When I was little, my father went to India for a few weeks with his best friend. There was some sort of classic Bollywood plot -- an arranged marriage for the friend which needed to be thwarted so he could marry the love of his life back in Toronto, something like that. The actual plot doesn't matter. What matters is that he came home with a love of all things Indian, from delicate little nose rings to Bollywood cinema to the delicious, flavourful treats he'd eaten all over the country. We were lucky because Toronto had a nice little Indian village where you could browse in sari shops before or after eating your fill of spicy curries and savoury flatbreads of all kinds, topped off with an unbelievable fudge my brother and I couldn't stop making fun of because of its unfortunate name: Barfi. Yes, there is an actual dessert with the word "barf" in it. As tiny tots,
Day 552: I’m Obsolete.
14 hours ago