Author Archives: trinijax

About trinijax

Fulltime CEO, OD Consultant, Yummy Mummy,TVD fanatic, Potterite, Chelsea FC supporter and Superwoman. Lover of sports, music, books and fine wines

A Tuscan Tale

When a dear friend announced she would be celebrating a Big Birthday in Italy and wanted her nearest and dearest (including me) to join her, I hesitated. I am wary of group travel. I am a peculiar fish. I like my space. I find the idea of being constantly surrounded by travel companions daunting. It means I have to be permanently “on” to quote George Costanza, and just the thought of the energy required for continuous Jax is exhausting. But the lure of mouth-watering Tuscan cuisine and vats of Prosecco was hard to resist. This was how I came to be loitering in London’s Gatwick Airport on a wet August day while I waited for a connecting flight to Florence.

My six hours in Gatwick passed relatively quickly. By the time I made necessary fluid adjustments, played “guess the accent/language”, gawped at the outrageous fashions (Clinton Kelly and Stacy London would have had a field day), ate lunch, checked in, and spent a sizeable chunk of cash in duty free, it was time to board my flight. I was traveling alone because the Party Posse preceded me. They were already ensconced in a villa in Tuscany over-indulging in fermented grape juice.

I arrived in Florence as the sun was setting. First impressions – Italy was as I remembered it. The last time I visited Tuscany, I was 20. So little had changed in five years!  The  airport bustled with character; nuns in full habit, tourists, and Italian men with inexplicable sex appeal (even the fugly ones).


I was met by an excited little man who proudly displayed my name on his iPad screen. He led me through the car park, past an astonishing variety of Fiat cars to his waiting vehicle and then disappeared for 20 minutes.


Every conceivable horror movie flashed through my mind in his absence.

Driving from the airport I was struck by the darkness. A combination of starless night and sparse habitation covered the rolling Tuscan hills in inky blackness. We drove past seemingly deserted buildings. Every now and then a stark farmhouse punctuated the darkness with a lone light. The night was what my father would have referred to as “black like Mary’s backside”. I often wondered: Who was Mary? Why was her backside so black? How did my father know?

Familiar names on sign posts evoked memories of high school English Literature, Geography, and unfathomable feats of engineering – Pisa, Florence, Bologna. After forty-five minutes of driving we turned off the main road onto a steep mountain lane. I thought to myself – if this were a movie, this is the scene where the lone black character gets murdered. No street lights, no sound. I realised with a start that apart from other cars, I had not seen a single human since we left the airport. Fifteen minutes later we pulled into the courtyard of Villa Campiestri Resort. It was absolutely still. Not a sound emanated from the darkened buildings. My driver pointed at a door – “Signora, qui”.

20150816_143746Cautiously I stepped over the threshold and back in time. Located in the heart of the Tuscan valley, the Villa Campiestri Resort is a Renaissance villa built around a 13th century fort and surrounded by ancient olive groves. Guests are accommodated in the villa and converted out buildings, decorated to match the period.

The main lobby is a cosy sitting room stuffed with heavily brocaded armchairs, eclectic objets d’art, and mismatched tables.  The walls are adorned with faded frescoes, rugs, and heavy wallpaper.  The only thing missing is a fireplace. I imagine it is cold in winter. Curiously Ella Fitzgerald’s distinctive voice could be heard over the low conversational hum. Over the next few days I would learn Villa Campiestri has a permanent jazz playlist favouring Ella, Louis, Billie, Sarah and early Frank Sinatra.


My friends had already gone out to dinner leaving me to hold down Team Coloured until their return. After depositing my bags in the tiny bedroom (with en suite bathroom so small I couldn’t even change my mind in it) I ordered a glass of wine and sat outside alone in the dark and silence.

I didn’t have long to wait. The silence was soon broken by the unmistakable sound of approaching cars and distinctive Trini accents. They were in high spirits after a day spent sight seeing and wine tasting. Like The Avengers, we assembled from all over the world with a common purpose – enjoy a few days in Tuscany in the company of the birthday girl. Our superpower? Our link to Trinidad and Tobago.

We excitedly greeted each other and decamped to one of the bedrooms to empty a bottle (or two) of champagne. Three hours later an upstairs inhabitant was hammering on the door complaining about the noise. Apparently her husband had complained the night before…

Reluctantly we retreated to our respective rooms for much needed rest.

