Roti Obsession

Eric has found yet another way to torment me. It's not enough that he has to be so much smarter and cooler than I will ever be.

We were walking home from work together Friday afternoon. We passed a Muslim restaurant with a sign for roti. "Have you ever had roti?" he asked.

"No," I replied. "What is it?"

"It's the bomb, that's what it is," he said, turning to the restaurant.

We watched the cook take a ball of dough, flip it until it stretched wide and rolled it into a ball. Then he fried it in at least 1 full cup of vegetable oil (or something similar). When it was golden brown, he took it from the oil and poured condensed milk and sugar inside. Then he rolled it up and gave it to me.

It was crisp on the outside, chewy on the inside. Sugary sweet and greasy and ... oohhhh, soooo good.

All this time, all these years, I thought the one thing missing from my life was a life/travel companion whom I could love. But now I've realized that what was really missing was roti.

Since then, life has become an empty, desperate search for roti. It's not available everywhere, and the people that make it aren't open all the time. There's a street vendor who works in the evening, and will make roti with fillings -- egg, jelly, chocolate, fruit, peanut butter, whatever you want. But until he comes out, I'm forced to roam the streets. Saturday, I stalked the original restaurant relentlessly, peering inside and saying "Roti?" trying to look as cute as possible. I'm almost ashamed to go back. But then I think of roti, which is well worth the embarrassment.

It would have been so much healthier, in so many ways, to fall head over heels for an unsuitable man, or even woman, rather than a pastry.