Friday, you disappoint me.
Last night my uncle took me to Siddhartha in Little India, which is fairly decent and cheap. We left, filled to the brim with rice, eggplant and potato, chickpeas and butter chicken, and went down to the boat to sit and relax, to talk and philosophize. Usually we drink rye or white wine, but last night it was all water, the air heavy and suffocating, even after dark.
The rain came, but Toronto is still melting, and I seem to be stockpiling rejections the way some people make strawberry preserves, or can the tomatoes that threaten to overtake their yard. This province has had a tough few weeks: police cars set ablaze during the G20 madness, shattered storefront windows, an earthquake, tornadoes, wind bursts, factory fires, a transformer fire at Kipling, the crumbling of a Windsor parking garage. Ontario, you are a danger zone, and my insides have felt equally hellish since last night's feast. Because of this mischievious poisoning of sorts, I've resorted to eating plain foods today.
Despite feeling under the weather -- literally and figuratively -- I ate well. Give me an egg with a rich, runny yolk, coarse salt and butter. Finish the meal with a Saucer peach, and a happier person you've never seen.
On another note, I'm thinking of applying to work on a cruise ship in the fall as my Plan B.