Day 2

20150815_133654Our 13-man posse donned matching polo shirts and set off on a two hour drive through the beautiful province of Siena. Our destination was the hill town of Montalcino, famous for its Brunello di Montalcino wines. Sun soaked vineyards, olive groves, and sunflower fields slipped past us on winding country roads, punctuated infrequently by small farmhouses.

Fattoria dei Barbi Winery is owned by the Colombini family, who trace their presence in Montalcino back to 1352. The estate is laid out on 86 hectares and the winery has produced several award winning vintages. Here we toured immense cellars with barrels so vast I felt dwarfed by their size. We sampled their famous Brunello  wines, all superb. As we sipped we nibbled a tasty selection of sliced meats, crackers and cheeses. The wafer thin prosciutto was easily the best I ever had. Emboldened – or perhaps intoxicated – by the flavourful wines, we purchased several bottles to fuel our late night drinking sessions.











A quick visit to the Renaissance hillside town of Montepulciano for brief retail therapy completed our day’s touring. I marveled at the tiny shops stocked with delectable cheeses, perfectly cured prosciutto, and gorgeous leather goods. One trader in particular profited handsomely from the Trini invasion. Between us we purchased at least ten handbags from her shop.

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We ended our perfect Italian day back at the villa with a multi course meal so outstanding my taste buds have yet to stop applauding. Carpaccio of smoked swordfish, potato gnocchi with seafood and tomatoes, sea bass fillet with vegetables sautéed in Picual olive oil. A tiramisu so perfect in taste and texture, I had two helpings.

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We should have been exhausted but the promise of juicy late night conversation led us to one of the larger bedrooms where we recounted bawdy escapades until yet another guest came to complain about the noise.

Day 3

Sleep was definitely on my agenda today. I skipped breakfast and chose my bed over an excursion to the nearest outlet mall. Judging by the numerous bags my companions returned with, my credit card had a lucky escape. While my fellow Trinis were adding to the Italian GDP I slept late, had a leisurely lunch, and a lazy stroll through the olive groves and meandering trails.

That night we had supper at a club on the shore of Lake Bilancino, Tuscany’s largest man made lake. Pulsating EDM rhythms and flamboyant LGBT clientele competed for our attention. I thought of Spain and a highly entertaining evening I spent last year at Barcelona Pride. Post-supper we hit the dance floor and did our best to blend in with varying degrees of success. Like good Trinis, we came out to represent. Truthfully we were outclassed by the younger, fitter crowd.

Back at Villa Campiestri we chose bedtime rather than risk more complaints from the other guests. As it was, we had already ensured that no person of colour could stay there in the near future, and Trinis were probably permanently blacklisted.

Day 4

My last day in Tuscany. I breakfasted with my companions then bade them farewell as they boarded minibuses bound for Pisa. I chose instead to return to London. One last walk through the olive groves, one last glass of Prosecco. Arrivederci, Italia. Until next time.


A Full Life

My father died recently. Despite his ill health I was unprepared. I was forced to contemplate my future while reflecting on the remarkable life of an extraordinary man. I didn’t fully comprehend the magnitude of my father’s success until I had to plan his funeral. So many awards, so many achievements, so many firsts. His passing brought to an end the era of the self-made post-colonial black businessman.

In response to numerous requests here is the eulogy I gave at his funeral, (with a few amendments).

“I stand before you today faced with perhaps the most difficult task of my life. Robert (Bob) Yorke was a visionary, an icon, a man of the people and for the people who stood tall among Caribbean men. He was my daddy.

As I sat down to write this eulogy I sought help from the experts – the friends and family who knew him best. He was a complicated, complex man. We frequently didn’t see eye to eye but I always appreciated and admired his intellect, his generosity, and his infallible belief in the power of positive thinking. The story I will tell you today is a true rags to riches story. But this is no fairy tale.

Robert Theophilus Yorke was born in Patience Hill, Tobago on May 14th, 1933. He was the second of eight children born to Adam and Jane Yorke. His parents were hardworking, humble people. His father was a fisherman and freelance government surveyor; his mother a homemaker. Bob’s mother kept him close to her, as he was a sickly child, always with a cold on his chest. It is perhaps ironic that a bout of bronchitis would be his final illness.

The family lived off the land. Bob grew up planting sweet potatoes, peas and corn. When he came home from school he would have to grind corn to make coo coo or pick peas to make pea soup. Several times a week, Bob went fishing with his father and brothers.

