Regular blog readers will remember I brought home what I thought were empty snail shells as decoration. After all, when I bought snails in the states, the shells were in a plastic cylinder on top of the cooked and canned creatures. All I had to do was plop them into the shells, melt some garlic butter and they were ready.
Not so when shells are sold on the marché in France to put on our patio and in the bottom of a plant on the street to prevent neighbourhood cats from thinking the planter was a pretty blue ceramic kitty litter box.
Before we knew it we had snails to the right of us, snails to the left of us. Those little suckers may not move fast, but they sure could glue themselves around.
Rick went from thinking one snail was cute to a gaggle of them were not so cute. Since I'm now allergic to snails (darn it, because they are good), Rick couldn't imagine one going in his mouth and our landlady had already started lunch, we gave them a second chance by putting them in the dry river bed.
Since then, snails have been a family joke.
Thus when I spotted what looks like a snail shell sweater in an Amsterdam antique store, window, I thought of buying it.
It might have been carrying the joke just a bit to far.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment