In the midst of darkness, light persists. – Mahatma Gandhi
Growing up in Montréal, Diwali always lacked the fanfare of Diwali celebrations taking place in India or elsewhere around the world. But still, we celebrated by lighting small clay lamps around the house and, of course, with homemade sweets. Today’s recipe is for my not-so-sweet nan khatai. 
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There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning. —Louis L’Amour
It’s the weekend of Thanksgiving here in Canada! That time of the year when markets are brimming with produce and we gather around the table with our loved ones feasting on autumnal fare. Thanksgiving is simply a harvest festival, much like those taking place around the world since ancient times. And while the highlight of these festivals is always the crops that have come to maturity and the foods that are made with them, there is a harvest of a different sort that takes place at the same time— albeit less pronounced, but of great importance… it’s the harvest of seeds. Of great importance as it’s they that hold the promise of future harvests after all.
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The tomato-eggplant combination is a mighty good one. That would explain why just about every corner of the globe has its version of a dish featuring this combination. While I love this combination in every version, the one that I make most often is this Indian curry.
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I have loved you for a thousand years,
I’ll love you for a thousand more. -Christina Perri
My husband, John, and I dated during tumultuous times in our lives. Tumultuous because we were both at the dawning of our careers and were assiduously travelling around the globe on assignment; John, more often than I, and often on a moment’s notice. These were the days before smartphones and even smarter apps and if all our free time together was being spent on the burgeoning romance, then all our savings were being depleted on long distance phone calls. When John found himself with a week to spare in between two European assignments, he asked me to meet him in Marseilles. At the time, I knew very little about Provence and I wondered “Why not Paris?” but I easily accepted just the same.
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Late summer, here in Montréal, our markets, and backyard and community gardens alike, are overflowing with tomatoes; all ripening at once that it’s nearly impossible to keep up with nature by merely consuming them at the usual weekly consumption rate. They are sold dirt cheap, by the bushels, to anyone who is brave enough to venture into a little forward-thinking sauce-making. I may not always be so forward-thinking but I’m a sucker for cheap so this is the time of year when I turn a fairly inexpensive bushel of tomatoes into a healthy supply of pizza sauce.
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Before she was born, before we even knew that pears were her favourite fruit, we planted two pear trees.
Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar. —William Faulkner
Our lives intersected when we were at polar opposite phases. I was looking forward to growing a family. She was well into old age; too frail to care for herself, let alone the large house she solely occupied.
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