Sweets with my sweet

The UMC (Unstoppable Mezzotint Collector) had yet another signed limited edition to take to the framing store, so we left at the lunching hour and caught a bus to Queer Central North. Over crepes at Icosium at bit later we joked about food trendiness. "It's not like I'm immune either," I said in a rare moment of humility and self-reflection, mentioning some recipe we'd seen on Food Network several years and incorporated into our repertoire.

Of course, all the time I had a $7 jar of honey in my bag.

I've heard the A-list fags on my Flist go on about specialty honeys so much at this point that when I saw a 500 mg jar of kamahi blossom at the Persian grocery I surrendered without a fight. It's from New Zealand (which is obvious to anyone who knows what the kamahi tree is) and the brand name is, "Fuck You, Locavores." Actually it's "Airborne", which I think we can agree amounts to the same. "Alright, jackass, so what does it taste like?"

Not surprisingly it tastes like honey. Rich, delightful honey. Like $7 rich? Damned if I know; I'm still brand new to this trend. I think I'll notice the difference most when I go back to my regular brand. (You know, the one in the bear-shaped squeeze bottle.) What impresses me most about the pricey stuff is the texture. It's creamy and opaque and begs to be spread on bread--something I'll be doing tomorrow morning for sure. So far I've only had it in tea, which is probably not the best stage for its subtle talents. It's hard to tell at this point which was responsible for making my glass of Lemon Zinger® so dynamite--the honey or the two fingers of Austrian apricot liqueur.

Before we left, patchooey alerted us to the fact this is the first night of Diwali. That wasn't enough to inspire a special trip to Gandhi Marg so we made do with what was available at Pars Grocery. (Anything laced with enough cardamom is Indian enough for a first pass.) So in addition to the honey we had an old favourite, (قطاب) qotab, and a new one, (گاتا?)gata. The former is flaky and stuffed with spiced almond paste and the latter is like a dinner roll with a walnut filling. Both are lovely and--frankly--an improvement over the sickly sweetness of most Indian pastries.

It wouldn't have been right not to allow little Felcher to share in a treat as well so tonight we gave him his first taste of fire. (At least, as far as we know.) As I suspected, he was intrigued at first by the gas fireplace, but perhaps only as much as he would've been by anything making such an obvious and unprecedented noise. As we nibbled out exotic sweetmeats, sipped our fruity drinks, and watched with delight as he attempted to attack objects through a glass coffee table, the coziness factor was off the freakin' charts.

PSA for all would-be hausfraus

Oh, and it appears the cost of my discreet vagueness in this entry was engendering domestic insecurity among various real-life friends who read it. So I feel compelled to offer this disclaimer: If I have been to your place and eaten a meal off of your table then you have nothing to worry about. "Student squalour" is more than having a lot of books and mix-and-match furniture salvaged from the alley. Perhaps I simply knew (and lived like) more slovenly students than some of you, but to me it connotes a standard of unkempt nastiness that isn't in the same league with few dust bunnies and a catbox in the bathroom. Cat owners in particular take note: There's nothing untoward about your place smelling of cat if you have a cat, just as there's no shame in your living room looking like kids play in it if you actually have kids.