Due to the need to call up relatives in Canada, I got out of the house later than I wished. My two cousins Celia and Amy are glad that I called, my aunt Constance is too. My uncle, who made it to 102 years old, passed away last month. Everybody is holding up, their senses of humour are intact, and the weather is nasty but they are stoic about that.
They aren't me. Anything under fifty Fahrenheit has me bellyaching like there's no tomorrow and someone actually cares.
It's currently Fahrenheit high single digits where they live.
Both Arctic AND Siberiatic. Christ on a crutch.
Lunch and the teatime snack were fun. Gmo and gluten-enslaved. With animal protein, and considerable further exploitation of our finned or four-footed brethren. Sistren. Fellow beings somewhere on the scale of sentience. Creatures with equal rights to live plus mommies and daddies.
So not the bowl of purity, saintliness, and good karma in this picture.
Actually, in this weather, we need some seal blubber. Does Canada export that?
Or are they keeping it all for themselves after clubbing the baby harpseals?
The picture above is my response to news that a long-established vegetarian restaurant in San Francisco is closing permanently. It's the place where an East Indian American friend who was in the food industry was subjected to severe whitesplaining about Indian cuisine by a mystical white lady in a saree, while wondering why there were pictures of a Hindu holy man on every wall. It gave him a permanent distate for Caucasians going spiritual. Much worse than the two Scandinavian American Sikhs with their gigantic turbans and vegetarianist puritanism.
Having myself spent a considerable time in restaurant work, my impression of vegetarians and health freaks is, necessarily, bilious. They're usually pretendeurs, frequently cultists, ignorantly opinionated, and very often neurotic.
I am open to discuss this! Over a nice juicy beef steak. Suggested hors d'oeuvre: foie gras on toast points. No green salad please, I'll have the wild mushrooms and ragotini in a cream sauce instead.
You take care of the bill, I'll cover the cigars and coffee afterwards.
And please hide your damned tattoos.
The last time my uncle and I shared a meal it was goat haunch with sarson da saag, a serving of safed murgh korma, tarkawali dhal, and pulgobi Manchurian.
With chapati and rice, as well as garlic naan.
There was rasmalai for dessert.
Ghee. In. Everything.
He survived that by three decades.
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