The Yorkes kept cows, goats, and chickens. The children fetched water from a pipe up the street and the house had no electricity. Bob shared a bedroom with his brothers and the family used pitch oil lamps at night. Although they were poor, they never went hungry; and Bob lived by the credo “big ones help the little ones”. His sisters describe him as a gentle, loving brother who always looked out for them.

It was a close-knit, happy family. Bob pitched marbles with his brothers and spent school holidays with extended family members – Uncles, Aunts, and numerous cousins. Bob revered his older brother Norris – the Sibling In Charge – and emulated him in many aspects of his adult life. He was devastated by Norris’s untimely death in 1987 and rarely spoke of him after.

Bob’s father Adam was the Choirmaster at St Luke’s Anglican Church. The family went to church every Sunday and Granddaddy Adam – or Polly, as we called him – taught all his sons music. This early introduction to music inspired in Bob a love of the musical arts that would stay with him for a lifetime.

My father loved a singsong, and his love of jazz is well known. When I was growing up, he was the box bass player for the Aruac Rd Parang Group. This was a parang side formed by the families on the Valsayn street where we lived. I was a cuatro player, along with a few of the other children and Uncle Leo Martin played the guitar. My mother and the other ladies were the backbone of the choir. Every Christmas Daddy would get the song sheets printed at his office. The whole street looked forward to this annual tradition of paranging each others’ houses.

In later life Bob would indulge his passion for jazz music with annual trips to the St Lucia, Toronto, and Montreal Jazz Festivals before starting his own Jazz On The Beach at Mount Irvine Bay Hotel.

Bob and his friends once followed renowned jazz singer Abbey Lincoln from St. Lucia to Toronto. Like groupies, they gathered backstage where Abbey greeted them and before they knew it, the Master of Ceremonies ushered the singer and the T&T Posse onstage. Security tried to restrain them to no avail. (Hold back a Trini? No way.)

To the surprise of the audience, Abbey dedicated her opening number, for which she received a standing ovation, to the Trini fans who had followed her all the way from St. Lucia. Upon hearing the loud acclaim, the Head of Security looked at Bob and his group in amazement and accepted defeat.

Growing up, Bob was a good cook and regularly cooked for the family. His sister Christine remembers how he would always let her taste what he was cooking. His cooking skills would come in handy in later life when he migrated to England.

His fellow passengers on the voyage from Trinidad to England did not like the fare produced by the galley and complained bitterly about it. After a time the exasperated ship’s crew asked if anyone would like to take over the cooking duties. Bob did not hesitate to volunteer and quickly assumed the role of ship’s cook, earning himself some money on the voyage. So successful was he, and so popular was his cooking, that the Captain offered him a permanent job on the ship. Bob declined, telling the Captain that he had his heart set on becoming a structural engineer.

Bob attended the Patience Hill R.C. School. At around age fifteen, after gaining his school-leaving certificate, he got a job doing masonry with a man called Fred Cruikshank. His sisters would wash his clothes every evening – hand-me-downs from older brother Norris – in preparation for work the next day.

In those days there were few job opportunities for bright young Tobagonians apart from teaching and the Public Service. Bob’s older brother and sister were already training to be teachers but this was not a career that appealed to Bob. He worked with Fred for a while but he always wanted better for himself.

At age sixteen Bob asked his parents if he could move to Trinidad. They agreed and he went to live with his mother’s brother, Thomas Guy, in Mayaro. Bob’s cousin Chrissy, Thomas’s daughter, remembers that even then Bob was doing correspondence courses with a school in England in an effort to further his education. After a while he moved to Curepe to live with other relatives and his cousin Eccles Benoit got him a job at a brick factory in Longdenville. Bob would stay with the Benoits until he migrated to England. I have many vivid memories of visiting Cousin Eccles as a child, and he was always spoken of fondly in our house.

Bob worked at the brick factory for some years. Despite having a good job, Bob was restless. He hungered for more. He had developed an interest in structural engineering and longed to pursue it.

While living in Trinidad he occasionally visited his family in Tobago. It was on one of these trips that he told his parents that he wanted to go to England to study engineering. His parents wanted him to explore other opportunities and gave him their blessing. He was the first member of the family to travel overseas.

