Some sort of squash thing
Yesterday I bought a vegetable in the local african shop.
The man who runs it is a Moor of the noblest sort, he has a thick accent that I am ashamed I can’t place (I can place most accents from all the other continents, but the african ones are lost to me. And to most other people I suspect… It is a symptom of a horrible view of a continent and its peoples..), he is always politely flirting and pushing whatever is in fresh today. You can’t quite tell if he means the flirting or not, but I always spend far too much money on vegetables in there.
Yesterday I got a sort of squash thing. Yes. That is right. A sort of sqash thing.
“What is this” -I said poiting at an obscene looking vegetable, after having got some ghee and okra and vindaloo curry paste (It is excellent if you suffer from poverty, you only need a little).
The Moor muttered a name I couldn’t quite pick up. Then said the important thing: “It is for Sambar, for curry”
I was sold.