Tuesday, August 2, 2017 — Two Journeys, with Momos

Not much has been pub­lished on this site in the last year. Short­ly after my return from a trip to France, a series of events start­ed to mod­i­fy my per­son­al cir­cum­stances, begin­ning with my mother’s death. New per­son­al respon­si­bil­i­ties appeared, and changes of plan. For quite awhile, I remained in no mood for per­son­al com­mu­ni­ca­tions. But while I have not had much time to write casu­al­ly for the site, I have been in fact research­ing and writ­ing a great deal. Now I’m begin­ning a new phase, since I have stopped out­side work and expect to sur­vive entire­ly by writ­ing. This will mean some sac­ri­fices — liv­ing fru­gal­ly being one of them. But there are ben­e­fits. For years, now, I could rarely indulge in one of my great­est plea­sures — walk­ing the ravines and dis­tant cor­ners of my city. I sim­ply did not have the spare time, and out­side work that kept me on my feet ten hours every day left me too tired to do it. But now I will be sit­ting at a com­put­er for most of every day, and some walk­ing will be nec­es­sary to stave off a clas­sic writer’s per­il: over­weight. So, no longer walk­ing to make a liv­ing, I am free to walk for plea­sure again.

I had a month­ly sub­way pass in con­nec­tion with that work, and it still remained valid until yes­ter­day. Real­iz­ing that I was let­ting it go to waste, I used it on Sun­day and Mon­day, to go to two remote parts of the city for some walk­ing. On Sun­day I went to Old Mill Sta­tion on the sub­way, so that I could walk along the Hum­ber Riv­er. Bloor Street and the Sub­way trains cross the riv­er that sep­a­rates the old City of Toron­to from the Bur­rough of Eto­bi­coke [1] at this sta­tion. But a short walk from it there is a much old­er and quite hand­some lit­tle bridge that was built in 1916. This was the point of cross­ing for the riv­er for many cen­turies. Here was the17th Cen­tu­ry Seneca town, Teia­iagon, at its peak hav­ing about 5,000 inhab­i­tants in long hous­es. It was a major cen­ter of trade along the Toron­to Car­ry­ing-Place trail that joined Lake Ontario with the fer­tile Huron lands to the north, and upper Great Lakes. But the Seneca town was the cul­mi­na­tion of a very long his­to­ry, as there were peo­ple liv­ing along the Hum­ber as ear­ly as 12,000 years ago. The local his­to­ri­ans have been busy, and now there are sev­er­al plaques in Eng­lish, French, and Seneca indi­cat­ing this and that. The hand­somest one com­mem­o­rates Éti­enne Brûlé, whose name has been giv­en to the park­lands along the riv­er north of Bloor. This gave me great plea­sure, because he is one of my favourite char­ac­ters in Cana­di­an his­to­ry, and one of my cats (now adopt­ed by friends) was named after him. Arriv­ing in Cana­da from France at the age of 16, Brûlé chose to live among the local peo­ple and, after learn­ing the Algo­nquin and Wen­dat lan­guages, began a series of extra­or­di­nary trav­els that ranged over four of the five Great Lakes, most of present-day South­ern Ontario, Michi­gan, Ohio, and Penn­syl­va­nia. It was in 1615 that Brûlé arrived at this spot. The next record­ed vis­i­tors were in 1678 —- René-Robert Cave­li­er, Sieur de La Salle, the Sieur de La Motte, and the Récol­let Louis Hen­nepin. Their ship was ground­ed and frozen at the mouth of the riv­er, and they walked upstream to barter for pro­vi­sions with the Seneca. In the next cen­tu­ry the Anishi­naabe-speak­ing Mis­sis­sauga peo­ple had large­ly sup­plant­ed the Seneca, build­ing a sep­a­rate vil­lage on the oppo­site bank, clos­er to the present sub­way sta­tion. Trade in the region flour­ished under the Great Peace of Mon­tre­al, and by 1730 there was a French mag­a­sin royale and gar­ri­son, sta­tioned fur­ther down­stream and to the east of the riv­er mouth at Fort Rouil­lé. A hand­ful of French came to live along the riv­er. But all of these things van­ished dur­ing the vio­lence of the Sev­en Years War, and this por­tion of the riv­er, for which the Seneca name was Niwa’ah Onega’gaih’ih and the Anishi­naabe name was Gabekanaang-ziibi, was desert­ed until set­tlers from York­shire arrived and renamed it Hum­ber, after the largest riv­er in that part of north­ern Eng­land. A series of mills were built at the riv­er cross­ing, the last of which, a grist mill, burned down in 1881 and remained a pic­turesque stone ruin until its walls were incor­po­rat­ed into a new hotel in 2001. 17-08-01 BLOG old bridge