Bob arrived in England in 1956 not knowing a soul. He stayed in a youth hostel and soon met a Trinidadian who offered him a place to live. Times were hard for a black man from the colonies in those early days. His brothers in Tobago sent him a portion of their salaries until he found his feet and was able to support himself. Bob never forgot the debt he owed his brothers and until his death he helped them and their families in any way he could when he returned to Trinidad.

Bob wrote home regularly and his mother proudly read his letters to the family. In those days, especially for a Tobagonian, having a son in England was A Big Deal.

Bob enrolled at Greenford High School in London to complete his secondary education and was subsequently accepted at Hammersmith College of Art and Building to pursue a Diploma in Structural Engineering. While studying he had several jobs, including selling TVs and working in a cider factory.

At one point, Bob was a Manager in an electrical goods store. Bear in mind that this was in the early sixties when jobs were difficult to get, especially for coloured people. He had a small black car and being a natural entrepreneur, he decided to do mobile electrical goods sales. He loaded televisions and radios in the front and rear seats of the vehicle, and set off in search of customers.

He soon attracted the attention of a policeman who pulled him over for obstructing the view out of the rear window. When questioned about the items in the car, Bob explained, and suggested to the officer that he could be his first customer – to which the officer agreed. Bob wasted no time in retrieving and preparing a Hire Purchase agreement for the officer. The television was delivered the following day and Bob was not charged.

Bob never forgot his family back in Tobago. As soon as he was established he started sending money back home. His younger brothers and sisters eagerly devoured the big box of candies, cookies, biscuits – whatever he could afford- that Bob would send home every Christmas. Even in those early days his generosity was legendary.

Former flatmate Selwyn Burkette recalls meeting Bob in London:

“I first met Robert Yorke at a friend’s home in London. I had been in England only a week and when Bob learnt I was from Trinidad, he eagerly questioned me on the state of affairs in the country he had left three years ago. We were both studying engineering and our conversation came to an end with the promise that we would see each other again.

Six months later I was looking for a room to rent in Earl’s Court. Whilst speaking to a gentleman on the sidewalk, Bob came up to me and enquired what I was doing in the area. He gestured to his residence, which was only two doors away while relating his intention of moving into a new flat in two weeks, which would have an extra room; “Would I be interested in being a tenant for that room?” I agreed and two weeks later I moved in with Bob at his flat in Baron’s Court.

Bob was not much of a party-goer but occasionally he would have parties at the flat on a Saturday evening. His favourite music was Jazz. He had the complete works of Glenn Miller and on his recommendation I saw the film “The Glenn Miller Story”. Two of his favourite tunes were Little Brown Jug and Pennsylvania 6-5000. He loved those tunes so much he would put the lever on the radiogram in the repeat position so that he could play them over and over.”

I personally can attest to watching The Glenn Miller Story on TV with my parents. It was one of my father’s favourite films. I think I can still play Little Brown Jug on the piano.

Selwyn lived with Bob, and later Greta, for two and a half years. Selwyn remembers Bob as being kind-hearted and God-fearing; and always treating him as a member of the family. After Bob and Greta returned to Trinidad, and Selwyn some time later with his own family, the friendship continued.

It was at a student party in London celebrating a Trinidadian event that mutual friends introduced Bob to a pretty student nurse from Barbados. Greta was living in Bristol at the time and had only come to London for the weekend on the insistence of her friends.

Bob was instantly smitten. Greta was not impressed, and returned to Bristol without another thought about the young man from Tobago. Much to her surprise, Bob turned up in Bristol a few weeks later and soon became a regular visitor. Several months later when Greta moved to London to complete her nursing training, the pair became close and on March 4th 1961, they were married. Bob’s family in Tobago knew nothing of Greta until Uncle Norris told them Bob had met a lady from Barbados and they were going to get married. As he did many times throughout his life, Bob consulted his older brother before making a decision and sought his approval.

I grew up hearing stories of those early days in England and to say my upbringing was very Anglophile in nature would be an understatement. I learned about wine at a very early age. We had dinner together as a family every night and my parents served wine with Sunday lunch. From age 10 I was allowed a sip or two as my father felt it was only right and proper that I be introduced to “the correct way to dine” as he put it.

By 1967 both Bob and Greta had completed their studies and Bob was anxious to return to the Caribbean. This was a time when many countries were gaining independence from Britain and West Indians overseas wanted to explore the promise of newly independent Caribbean nations. The young family – by this time I had joined the mix – set sail for Antigua where Bob had been offered a job with the Antiguan Government. When I was little I used to love looking at photographs of my parents dressed in their finery on the ship and think “How wonderful!”

