The work of supper


I am fortunate. I have a fatbike. I have a neighbourhood grocery store. I have a smartphone that dinged an incoming text request from Shelagh (who I am most fortunate to know) as she bused home from downtown while plotting the next steps in today’s Japanese chicken curry dinner.
1 1/2 pounds (680g) boneless, skinless chicken thighs, 2 onions, piece of ginger, 2 carrots, 1 celery stalk, 1 pound (455g) Yukon Gold, russet or other potatoes, 2 tetra paks (they are about 1L each) of chicken broth
The dinner had started to take shape yesterday when Shelagh asked the spices to assemble. Answering the call in the aspect of an artist’s palette: pepper corns, turmeric, a bay leaf, cloves, cumin, fennel, cinnamon, brown mustard seeds, cayenne pepper, paprika, cardamom, coriander and salt.



My job was to make efficient use of Shelagh’s time by going, while she travelled home, to get the rest of the ingredients.
But how to go?
I asked Siri for the temperature, and then considered my options. I could drive the car. Or ride my bike. Or pretend that I didn’t see Shelagh’s text message asking me to get the ingredients. To keep some momentum, I crossed c off the list. Now it was down to drive or bike. Automobile or auto-mobiled. Minus 13 degrees C outside slows down your decision making inside just a bit. In the end, I chose my beginning. I hauled out the fatbike. It took just over four minutes to get to Andy’s IGA on 142 St.
In real time, this is what it looked and sounded like.


Home again, I loosened the bungee cords holding the cardboard box of groceries onto the bike rack, and carried the supplies into the house. I recalled how Uncle Vanya and Sonya got back to work settling accounts.
The Japanese curry worked out wonderful.


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