Thursday, Sept. 12, 2002
Dear Diary:

The secret to visiting your children is to not give them very much advance warning. That way they don't have time to sublet their apartments, change their names and vanish.

So last night I called the daughter and told her I would appear bright and early in Montreal on Friday morning.

You can well imagine her horror. Really, she never had a chance.

The plan so far is to look for the books my three loyal readers so kindly recommended a while back, catch a movie or two, and Eat Really Weird Food.

Actually, it isn't Really Weird Food, it just seems like really weird food compared to what I grew up with.

See, the thing is that my stepmother believed that vegetables should be boiled to mush, that there were but two types of meat--beef and pork--and that they were to be fried to the consistency of leather.

Oh, and not only were herbs unheard of, but there was only One True Condiment and It Was Ketchup. She didn't even use onions because my stepbrother hated them and would throw a hissy fit.

Feel free to observe a moment's silence for my flavour-challenged childhood.

So now, as an adult, I can't get enough spicy food. Every trip to Montreal involves a visit to a noodle shop on Ste. Catharine St. that serves a hot and sour soup that leaves my lips burning, eyes tearing, nose running and palate begging for more because it is just so freaking wonderful.

Curries? Thai? Szechwan? Caribbean? Oh yeah, I Have My Needs.

(And yes, the words "jerk chicken" crack me up every freaking time because I am immature enough to make the connection to that euphemism "choking the chicken".)

.:Cough:.

I just hope that next time you see a Maturity Deficit Disorder (MDD) telethon you will give and give generously so people like me can Get The Help We Need.

Oh, and speaking of getting needed help -- and this, people, is the sort of seamless segue that four years of journalism school buys -- we now come to the point of this little ramble.

Stop looking at me that way.

I could too have a point.

It could happen.

Okay, here's the deal. One of the things I love best about Montreal are the small inexpensive ethnic restaurants that make it possible to try new things.

I know that one or two of my three loyal readers live in Montreal and I'd like to beg a favour. For years now I've wanted to try Ethopian food but I can't seem to find a restaurant.

If any of you knows of a good Ethopian place, I would be stupidly grateful if you'd either leave details in my guestbook or pop me an e-mail because I'd really, really, really like to try one this visit.

There. See. A point.

Told you it could happen.

--Marn

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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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.