Bob and Greta spent no more than a year in Antigua then went to live with Bob’s brother Norris in Tobago. Bob left his wife and young daughter with his family in Tobago while he went to look for a job in Trinidad. Fortuitously, he was offered a job with Sanders and Fosters (Caribbean) Ltd.

Bob was enthusiastic and relished the opportunity to put his education to good use. He moved up rapidly through the ranks from Engineer to Technical Director and subsequently assumed full responsibility for the Company’s operations.  This served him in good stead when he to started his own company Yorke Structures Ltd. in 1972. The rest as they say, is history. I won’t bore you with the details of Yorke Structures’ history but I will highlight a few achievements:

  • Yorke Structures has the largest steel fabricating workshop in the English speaking Caribbean
  • The Company builds Industrial, Commercial, Municipal, and Residential buildings
  • YSL has won numerous awards for trade and export and prides itself on the excellent quality of its work
  • From Belize to Guyana, Yorke Structures has worked in fifteen countries
  • Methanol Plants, Ammonia Plants, Atlantic LNG Trains 1,2,3 and 4, Piarco Airport, local and regional schools and hospitals, the Shaw Park Cultural Complex – Yorke Structures built them all

Bob was passionate about regional development. In the past few days I have had calls from people all over the Caribbean wanting to express their gratitude for the work Bob Yorke did in their countries. When Hurricane Ivan devastated Grenada in 2004, Yorke Structures assisted in the rebuilding effort. Yorke Structures built a wonderful Library in Plymouth, Montserrat, which unfortunately was buried under ash with the eruption of the Soufriere Hills Volcano. One of the saddest days for Bob had to be when he could no longer go to his office because of illness.

As a child my Sunday afternoons were spent driving around the country visiting Yorke Structures’ sites. By age eleven I knew more about steel erection than most graduate engineers. It came as no surprise to my parents when I decided to do a degree in civil engineering.

Many of you know Bob as a successful businessman, hotelier, dapper dresser, jazz aficionado, host extraordinaire, and nation builder. But he was so much more. As his friend Wendell Mottley (former Trinidad and Tobago Government Minister)  put it – he was a Tobago patron, a pillar of the Anglican church, pioneering innovator, and confidential advisor to so many – including Ministers of Government.

For many years Bob was the Property Advisor to the Anglican Diocese in Trinidad and Tobago. He visited every single Anglican Church in the country and reported on their state of repair (or disrepair, in some cases).

He was one of the first people involved with the National School Feeding programme and a supporter of the Boy Scout Movement. He donated generously to countless schools and causes, far too many to list. Bob never forgot that those who have, must help those who have not. Several family members owe their tertiary education and their homes to the generosity of Uncle Bob.

And of course, there were Those Parties. Long before all-inclusive fetes there was Bob Yorke’s Christmas party. Unless you were under 15 years old in the early eighties or living under a rock, you knew about Bob Yorke’s legendary parties. My father used to say this was a way of advertising Yorke Structures and thanking customers for their patronage, but I knew this was a thinly veiled excuse to throw a lavish party.

I doubt any one who attended can forget the year Bob Yorke brought Trader Vic’s – the legendary Polynesian Restaurant at the London Hilton – to Trinidad. The guest lists for those parties read like a Who’s Who of Trinidad and Tobago society. In true Trini style some people would try to storm – only to be turned away at the gate.

The downturn in the Trinidad and Tobago economy in the late 1980s reluctantly brought the YSL Christmas parties to an end but the memories live on. Bob’s friend Chanka Seeteram said it best – Bob taught Trinidad how to live. He showed us that we could live a first world life in a developing country. It wasn’t for show. How Bob entertained was how he lived.

Bob was a member of the official delegation under then Prime Minister George Chambers that visited China and the Far East in 1984. It was during that mission that Bob met the Malaysian owners of the Mount Irvine Bay Hotel and secured its purchase. For Bob this was the pinnacle of his triumph over colonial society’s strictures to keep him and his kind in their place.