With all this his­to­ry in mind, I walked south towards the wet­lands of the riv­er mouth, and with­in min­utes I was out of sight of any build­ing. Occa­sion­al­ly, a canoe would drift by. The for­est here is rich, an unspoiled rem­nant of the Car­olin­ian for­est that cov­ered what is now Toron­to before it became farms, then city. There are many tall and ancient oaks here. And these, link to more his­to­ry. The largest clus­ter of them, about 150 trees, is known as the Tuh­be­nah­nee­quay Ancient Grove, named after the daugh­ter of the Mis­sis­sauga chief Wah­banosay, who was the main nego­tia­tor and sig­na­to­ry of the 1805 pur­chase of the lands that were to become most of Toron­to. Tub­nah­nee­quay mar­ried Augus­tus Jones, the prin­ci­pal sur­vey­or of Upper Cana­da. Jones was a long­time com­pan­ion of Thayen­da­negea (Joseph Brant), and was with him when he led the Loy­al­ist migra­tion of Six Nations from New York State to Cana­da. Tub­nah­nee­quay was one of his two co-wives, for Jones fol­lowed native cus­tom. Tub­nah­nee­quay mar­ried him in a Wiidi­gendi­win [2] cer­e­mo­ny, for she was a strict tra­di­tion­al­ist, but Jones’ oth­er wife, Sarah Tek­ere­hogen was a Mohawk and a Methodist. One of Tubnahneeqay’s sons, though raised by her in the Mis­sis­sisauga midewi­win tra­di­tion, in lat­er life became a famous Methodist preach­er, tour­ing the world. The grove is named after her because at this spot, Mis­sis­sauga war­riors, led by her and her father, took a stand, claim­ing that Eto­bi­coke town­ship, on the west side of the riv­er, was not part of the pur­chase. The legal wran­gling sur­round­ing the Toron­to pur­chase went on until final­ly resolved in 2010!17-08-01 BLOG Humber River
Not only the oaks, but all the trees are espe­cial­ly splen­did. The land becomes wet­ter as you walk south, until it becomes broad marsh­es. Here there’s a wealth of bird life, and in a very short time I saw count­less monarch but­ter­flies and drag­on­flies, numer­ous ducks and cor­morants, a tern, a red squir­rel, a muskrat, and a mag­nif­i­cent white egret, perched on a limb with lord­ly dig­ni­ty. I had not been in this place for years, and for­got­ten its wealth of wildlife. There are beaver here as well, and fox, and even deer, but I saw none. A bit clos­er to the lake, the west shore of the Hum­ber is blocked by a steep bluff, and one must make a detour away from the riv­er to get past it. This detour took me into a qui­et res­i­den­tial neigh­bour­hood, known as Stonegate. It is part­ly low-rise apart­ment build­ings built in the 1950’s, all very well-kept up, and part­ly hand­some hous­es in tree-filled streets. Stonegate Road has some of the finest hous­es I’ve seen in the city, in the sense of good taste rather than wealth. Reach­ing the end of that street, dense woods began again, and I fol­lowed a wind­ing foot­path down into the rather iso­lat­ed South Hum­ber Park. Here I saw a for­got­ten item of 1950’s Mod­ernism, the “Sun­catch­er”, a strange pavil­lion inspired by sci­ence fic­tion art of the era, serv­ing no iden­ti­fi­able pur­pose, except per­haps to be the best local place to smoke a dube. After that, the tree-cov­er thinned, a huge water treat­ment plant appeared on the right, and the the path­way ran beneath the Queensway Avenue bridge, then under the CNR rail­way, then under the Gar­diner Express­way, and final­ly end­ed where the Hum­ber Riv­er emp­ties into the inland sea we call Lake Ontario. There, a mod­ern foot­bridge allows one to cross the riv­er out of Eto­bi­coke back into the City of Toron­to.17-08-01 BLOG Suncatcher
At this point, I was very hun­gry. No prob­lem. A short street­car ride brought me into the neigh­bour­hood that is com­ing to be known as Lit­tle Tibet, and I love Tibetan cook­ing. Here, with­in a few blocks, are most of the best Tibetan restau­rants in Toron­to — The Lhasa, Nor­ling, Shangri­la, Tibet Kitchen, Tsam­pa Café, Tashi Delek, Himalayan Kitchen, Le Tibet, Om, Kasthaman­dap. I set­tle on Loga’s Cor­ner, because there I could order take-out momos, those deli­cious Tibetan dumplings, with the owner’s fab­u­lous home-made hot sauce, and bring them home with me to eat at leisure. Soon I was back home, feet propped up, dip­ping momos into sauce, with no wor­ries oth­er than keep­ing the cats from grab­bing them.

