The Confluence of Thought

This morning I was helping the sibling move furniture, and the topic turned to British cuisine, such as it is, because for a party earlier in the week I made one of the finer pieces of British gastronomy, a steamed pudding, to be specific, a Spotted Dick.

Yes, yes, children, snigger madly. Everyone does, and yet I refuse to use the alternate (and almost as colorful) names such as "Spotted Dog" (even though this variant graces the the title of a wonderful cookbook ) or "Plum Bolster" or even the new and modern "Spotted Richard."

The Sib mentioned a bit wistfully that one of things he found amusing about England was that you could have a meal of Black Country Faggots, chips, and Spotted Dick, and no one would think it peculiar.

What happens when I turn to Lileks today? I see a whole entry on Mr. Brain's Pork Faggots.
I know this must mean something. Perhaps something in the betting line.