I just got back home to Toronto, after spending a week with my family in Washington, DC. It is 6am and I am spooning coffee grinds into my moka to make a caffé latte. At this time, I know that my father is awake already and sitting in his solarium, his putty-coloured cashmere shawl covering his legs while he eats his morning porridge, adorned with a lazy trail of maple syrup and dried apricots. Read More
If you were friendly with one of the House Prefects, you were always guaranteed a thick stack of those buttery, crumbly biscuits for dipping into your milky tea. At 10am, as the bell rang, all of us would push past the Assembly Hall’s heavy doors and greedily reach for the blue and orange rectangular biscuit tins. The Prefects had control over the tins and if you weren’t on good terms with them, you’d have to ask your mates to share some of their goodies with you, which they always did, but rather reluctantly. It was all about survival of the fittest in that Assembly Hall. No one really wanted to share their elevenses with you. Not even your best friend. Everyone huddled together, with their plastic teacup of fragrant Kenyan tea in their hand, dipping the thin sliver of a biscuit with the frilled edges into the hot liquid till it turned just a tad bit soggy and melted in your mouth with each bite.Read More
The French have their pillowy, like-a-curdled-creme, soufflé-like version of scrambled eggs. The Latin Americans have their huevos revueltos; the Colombians serve theirs with pillowy arepas. Us Pakistanis & Afghans have our own version of scrambled eggs, called Khagina. Read More