On Mon­day, the last day I could use the pass, I chose to go east­wards, into the part of Met­ro­pol­i­tan Toron­to called Scar­bor­ough by its inhab­i­tants, but “Scar­be­ria” by peo­ple down­town. It is large­ly the prod­uct of post-WWII sub­ur­ban expan­sion, and is most­ly on flat land, but at it’s east end there is a major, heav­i­ly wood­ed riv­er, the Rouge, and along the lake it is a long series of sandy cliffs, known to the explor­ers as Les grands Ecores, and today as the Scar­bor­ough Bluffs. These are as high as 90 metres [300 feet], grad­u­al­ly dimin­ish­ing in height as one goes east. They are always erod­ing, and hous­es and streets are now kept away from their edge — after a few end­ed up tum­bling into the lake. There has been con­sid­er­able new ero­sion this year, since the lake is at it’s high­est lev­el on record, and there have been a num­ber of storms. I took the sub­way out to it’s east­ern-most sta­tion, Kennedy, then took a bus that wound slow­ly east­wards, through var­i­ous neigh­bour­hoods, lit­tle “strip malls” of Tamil, Afghan, and Caribbean shops, and final­ly left me off on a qui­et street. A short walk led me to the entrance of a park. It had few park­ish ambi­tions, for it was noth­ing more than the space between the back sides of the sub­ur­ban hous­es and the edge of the cliff, ran­dom patch­es of mowed lawn and woods, most­ly just a place where the locals could walk their dogs. The only peo­ple I met were a cou­ple doing exact­ly that. Their retriev­er frol­icked about hap­pi­ly and came over to me to make friends. There were numer­ous signs warn­ing peo­ple not to stand on the edge of the cliffs. They are only about 30 metres high in this part, but the soil is very loose, water­logged, and slip­pery, and some of the warn­ing signs no longer exist because they were once locat­ed in what is now air full of swoop­ing seag­ulls. As I walked east­wards, the patch­es of grass dis­ap­peared, and I fol­lowed a nar­row path through the woods. This turned abrupt­ly, because I had reached a point where a creek had erod­ed through the cliff face.23839904 I fol­lowed this inland to a point where I could scram­ble down, to the creek that would take me down to the shore. But there was no trail going down, only a dense tan­gle of trees, brush, and mud. One has to be care­ful, since sting­ing net­tle abounds in such places. Sting­ing Net­tle has a rec­og­niz­able flower in the spring, but at this time of year it looks like any oth­er ran­dom weed. When its leaves brush against your skin, thou­sands of micro­scop­ic hairs stick to you and release his­t­a­mine and acetyl­choline, caus­ing burn­ing and itch­ing for hours after. There’s also plen­ty of bur­dock, this­tle, poi­son ivy and poi­son oak. But I avoid­ed these per­ils and found myself down below, on the shore of the lake. It was grow­ing late, and for the last hour I had been hear­ing dis­tant thun­der. East­wards, out above the lake, dark clouds were pil­ing and roil­ing. Noth­ing of the city was vis­i­ble from this part of the shore, only the bluffs trail­ing west­ward and east­ward and the vast extent of the lake. Lake Ontario is the small­est of the five Great Lakes, but it is still about the size of the whole coun­try of Slove­nia. Though at mid­day its waters shone their famous bright blue, cel­e­brat­ed by Walt Whit­man in his poem By Blue Ontario’s Shore, but now they were a cold gray. In fact, Whit­man sailed by this very spot on the lake steamship Alger­ian, on July 27, 1880. He specif­i­cal­ly men­tioned, in a diary [3], that the ship kept close to the shore, and the bril­liant blue­ness of the lake. He was a keen observ­er, always quick to notice and iden­ti­fy a par­tic­u­lar flower or tree, keen to eval­u­ate the farms, notic­ing house-styles and how well or poor­ly made a street, a build­ing, a train or a boat might be. Here are sam­ple entries:

