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Spread out in various states of recline around a long table in the inner room of the Indian restaurant we have gathered in, I imagine we cast a scene not too dissimilar to [the last supper.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Supper_(Leonardo_da_Vinci) Not only are we thirteen (ignoring for a moment that S is barely 9 months old), it is a last supper of sorts, pulled together to celebrate the two J’s, in these their final days up here before they up sticks and move to study not too far off from ground zero in America’s bible belt. That we’ve plopped for Indian cuisine is perhaps a slight oddity given all thirteen of us have African roots. I suspect it is more indicative of the paucity of suitable eating options than adventure, which is why phones come out when it is time to order; google comes to the rescue. All that drags out the ordering process, which has a knock on effect on when we get our food. ...

My Uncle Fred was the nearly black sheep of Mother’s side of the family. Bloke had all the women purring over him and he lived for the attention. As recently as the year 2000, he still left his plates on the table after eating and Mother would use him as an example of how not to behave. It was to my utmost surprise therefore, that in the midst of a phone call with me, Uncle Fred excused himself to go stir some soup he was making! Uncle Fred and cooking are about as diametrically opposed as they come.. ...