Perched on my living room couch, a tub of vanilla bean yoghurt in hand, I realised how much my mid-day snacking habits have changed. I’m turning thirty-something this year. Geez! Has it been that long?
There was a time, and I kid you not, when slices of bread, pan-fried in butter, and a cup of hot milk was my go-to evening snack. Just good old white bread.
None of the bloated “millennial loaf” bullshit — no traces of gluten-free, non-GMO or hints of digestive seeds, which make one shit as if they were an ice-cream dispenser, were found.
Devoid of the Whole Foods luxury, back in India, we had good old “real” local bakeries. There was one in the market down the street from our place.
The bakery was always warm, smelled of freshly baked bread (duh!), hot potato patties, ketchup, water on bricks, biscuits in a gazillion varieties, flour and the smelly kids who’d stop by after school, still in their uniforms, for the hot patties and bottle of Thums Up.
How much I loved Thums Up. Oh, boy.
At the hint my mother planning a visit I’d run out the main door and position myself at the gate and look busy (as if expecting a package from the bank). Who was I fooling with the mustard-stained wife-beater top, torn shorts and flip-flops?
On arriving at the bakery in question, I’d point at goods in the glass cases and turn to mom for approval. “Mum! Let’s take some cookies with the chocolate in the middle, please.”
The gentleman behind the counter, sporting handlebar moustaches, on getting a nod from mom, placed a dozen cookies in a brown paper bag and handed it over to me with a big smile on his face.
Proud of my little victory, I’d carry the bag of cookies home as if it were a trophy I’d won for scoring well in art class. Yep, art class. I’d always run up ahead of mom and sneak two biscuits in my shorts.
They had pockets!