Wontons

My father taught me how to make wontons as a child. I may have learned as young as five or six. We sat at the kitchen table with ground pork (mixed with oyster sauce, salt and corn starch), square wonton wrappers and a bowl of water. He held a wrapper in his left palm with one corner pointing to the wrist. After dolloping pork in the center, he wet the border of two perpendicular sides with his right hand's index finger. He folded the wet borders on to the dry ones to create a triangle, pressing edges together, the pork safely enveloped. Then he tucked the right corner underneath the left one to complete the parcel. The simple yet elegant process infatuated me.

I started making wontons myself in my post-secondary years. In the first summer of my 20s, I made a turkey version for friends because one, as a Hindu, ate no meat except poultry. My buddies devoured the turkey dumplings. In fourth-year university when I lived on my own, a classmate requested I prepare the original recipe with him because, I think, it reminded him of his mother who passed away. More recently, I taught the man I love how to wrap wontons for one of the first dinners we shared at home together. Just two weekends ago, my eldest sister served me her wontons for dinner. About her five-year-old son, she remarked, "You know Raja helped me make some?"

May you live in safety. May you be happy. May you be healthy. May you live with ease.

—Philly D, inspirational hip-hop yoga instructor; and co-owner of Moksha Yoga Winnipeg 

If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape 100 days of sorrow.

-Chinese Proverb

Pause: Subway Love

I stepped on to a crowded subway train this morning. A man drew my attention to a Modern Family banner ad above the doors I came through. "Now that makes my day," he said to his friend.

At first I thought he was referring to the hilarious TV show that was airing a new episode tonight. Then I noticed two subway transfers folded into white paper hearts that were tucked into the ad.

I couldn't help smile at how our world is wonderfully connected -- that in the smallest ways, in places and times we would never expect, we find the light of love.

Sisterly Love (Part 2 of 2)

The dining room is narrow and long, in the shades of ebony-coloured woods and deep blood reds, and large windows to let the light of the world inside.

My sister Marie, her husband Georges and I sit at a table in the far corner. Privacy with a view.
"OK. Everyone figure out what they want," says Georges, hands splayed on the table at both sides of the menu. "I call the octopus... Ooo, and the bison looks good." The way Georges talks can instantly lighten the mood, even though for probably 80 per cent of the time, he doesn't mean to. His voice goes through different pitches; his eyes bulge; his smile goes corner to corner; and he does a sharp inhale of breath to indicate excitement. It's odd sometimes to think at this point, I've known Georges for half my life now.

"Tell me the real story about how you guys met," I ask them.
"What's there to tell?" says Marie in her usual brisk tone. "It's not like a movie, you know?" She gives me her Duh! look.
"I know it's not like a movie," I shoot back. "But I still want to know."
"I will tell the story," replies Georges.

It goes like this: Marie and Georges were in first-year engineering at the University of Toronto. They had class together and noticed each other, but didn't say anything until Marie "happened" to be sitting in front of Georges in a lecture, and she turned around and introduced herself.

"Tell her about the only friend you had," Marie interjects.
I die laughing: "You had one friend? So basically the story goes, Marie was cool and had lots of friends. And you had no friends till you met Marie." It's been over ten years since they met, and some things never change. I know Marie is like how her and Georges describe the story: happy, sociable, confident, smart, loud. Trademark signs of her personality. Her husband, on the other hand, is a little more shy, quiet and takes some time to get warmed up. I forget this about him often enough because once he does warm up, he is one of the best people you could ever meet in your life.

We sip on a California Merlot that is intoxicating for other reasons than just its alcohol content. There is a balance of sweet, spicy and dry--kind of like us. Nothing extraordinary occurred from that meal. No life-revealing moment. No terrific or terrificly bad news. But there was something about the night that made me pause and reflect on a relationship with a sister for over 21 years, and a person who has become a brother within 10.

There are many more years to come of ordinary dinners, naps in each other's houses, fights about the same old things, laughter over jokes only we understand, and a growing up where ties of family bond will forever bind you. The love of a sister, a brother, a family is sufficiently extraordinary enough.

With love, we have to get creative.

Sushil is a co-worker who gets younger each passing day. I tell stories about him to friends and people imagine I'm hanging out with a 20-year-old. Little do they know, he's twice my age, married with a 9-year-old son. Life surprises you with the people who show up in it.

"When I was in university, I was so broke," Sushil starts to tell me. He is a big spender these days but back in the day, he was notorious at scams and for being broke. He tells me a story about Sangita, his now-wife, when they first met in university.

"For some reason, Sangita really wanted milk but I had NO MONEY. Not even a penny!" he exclaims. "I kept asking her, 'Are you sure you don't want water?' But she kept insisting, 'No. I need milk. I want milk.' We were in the caf. So I took a bunch of the milkettes and started pouring them into a cup."