I am in the midst of hay­mak­ing, and, though but a look­er-on, I enjoy it great­ly, untir­ing­ly, day after day. Any hour I hear the sound of scythes sharp­en­ing, or the dis­tant rat­tle of horse-mow­ers, or see loaded wag­ons, high-piled, slow­ly wend­ing toward the barns; or, toward sun­down, groups of tan-faced men going from work.

To-day we are indeed at the height of it here in Ontario. A muf­fled and musi­cal clang of cow-bells from the grassy wood-edge not far dis­tant.

In blos­som now: del­phini­um, blue, four feet high, great pro­fu­sion of yel­low-red lilies; a yel­low core­op­sis-like flower, same as I saw Sept. ’79; wild tan­sy, weed from 10 to 15 inch­es high, white blos­som, out in July in Cana­da, straw-col­ored hol­ly­hocks, many like ros­es, oth­ers pure white — beau­ti­ful clus­ters every­where in the thick dense hedge-lines; aro­mat­ic white cedars at evening; the fences, veran­dahs, gables, cov­ered with grapevines, ivies, hon­ey­suck­les…

… I spent a long time to-day watch­ing the swal­lows — an hour this forenoon and anoth­er hour after­noon. There is a pleas­ant, seclud­ed, close-cropt grassy lawn of a cou­ple of acres or over, flat as a floor and sur­round­ed by a flow­ery and bushy hedge, just off the road adjoin­ing the house, — a favorite spot of mine. Over this open grassy area immense num­bers of swal­lows have been sail­ing, dart­ing, cir­cling, and cut­ting large or small 8’s and s’s, close to the ground, for hours to-day. It is evi­dent­ly for fun alto­geth­er. I nev­er saw any­thing pret­ti­er — this free swal­low dance.

I rose this morn­ing at four and look’ed out on the more pure and reful­gent star­ry show. Right over my head, like a Tree-Uni­verse spread­ing with its orb-apples, — Alde­ber­an lead­ing the Hyades; Jupiter of amaz­ing lus­tre, soft­ness and vol­ume; and, not far behind, heavy Sat­urn, — both past the merid­i­an; the sev­en sparkling gems of the Pleiades; the full moon, volup­tuous and yel­low, and full of radi­ance, an hour to set­ting in the west. Every­thing so fresh, so still; the deli­cious some­thing there is in ear­ly youth, in ear­ly dawn —- the spir­it, the spring, the feel; the air and light, pre­cur­sors of the untried sun; love, action, forenoon, noon, life — full-fibred, latent with them all.

By Blue Ontario’s Shore was the poem in which Whit­man most deeply explored the tri­umphs and tragedies of his own coun­try, the Unit­ed States, which is almost vis­i­ble from this spot on the shore as a thin line on the hori­zon to the south. What one is see­ing is not in fact, the actu­al shore of New York State, but the white­ness of haze float­ing above the land. As one’s eyes turn toward the east, length­wise along the lake, the hori­zon shows only the sharp line of sky meet­ing water.17-08-01 BLOG Lake 1

By blue Ontario’s shore,
As I mused of these war­like days and of peace return’d, and
the dead that return no more

The poem is prac­ti­cal­ly schiz­o­phrenic in it’s unre­solved dual­i­ties. He seeks to under­stand, embrace, and take respon­si­bil­i­ty for all the wild lib­er­ty and youth­ful­ness of his coun­try, and its trag­ic fail­ings.

