anyway, i walked downtown to change the address on my driver's license. which does seem kinda odd as i do not drive. i tried to do it online yesterday, but that didn't work. maybe the gremlins in the system know i don't drive. and are punishing me for it. 

i'm not sure which group are the bigger whackjobs in toronto. the drivers in cars. or the people that take public transit. 

it's why i walk. 

and rob ford is the mayor. 

But Saturday I set off window shopping. I had no camera and no phone. It was just me and a small budget and the shops.

There was not much on Eglinton West. Well, better put, there was much of interest, but not much of interest to me. But the oddest thing did catch my eye: a glass candle stick holder. The menus of several of the restaurants. And the eclectic nature of some of the smaller places. Mostly it seemed like women's fashions and all the offshoots. Spas and nails and shoes and so on. There were a lot of severe looking women popping out of range rovers and popping into whatever little place was attracting them. I hit the Eglinton Theatre. It seems now to be some sort of banquet hall. I had been there as a kid to see Bridge on The River Kwai or Mary Poppins.  

Other than that, nothing there for me. And this point was driven home by a billboard at Avenue Road. A very large billboard (selling condos, I think). Pictured there was this huge blowup of 'the target'. For this I wish I had had a camera. A well-groomed handsome bejewelled woman in sophisticated evening wear relaxing on the sofa of what looks be a room done up by donald trump's stylist with a glass of champagne in her hand pearls dangling and eyes that say "i can afford to be a total bitch". Maybe i am wrong.  Maybe it was supposed to be a come hither look pitched to old guys. But my guess would be no. 

It was sunny and cold and pleasant. Then came Yonge and Eglinton. I was almost blown into a bus crossing at the intersection. The sudden high winds. I love the Art Shoppe. The building. I've never been in. It wasn't until I hit Yonge near the Rosedale Subway station that i ducked into a store. A tea shop. I bought some Ayurvedic tea. Very tasty with honey. And I got a free sample of an Assam tea. The first cup this morning was good but the second cup was better.  Very strong. I bought a vegan cookbook at a cookbook store. I went into Winners men's section in order to see just exactly what it is that I should not be wearing this year. 

I hopped on the subway and headed back up to Eglinton West where I finally did some real shopping. A loaf of rye bread, some veggie take-out which was pretty superb and inexpensive. And a simple 'glass' tea pot. 

A young Asian woman in a variety store - my last stop - was wearing her winter jacket. And she said, "Cold today. Very wind chill."

Yes. 

Recipe:

Sautee spanish onion and garlic in bottom of pressure cooker with the minimum amount of olive oil possible. Until tender, translucent. Keeping an eye on the onion and garlic, drain and clean 2 cups pre-soaked (8 hrs) small white beans. Add to pot. Add three cups of vegetable broth. A pinch of mustard, or in this case i used wasabi powder from penzey's. close the lid on the pressure cooker. bring up to max pressure (on my unit there is a ringed valve) and then reduce the heat. cook for about 6 mins (times will vary w/ pressure cookers) ,  relieve pressure using cold running water on lid or allow pressure to ease on its own (10 mins) open pressure cooker. drain liquid (veg. broth) and then add a half cup each of molasses, hot tomato ketchup, and brown sugar. stir and serve.   

And they tasted like baked beans. I LOVE baked beans. Good home-cooked baked beans. These were as good as any baked beans I have had in my life. And note: no bacon. This is all veggie. <30 min. Five Noms .   

                                                              NOT

He is going full retard. 

He is becoming an almost fully committed vegan. He will eat honey. But everything else is off the table. If we had a table. We eat in lounge chairs. Well he does. I lounge on the couch. And graze. We eat a lot of dates and nuts. How's that 100 mile diet going? Not great. 

The Unit needs to move to North Africa. 

For me, it's not so much what's in but what is out. Cheese. This one is huge. Eggs. Milk, not so much, as we've been soya milk for a while.

(Oh, did I not mention I do all the cooking?) 

So, that has left me with sushi and falafels for take out around here. No complaints though.

I have cooked somewhat regularly - for two or so years now - an Indian dish made with chick peas, potatoes, yams, tomato, onion, and peppers in a mildly spicy masala from a box. The box sits around too long. I serve this with basmati rice. Naan. (I perfected a home made naan two months - seriously the best thing I have ever made in my life, srsly - but there is the slightest bit of yogurt in it. Ethical dilemma.) And a commercial mango chutney. Easy and fun to make. 

Pasta was a regular for The Unit. But it is gone - well, at least for a bit. Until I can curry it. Which is is where I am headed for the rest of the winter. Into the kitchen to teach myself Indian cooking.

I've eaten a fair bit of Indian food in my lifetime. And my son loves it. A lot over the last four years, exposed to it as we've been, easily picking up take-out or walking in for an all-you-can-eat buffet. But to prepare it? Cook it?

I may know little about cooking Indian food, but I do know that it is complex - in its entirety as a process and as a cuisine. Can I use that word?   

The Internet is a fine place. There are tons of recipes. And videos. But there is a lot of crap as well, and a lot of that crap has filtered to the top of the search bubble and for god knows what reason - lameness = klout?    

And so I am on the hunt for a cookbook or two. Or three. No Kindle things. Books that I can prop up in the kitchen and read. Big Print would be great, too. One step at a time. One direction per page. Page 47: Rinse beans thoroughly. Page 48: Peel bananas.

I have connections. And I am using them. A dear friend who works as an international spy and/or assassin - not sure which - is on the hunt for spices. From Penzey's in Santa Monica, CA, USA.

Until then it is simple boxed and prepackaged meals. Lentil curry. Unfortunately as these are packaged and marketed for white people like me, much is lost in the translation. I much prefer the name aloo gobi to 'spiced cauliflower and potato'.  

And so we begin. 

Lougans. 

There's a look. On their faces. Like they have run into one too many walls. Or maybe the same wall several times. 

Where have they come from? Suddenly. 

There was an incident on the streetcar today. I was the first on a short-turned car. Then others.

Then the UFC Lougan and his BGF. They were dressed up, all cleaned up. She was missing teeth. He seemed to be high on something. Testosterone for sure.    

There was a fare dispute that escalated into shouting match between the Lougan and his BGF and seven or eight commuters and the driver.

The driver took the car out of service. 

A young woman told the UFC guy to 'shut the fuck up'. Lougan got up out of his seat and approached her, shouting. A young man, taller than the UFC Lougan, got up and challenged the UFC Lougan. "Are you going to hit her? Huh? Your GF is threatening her. That is assault. The police on their way. Why don't you just get off the streetcar. Who am i going to believe about the fare? You? The guy that was smoking in the shelter? And putting your butt out on the pavement. I'll have you charged with littering." Etc.

The UFC Lougan, stumped, and his BGF, got off and then got on the car immediately behind.

I saw them on the subway platform, as well. 

This guy has been, clearly, hit one too many times in the head.  

But they are multiplying. Or subdividing.