" Every now and then, a mouthful of food tilted the world on its axis. This was one of them. The stew was dark and rich, meaty, herby. Thick broth and tender carrots and cubes of potato, hints of spice and aromatic vegetables. I moved my spoon through the opaque lake of gravy, imagining words that might describe it in an essay. I'd use the setting of the room, the AGA cooker in the corner, and the mullioned windows and the thatchers in their jeans.
"This is venison?" I asked and took a larger spoonful. "It's amazing."
"Thank you," Rebecca said mildly. "Have you never had it?"
"Not like this. We don't really eat it in the U.S." I tasted again, mulled the flavors: red wine, garlic, bacon, and something I couldn't quite put my finger on. "There's a hint of sweetness. Not honey, I don't think, or brown sugar."
Tony chuckled. "She'll never tell you her secrets."
"Of course I will. Red currant jam. "

― Barbara O'Neal , The Art of Inheriting Secrets