One year recently my dad got me, a 40 year old man, six jars of mustard for my birthday. That was my only birthday gift from him. I think he might have read a label like this.
My Dad loved the horrific English spread, Marmite. But he didn’t eat it very often. Every year, my mother would give him a wrapped present of a jar of Marmite. The same jar that was already in the fridge.
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