My mother used to make a Caribbean curry, so I’m told. She never made it after I was born. I think she was worried I’d burn my mouth or otherwise damage myself. However, from what I understand, it was pretty good, “For an Irish girl’s attempt at Caribbean cookery.”
So, as much as I didn’t discover Indian food until I was a teenager (microwave lamb balti from Iceland – incredible, though not as good as the real thing), we used to get fish and chips or a Chinese every so often, when I was a kid.
Part of me, a stupid part which has probably saved my arteries from hardening on the spot, has never grown up. Takeaways were a rare treat. They’re still a rare treat. Dammit.
Now, with a vegetarian in the house, Aimée and I go in for more Indian and pizza than Chinese.
But sometimes, when she has her canine behavioural courses out of the area, I know I’ll wind up wandering down the road and ordering mushrooms in black bean sauce, with sweet and sour chicken and egg fried rice (thus reuniting mother and child).
Yes, I know that’s dark.
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