O I see flash­ing that this Amer­i­ca is only you and me,
Its pow­er, weapons, tes­ti­mo­ny, are you and me,
Its crimes, lies, thefts, defec­tions are you and me,

most of all, the still bleed­ing wound from its great­est, most shame­ful evil:

Slav­ery — the mur­der­ous, treach­er­ous con­spir­a­cy to raise it
upon the ruins of all the rest

When Whit­man vis­it­ed Ontario, he was com­ing to a place where slav­ery had been abol­ished in 1793, and inter­nal polit­i­cal and social con­flicts were so tame that they would bare­ly be on the lev­el of bar-room scuf­fles in Whitman’s home, Brook­lyn. But the coun­try that he came from was not in good shape. After the slaugh­ter of the Civ­il War, the Repub­li­can Par­ty quick­ly sold out the inter­ests of the African-Amer­i­cans it had fought to free, and the elite of the South was allowed to use sys­tem­at­ic ter­ror­ism to dri­ve them back into the semi-slav­ery of share-crop­ping, with the poor rur­al whites kept only slight­ly above them, while every com­po­nent of democ­ra­cy was dis­man­tled. On the Fed­er­al lev­el, a few large cor­po­ra­tions, known as “trusts” had come to con­trol almost all of eco­nom­ic life, while a con­clave of wealthy financiers and indus­tri­al­ists had sim­ply laid out cash to pur­chase the gov­ern­ment. Polit­i­cal and finan­cial cor­rup­tion were omnipresent, uncon­cealed, and all-per­vad­ing. Stock mar­ket and rail­way swin­dles, and “pay for play” pol­i­tics were the norm. The rich boast­ed that they were super­men, and a small class of pros­per­ous pro­fes­sion­als act­ed as a cho­rus to them. The wealth­i­est 1% owned 51% of the prop­er­ty, while the bot­tom 44% claimed only 1.1%. Most Amer­i­cans had just strug­gled through a severe depres­sion that last­ed sev­en years, and had just reached recov­ery the year Whit­man was here. The rich hired pri­vate armies to vio­lent­ly crush strikes and the cities had erupt­ed in repeat­ed riots, all of which were fol­lowed by ruth­less police repres­sion. The rich could always rely on their bought politi­cians to deliv­er the booty, and on ingrained racism, reli­gious fer­vor, and hatred of immi­grants (at that time most­ly Irish and Ger­man) to keep the “peas­ants” in line. Farms around the coun­try were falling under cor­po­rate and elite con­trol, land, cred­it and agri­cul­tur­al reforms des­per­ate­ly need­ed, but these reforms required poor white farm­ers and black share­crop­pers to rec­og­nize their com­mon inter­ests and work togeth­er… some­thing the rich could eas­i­ly pre­vent by press­ing the racial, reli­gious, region­al, and xeno­pho­bic but­tons on their con­trol con­sole. How­ev­er, the Amer­i­can peo­ple did, even­tu­al­ly, pull them­selves out of that hole. The next gen­er­a­tion curbed the pow­er of the trusts. This was known as the Reform Era. It would take sev­er­al cycles of such “reform eras” to build a mod­ern coun­try… work that is still unfin­ished.

If all this sounds famil­iar, it’s because the Unit­ed States is going through much the same thing today, and we in Cana­da, as then, are stand­ing in rel­a­tive safe­ty observ­ing it with the same mix­ture of hor­ror, sym­pa­thy, revul­sion and pity as we did then. We have our own prob­lems, but they pale com­pared to night­mare that our Amer­i­can broth­ers are march­ing into with a trai­tor, work­ing for their ene­mies, con­trol­ling the White House, mil­lions of their num­ber insane­ly embrac­ing a total­i­tar­i­an ide­ol­o­gy no dif­fer­ent from Com­mu­nism or Fas­cism, and a pop­u­la­tion so eas­i­ly manip­u­lat­ed by exact­ly the same sort of con­trol con­sole as pre­vailed when Whit­man was sit­ting on the deck of the Alge­ria, prob­a­bly look­ing intent­ly at the swal­lows fly­ing about the very place I was stand­ing 137 years lat­er.

For the swal­lows are still here. They nest in great num­bers in the cliff face, and behave exact­ly as Whit­man described them.

