Friday, January 3, 2003
Dear Diary:

I am giddy with samosas.

I first fell in love with those spicy Indian turnovers during second year university when the spousal unit dropped out of school and took the first job that came his way--waitering in a teensy Indian restaurant.

Prior to that, the spiciest thing I had ever eaten was an eggroll, so you can well imagine how shocked I was by my first samosa. It took copious amounts of water for me to make my way through it, but after that I was hooked.

The restaurant itself wasn't much to look at, but in retrospect I realize I ate some of the best Indian food I've ever eaten sitting in its shabby, cracked vinyl booths. The kitchen was ruled by the teensy Mrs. Kakadia, a Punjabi woman who was well under five feet tall, and had a temper to match the spices she threw in her pans.

She terrorized her husband, her children and my spousal unit. She had the gang of them so cowed that when she would scowl and toss the fabric from her sari over her shoulder during one of her frequent snits they would all tremble like mistreated dogs.

Those of us who patronized the restaurant saw many of these snits because Mrs. Kakadia was not one to stifle herself. More than once I saw her chasing her husband out of the kitchen, chittering away at him in their native tongue like a teensy, enraged squirrel.

Yep, the woman was no picnic to be around, but great balls of fire she could cook. Her somosas were, until today, the very best I have ever eaten--plump turnovers with a flaky almost filo-like crust that shattered as you bit into the heavily spiced mix of potatoes and peas inside. The memory of the sweet mango dipping sauce she made for them makes me want to weep.

Samosas were the last thing on my mind as I was walking from the grocery store to the bank in the tiny village where I shop. I mean, after all, Montreal is my nearest source for these delectable little treats. Or so I thought.

On the sidewalk near a rather trendy restaurant frequented by the skiers who flood the village every winter I noticed a crudely hand-lettered fluorescent orange sandwich board sign. "International Spice Man -- Take Out Food" it said. The arrow pointed towards what had been a bicycle repair shop.

'Fess up--you would have followed the arrow, too, just to find out who International Spice Man was. I walked down the path, opened the door to his shop and was immediately wrapped in the smell of Indian home cooking. I almost swooned.

There was a tiny blackboard with the day's menu. There were five entr�es plus basmati rice, bhajhis and samosas.

Samosas. My favourite snack food in all the world. A food I would normally have to travel 90 minutes to Montreal to get. I immediately ordered two. The owner/cook opened the fridge and took them out, informing me they were the last he had. He fried them up and handed them to me with a tiny container of dipping sauce that was a shade of orange not seen in nature.

I tried not to get my hopes up too high. Tentatively, I dipped a corner into the sauce and then bit into it. Oh bliss, oh thrills and a couple of raptures. The crust shattered as I remembered Mrs. Kakadia's crust shattering. The potato and pea filling, liberally laced with tumeric, made my lips and tongue tingle, just as I remembered her samosas doing. The sauce, which tasted vaguely like papaya, lent the same wonderful sweet contrast to the spiciness that Mrs. Kakadia's amazing mango sauce had done.

It was exquisite. I savoured each and every bite of my samosa.

That left one samosa. The last samosa. I studied it in all its golden perfection. The spousal unit loves samosas as much as I do. A good wife would have tucked that samosa back into the brown paper bag, resealed the sauce and brought it home as a treat for The Man She Loves.

Me?

Well, all I can say is that somewhere between the shop of International Spice Man and my bank a samosa disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

It seems that 2003 is going to be my year to be stupidly happy. Not only have I located a source of samosas, but yesterday FIVE workout CD's came in.

Today I tried the first of two from Laura down in Texas.

Okay, you know how sometimes you'll see someone wearing headphones and they're silently singing along to the lyrics and you kind of stare at them even though you don't want to because you're just drawn into the black hole of dorkiness that surrounds someone who is doing that?

Well, today I was that black hole of dorkiness because she put Dusty Springfield's song "Wishin' and Hopin'" on it, which goes back to when I was a zygote.

Yes, I can remember all the words to a song that came out nearly forty years ago, when I was barely in my teens, but I can no longer leave the house without a shopping list because I can no longer remember what I need to buy without said list.

Oh well, at least I have samosas to comfort me as I mull over my failing powers.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 7.88 miles - 12.67892 kilometers

Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

P.S.--If you're also keeping track of your walks to nowhere, drop me a line. I can open up a page where we can post our stats and encourage each other. Nothing like going nowhere en masse, eh?

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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