Indian Feast

The occasion for this orgy of food was a gathering of old friends. Everyone was circling the drain around sixty years old. Some a little closer to it than others.

Karen, myhighschoolfriendwholivesinParis -- that's one word -- was in town to visit her brother, Brent. She invited me, her brother Brent's high school chum, Kathy, and Anthony, an ex boyfriend of mine, whom she dated, too. Anthony is the ex of emmapeeldallas who writes Talking to Myself. He is also available for weddings at bar mitzvahs.

Our out of work actor waiter was  part Indian, part something from a country no longer in business, and a citizen of Kuwait.  He used to have  a British accent, which, in order to get more jobs, he got rid of.  I asked how did you do that?  He said, "I am an ACTOR!" 

This is  the only Indian dish I can identify. Scooped out oranges with sherbet inside, frozen, then sliced.  Hmmm.  This is dessert.  I would have put it last, but figuring that out would take another couple of days.

 I have no clue what this is, but it sure was good.
And what was this?  Got me, but the flavors were marvelous.

The mystery continues.  You just have to trust it's going to be good.
Something with rice. Even my pathetic palette can recognize
that.




I remember that this looked more interesting than it tasted.  Wait a minute, where is that orange dish, the one with all the paprika?

   Here it is.  Phew.