Ten years ago my roommate took me to get indian food inside what appeared to be a fly-infested cardboard box on the side of the road. I had never before had the delightful pleasure of putting indian food into my mouth so as we peeled back the piece of paper that was serving as a door and stepped inside I grabbed on to her elbow and started to panic.
"Wait, I don't know what any of these words mean. What should I get?!"
"Just order the first thing on the menu." she dismissed, waving her hand in my face's general direction. "I LOVE INDIAN FOOD SO MUCH!" And then her excitement carried her away and she left me sweating profusely in the doorway because unanticipated situations make me nervous. These days I would just ask twitter what to order but ten years ago we were all still living in the woods beating each other with sticks and yelling, "ME LIKE COFFEE," face to face like primordial man-beasts.
She walked up to the counter and quickly ordered a complicated series of something I couldn't quite make out; I walked up to the counter and ordered the first thing on the menu. The first thing on the menu was hot cheese curry and it tasted like boiling puke that came out of someone's butt. After mopping the sweat from my face with a flat, spongy item claiming to be "bread" and wondering what the hell had gone wrong in my life, I vowed to never eat indian food again.
That vow lasted for a good ten years before some friends of ours conned us in to going out to dinner with them at an indian place near our house. They were always hounding us to eat "delicious" indian food with them and I would politely decline and then shake my head and wonder why they so desperately wanted to watch me puke into my own armpit. Unfortunately/inevitably one day I finally ran out of excuses and I grudgingly agreed to give it another slosh in the stomach bucket in the name of friendship.
Thus I found myself anxiously ordering a creamy spinach glop with meat flecks, contained by the comforting presence of what appeared to be real (non-cardboard) walls and doors. The group made conversation and entertained wiggly children and I started to sweat under my tongue, dreading the approach of plates of steaming hot vomit to our table –
– only to discover after the first tentative bite that I do like indian food, I really really do. I really, really, really, really do. Really to the nth power with a side of heavenly angels and blasting trumpets and dancing pegasi spraying rose petals out little hanging wicker baskets. The problem wasn't that I didn't like indian food– the problem was that I didn't like eating ass-poison from a cardboard box outside a dude's garage.
Since that life-changing moment I have been making up for lost time by consuming as much delicious, life-giving curry as my medium-sized belly will hold at every available opportunity, including now and now and ten minutes from now, just like when I had my first corn dog at the highly unacceptable age of 16 years and I proceeded to eat corn dogs every day for the next six months. That was almost a year ago and I still spend most of my time trying to scheme up a way to get indian food into my mouth in the immediate future, barring internal explosion or death.
We've got a lot of making up to do.