Good morning. Anybody else’s head hurts? No, just me then.
I know this looks quite tame in comparison to things that would otherwise make your head pound and your stomach dis-involve itself with you. But this was Saturday night. This was when the love of my life came to my door looking like the fantastic gentleman that he is, told me how beautiful I looked, and drove me downtown to a restaurant he remembered me mentioning a year ago.
The place in the photograph above isn’t it – that’s Rose Patisserie on Yonge. He took me to the Pomegranate. It was phenomenal since, as those of you who know me well, know that I’ve become enamoured with Persian cuisine as much as I have with my boyfriend over the past 3 years. My aloo gheysi was sweet and tart and delicious, and his fesenjoon was great (although his aunt makes it better). Then, we went out for dessert and I (of course) stole his delicious black tea while simultaneously forcing my majoon on the poor boy. It was too sweet though – mind, remember this.
(In fact, the only reason I’m boring you with our delectable details is due to my shitty memory, so forgive me please.)
Sunday (Bloody Sunday) is where things got messy.
Of course, it was Easter, which all in all to my family means the end of Lent. Nobody partook in lent except for my father, but we were all somehow fasting despite that.
Anyway, my parents had invited all of their friends to celebrate meat. And Jesus’ awakening or re-alivening or something. But mostly meat, as far as I (and our dinner table) was concerned. I also invited along some of my friends at random. I thought there wouldn’t be enough food to go around if I invited more, but oh, how wrong I was. I probably could have invited Canada’s army for dinner and still have had leftovers. (I don’t know whether this says more about the size of Canada’s army or our unending love of food).
The evening started out nice and humble – everyone came just late enough for my mom to finish primping (although I had my hands in a bucket’o'pork). Hello’s, how are you’s, etcetera. We poured the wine, the whiskey, the vodka. Everyone was proper nice to each other (despite the conundrum of both my friends and my parents friends and my grandfather being there at the same time), which, to be honest, I was kind of expecting. Everyone’s old enough to handle themselves by now.
Except me, obviously. I’m only 21.
But I’m a nice, mature 21. Kind of-ish. Most of the time, anyway. Ok, rarely – but I am when it counts!
The point is here that in my drunken sleep of this night past, I’ve stumbled upon a fantastic idea to document my 21st year. A re-learning process of sorts. Because I’m smart, but I’m still dumb quite often – enough to be 21 legitimately, I think.
What I’ve decided is this: over the course of the upcoming year, I’m going to write 21 little tales about the most important things that I already know, but hope to reaffirm, in the desire that this time they’ll stay learned.
I think tomorrow is a great as time as any to start with the lesson I learned last night:
You can’t outrun the lessons you’ve learned. (Alternate title: Drinking strengths and weaknesses are DNA’s fault, not yours.)
Always yours, A
PS. Paya, please don’t ever leave me to fend for myself.
PPS. Thank you everyone for last night, again – I MUST have done something right in a past life.
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