17-08-01 BLOG Lake 2The sky was, by this time, per­form­ing the func­tion of the pathet­ic fal­la­cy, by which nature mir­rors the polit­i­cal con­di­tion of soci­ety. Very dark clouds were rolling in from the Amer­i­can side, and flash­es of light­ning. I did not want to be stuck on an unin­hab­it­ed beach below a con­tin­u­ous line of cliffs, 15 kilo­me­tres long, fac­ing a lake whose storms can be extreme­ly vio­lent, and waves extreme­ly high. The path I had tak­en down was dif­fi­cult, and retrac­ing it upward would have been more dif­fi­cult. So I walked east­wards along the beach, look­ing for a bet­ter egress. I even­tu­al­ly found a spot which was suf­fi­cient­ly clear of veg­e­ta­tion, and had secure enough foot­ing to let me climb, and I emerged on the man­i­cured prop­er­ty of a large, futur­is­tic-look­ing water treat­ment plant that I didn’t know exist­ed. [4] This was com­plete­ly desert­ed, though the city had duti­ful­ly filled a large expanse with park bench­es and pic­nic tables, and kept the grounds as neat as a hos­pi­tal scrub room. It was being enjoyed, how­ev­er, by two very large brown cot­ton-tail rab­bits. One of them quick­ly hopped away as I approached, but the oth­er strange­ly stood his ground, and stared me down with that pecu­liar aris­to­crat­ic con­tempt that I have seen in wild Kan­ga­roos in the Aus­tralian bush. Per­haps he had read Water­ship Down in his spare time, if rab­bits can be said to have spare time.

I was now in the first stages of twi­light, and I had no idea how far I would have to go to get to the near­est bus. Out­side of the fil­tra­tion plant there was noth­ing but an emp­ty ser­vice road run­ning east-and west, par­al­lel to the CNR rail­way tracks, and behind the tracks there was noth­ing vis­i­ble but trees. The part of Scar­bor­ough with human beings in it was some­where beyond that, but how was I to get to it? I walked west along the road, and even­tu­al­ly found an inter­sect­ing road that crossed the track and went north. This was a lev­el rail­way cross­ing, with noth­ing but a saltire, lights and a prim­i­tive boom bar. It must be the only one left in Met­ro­pol­i­tan Toron­to on an active rail line, and this is the most heav­i­ly trav­eled line in the coun­try, link­ing Toron­to and Mon­tre­al! Noth­ing could have more effec­tive­ly under­scored my down­town prej­u­dice that Scar­bor­ough was a remote and prim­i­tive wilder­ness.

Nev­er­the­less, it was not long before this road brought me to hous­es, and some teenagers play­ing pick­up bas­ket­ball in the street with a Spald­ing portable hoop set up on the curb. They direct­ed me a few blocks north where I could get the 86D bus to the sub­way. I could, in fact, just see it turn­ing the cor­ner. But it wait­ed at this par­tic­u­lar stop to mark time on its sched­ule, and I was able to run for it suc­cess­ful­ly. Along its route, it passed a large Tamil gro­cery shop, so I hopped off the bus to pick up some naan bread, some Chen­nai-style snack mix [5], and a cold gin­ger beer. I got home, and, as the night before, hap­pi­ly feast­ed. There were still some left­over momos.

Amount of writ­ing done those two days: zero. But I would count them as pro­duc­tive.


[1] Eto­bi­coke is pro­nounced “Ee-toe-bi-coe”. The “k” is silent. Nobody seems to know why.

[2] Wiidi­gendi­win — a wed­ding cer­e­mo­ny in accor­dance with the Midewi­win, tra­di­tion­al reli­gious teach­ings of the Ojib­way and Cree peo­ple. These tra­di­tions are still active, some­times sup­ple­men­tary, and some­times in com­pe­ti­tion with oth­er faiths.

[3] Walt Whitman’s Diary in Cana­da, with Extracts from Oth­er of His Diaries and Lit­er­ary Note-books — edit­ed by William Sloane Kennedy. 1904 Boston. Small, May­nard & Co. I read one of the 500 orig­i­nal copies, but it has since been reprint­ed. Whit­man trav­eled as far as the Sague­nay in Que­bec, but most of his vis­it to Cana­da was spent with his friend William Bucke, a pio­neer psy­chol­o­gist and coin­er of the term “cos­mic con­scious­ness.” Their friend­ship was the sub­ject of an odd lit­tle film, Beau­ti­ful Dream­ers (1992) direct­ed by John Kent Har­ri­son and star­ring Colme Feo­re and Rip Torn.

[4] I looked it up when I got home. The F.J. Hor­gan Fil­tra­tion Plant was com­plet­ed in 2011. Since it’s in Scar­bor­ough, down­town Toron­to­ni­ans like myself would no more hear about it than we would hear about one in Nepal or Ecuador.

[5] Ground­nuts, thenkuzhal, kara boond­hi, roast­ed chana, kara­sev, murukku, pako­da and oma podi — a much tasti­er com­bi­na­tion than the Bom­bay and Pun­jabi mix­es you get in my local super­mar­ket.

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