I immediately started dying at this image of 5'6 Sushil with dorky glasses and a very drab, faded wardrobe, carefully opening a million little milkettes and pouring out 5 mL at a time into a Styrofoam cup. These days, Sushil wears $4,000 watches, Lacoste shoes and sports a trendy set of Dolce&Gabbana rectangular frames.

"The worst part is," he says while giggling (yes, he giggles!), "Sangita SAW me doing this."

"So it was love at first sight, eh?" I laugh.

A couple of weeks later, I meet Sangita. This is probably my favourite Sushil story of all time and I can't get it out of my head. I ask her what her memory of the story was.

"I was horrified. I thought, 'I pray none of my friends see him doing this,' otherwise it would have been double embarrassment," she says.

But to me, this is one of my favourite love stories. How some people can get so creative in desperate times in the name of love. Today, Sushil and Sangita are as happy and in love as they were in university. Only now, Sushil can actually afford to buy her some milk.

There's a bitter sharp taste in my mouth.

My tongue keeps pushing through my teeth. The bottom right side of my lip is swollen and the stinging is constantly there.

It's New Year's Eve and I'm at my friend Andy's house for a potluck. We've all decided to get dressed up even though we're just staying in because we need to make this night different from every other night of our lives. There's eight of us, five guys and three girls, and we're in the kitchen. Some off to the side where the table is set up. Others are coming in and out of the fringes from the living room, chatting, laughing, twirling around in silence in our own heads and thoughts. The smell of salmon being fried perfumes the air. I say perfumes because it's not quite making me hungry nor is it causing me to lose my appetite. It's acting as the scent of the night hanging above us and around us and beneath us. In these last hours of another year gone by, we are all tied together. The pan sizzles, crackles and hisses, and Elvis serenades us with Christmas tunes.

I don't remember how it happened but it happened. "Shit. I bit my lip," I yelp and cry with the pain of a whining child. This becomes a theme for the next hour. A dark Hungarian wine has put me under a spell. All my senses seem to be giggling. Every part of me is creeping up and trying to burst out but I'm trying to stifle it all back. I try to resist the urge to spin on my toes. I try to resist the urge of the corners of my mouth turning up without a reason. I try to remember not to bite my lip but my senses are in a state of runaway glee. My mind doesn't have the faintest idea that my lip has already begun to swell so it's inevitable I bite it again. And again. And again. And at least five more times after that all with the same exclamatory point: "Shit. I bit my lip again!"

A kiss means many different things to different people. In it's most basic definition, a kiss is the act of two people putting their lips against each other's. But who are we kidding. Most of the time, a kiss is more than just a physical act. It represents something. Sometimes a kiss can represent the whole world. Or a celebratory moment like when the clock strikes midnight on new year's day. Or a reminder of the love and affection you hold for another person. And other times a kiss is like that first taste of cool water on those days where you run around for who knows how long without a drop of liquid in your mouth. You're hurrying past strangers on the sidewalk. You stop to chat inanely to routine people about what you did last night. You're rushing to class. Or to work. You're panting to catch a bus. You're in a room with no windows. You can't breathe. The air is dry and stale. You need something clear and crisp. You need water. And when you finally get it... Sometimes a kiss is like that.

Days have passed since new year's. The bite on my lip left a cut and the cut has developed into a canker sore. Actually, it's developed into four canker sores. Two enormous ones that eventually meld together and two smaller ones right underneath, all hanging out on my lip like one of those annoying dishevelled-looking families in the mall that don't know how to keep their kids or themselves in order. I feel like I'm tripping over the simplest sentences. I'm not quite drooling but I do feel like I have a facial disfigurement even though it's hardly noticeable to the people around me. "Oh yeah. I can kind of see it. Your lip is a little red," says my cheeky friend Mike in the first class of the new semester.

Ten days of the new year have passed and the canker sores are still there. Still rubbing themselves against my teeth. Uncontrollably of course because they're right there and I can't possibly spend the whole of my days with my bottom lip constantly hanging out. I have to have self-control when it comes to complaining about the pain because the pain is always there. Even something as simple as brushing my teeth has become a new experience. I have to hold my lip down so I can actually get to the teeth that the sore is rubbing against. Trickles of red stream out of my mouth along with the dissolved toothpaste. Throughout the day, blood, germs, complete infestation is manifesting itself against absolutely everything all from this sore.

It started with a small bite. And then I got drunk. So it got worse. I didn't think anything of it until it became a constant pain that I had to deal with. Rinsing it out with salt water didn't help. The salt numbs the pain for a bit, provides temporary relief, but all I really want to do is fall asleep. And at the back of my mind, for some reason, I'm still thinking of a kiss. How could anyone want to kiss me with a disgusting infection on my lip? More importantly, how could I possibly want to kiss anyone with this pain throbbing? No one can see this pain until I show it to them. Expose the open wounds. Explain a situation of drunk merriment where the hurt I've caused myself is unintentional but it hurts anyway. And even when I expose it, how silly do I feel to make such a big deal out of such a small matter.

My lip doesn't sting anymore. But the room still feels dry.