The other day I made a chicken/date tagine for dinner. It’s a great recipe; I’ll share it with you in a few days, as soon as I’ve rewritten it for non-metric cooks. Anyway, I came to the point where you’re supposed to add chicken broth, and I discovered I hadn’t any. I thought I had a can or two on the shelf, but I was wrong. John dashed off to the store and was gone a lot longer than I’d expected. It was my fault. I’d sent him for chicken broth, completely forgetting the English don’t call it that. Here it’s called chicken stock. The employees who tried to help him might have understood what he wanted faster if they could have waded through his American accent. The same thing happened the last time a Yorkshire plumber asked me for a “kidgeon rawl.” If I’d heard “kitchen roll,” I might have guessed he wanted a paper towel.
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