You could make treacle toffee yourself you might say, but then I'd have to tell you about my attempt to buy Tate & Lyle treacle years ago only to eventually work out after about ten hours of investigation that it's called black molasses over here and then our disastrous attempt to make it less like liquid goo and more like crunchy toffee.
My next cheat might be toffee apples. I think I might have seen them in the supermarket or was that tubs of caramel sat next to the apples? Should have paid more attention obviously.
I can't take something like pumpkin pie and swear it's a traditional English dish because I'll be partying with other Brits and they'll know I'm lying. The same could be said for brownies if I tried to pass them off as Parkin
Lancashire hotpot is an option but that means I have to cook and I have decided that to be happy in life I'm never cooking again.
Flapjacks sound easy but they probably aren't.
Maybe I'll just make the boys wear England shirts and take some sparklers?
To add a touch of romance, tomorrow marks mine and Craig's first kiss, sixteen years ago. We got together at a bonfire party, of course.