Saddling postponed

Despite my exhaustive research during the inter-term holiday, I never went horse-riding. So much for my romantic notions of jillerooing along the great, dusty bullock tracks of old. I spent most of the work-free fortnight feasting on Bangladeshi cuisine provided by my sister's in-laws. Her mother-in-law, who I'm bound by kinship rules to call "Auntie", has taught me how to make chai, roti, prawn curry, pan-friend eggplant slices, semolina, dahl, fish curry and even the bizarre subcontinental version of Halva (which resembled sweet scrambled eggs as opposed to the sticky sesame brick I'm familiar with.)
I spend the remainder of the fortnight joining and shopping at the emporium of all things organic and potentially delicious (particularly once they are turned into one of the above dishes) - Alfalfa House food co-op.
Not only has scooping unpackaged drygoods from tubs completely solved and eradicated our pantry-moth-weevil-bredding pest problem at home, but the righteous glow in preparing organic vegems is matched only by their god-sponsored flavoured. It's as if every carrot is nature's proto-carrot and tastes as if it was pulled from the earth half an hour before.
Saddle up and ride the Enmore track with me to Alfalfa, pardners. I'm as happy on that black and white lino as on any dance floor.