,

For years I have loved you from afar. As far as grocery stores would allow me to.

Your quince paste, your onion jam, your little bickies and your fancy fancy oils. You are less wanky than Simon and fatter than Simmone. I do not trust a skinny cook Maggie.

BUT - save my soul. Burnt fig, honeycomb and caramel ice-cream! You are crazy!

No - I am crazy for this. You see I am a savoury girl from way back. Give me your carbs, your salty and your fried. Cakes and sweets - you can have them. But I cannot walk past a kebab stand without taking in a sample - especially if I am on Cleveland Street. (Hi Abdul.)

I am hoping Britney Spears will do her next purfume based on this ice cream.

You bite in - smooth and creamy.... oh what's this? A crunchy honeycomb ball - ohh how lovely! Then POWWWWWWWWWWWWW - an explosion of burnt fig. Sounds gross hey!

OH. MY. GOD.

You pick yourself off the floor only to be enveloped by the smooth caramel waves. Excuse me for a minute.

Maggie - I have never written to Ben. Or Jerry. Or Mr Baskin or Mr Robbins. Or the newies on the steet Pat and Sticks (you are either an ice-cream or a sandwich - NOT BOTH). The most excited I have been about an ice-cream was 30 years ago and I am talking about Streets Big Foot.

Oh Maggie - to make my love for you even more intense..... Your last name is Beer. sigh.

Forever in Fig

Mrs Woog