Many of you may not know this, but my family has had a long history with the Mount Irvine Bay Estate. When Bob was a child, his father went for a job at Mt Irvine Sugar and Coconut Estate, what is now the Mount Irvine Bay Hotel and Golf Club. Granddaddy was turned down and when he argued, he was beaten. Subsequently he was banned from ever entering the estate again. The sting of this incident stayed with young Robert and when the opportunity arose to buy the Mount Irvine Bay Hotel he seized it.

Bob was enormously proud of his grandchildren. One of the happiest days of his life was the birth of his first grandchild, Benn. So delighted was Bob, he gave every employee of Yorke Structures the day off work and closed the Company for a day. When my second son Joseph was born an employee complained to me “Buh we ent get no holiday for this one.”

In later life the onset of Parkinson’s disease would have a marked effect on Bob’s quality of life. Although his mind remained active, his body slowed him down. In the last five years as he became less and less mobile, he frequently did not recognise friends and family members. Eventually he could no longer talk. But every now and then he would say or do something to let us know that his brilliance was still there. Right up to the end he listened to and enjoyed jazz music every day.

Every accolade, every award Bob earned, he deserved. I learned many valuable lessons from my father. How to open a bottle of champagne efficiently, how to pair wine with a meal, how to travel, how to throw a good party. But most importantly I learned the value of education and hard work. I learned that what whatever I do in life, I must do it well. Bob believed in striving for excellence and maintaining an inner belief in oneself.

To quote Wendell Mottley ” Bob’s greatest asset was his strong value system. When you went to Bob and Greta’s house, you knew what they stood for. And the greatest of these values was loyalty. Loyalty in commercial relationships, loyalty to country, and above all, loyalty as a friend. You could count on Uncle Bob.”

He wasn’t a saint. He had his little miserable ways but he was such a charmer, and had such a wicked sense of humour, you couldn’t stay mad at him. Daddy and I would argue and then share a bottle of champagne.

Daddy always said that when he died I would drink his cellar dry. He was absolutely correct. Tonight I will raise a glass to Robert T Yorke; an icon, a pioneer, my daddy. May he rest in peace.”

One of the last lucid conversations my father had was with his grandson Benn, four weeks prior to his death. He said:

“My name is Bob Yorke. I am an engineer and you are my grandson.” It was perhaps a final reminder of the passion which sustained him for so many years – his love for structural engineering – and his indomitable spirit until he drew his last breath.

I will be eternally grateful for the influence he had on my life.

Party Done

Ash Wednesday. Carnival is officially over. My sore feet, aching calf muscles and suspiciously scratchy throat are testament to the wonderful time I had dancing through the streets of Port of Spain. Today is the day some people dutifully head to church to have purifying ashes applied to their foreheads while thousands more are checking the Lost and Found for their pride, dignity, self respect, and decorum. Luckily I am still in possession of my core values despite spending two days wearing very little.

The weather forecast for Carnival Monday and Tuesday was sunny with a 100% chance of raining bumpers. The meteorologists were spot on. Thousands thronged the streets in search of bacchanal. Not everyone can keep up with the hectic pace though. To quote my husband – it’s a series of sprints, not a marathon. Opportunities for rest are limited so I grab every chance. At 4.00pm on Carnival Tuesday afternoon I was asleep on the Harts Rest bus; recharging my batteries for las’ lap.

The Carnival season is a difficult thing to explain to people who have never experienced it. At what other time of the year does one get a license to break every fashion rule and party non-stop for six weeks? When else would one consider traversing the streets of a capital city dressed in a bikini and strategically placed glitter? Where else can one see a half-naked man jump into a bathtub filled with mud at three o’clock in the morning? Trinidad and Tobago is a very conservative country but during the Carnival season, anything goes.

The rising cost of Carnival has not dimmed the general population’s enthusiasm for the festival. Every year we pay more money for less costume. The fetes are no different. The average all-inclusive fete ticket is equivalent to a monthly car payment. However I have noticed that the more expensive the fete ticket, the more people are admitted free of charge. Personally I have no problem with this – I gratefully accept all freebies.

In preparation for squeezing into that tiny costume, I spent the past four weeks on the Jorge Cruise Happy Hormones, Slim Belly Diet. Twenty-eight days (give or take a few lapses) spent chomping low sugar, high protein food paid off. I lost a few pounds and more importantly, inches off my thighs, enabling me to shimmy into trousers gathering dust in my closet.

Unfortunately my weight loss joy was short lived. Three days of eating all manner of off-diet fete food during Carnival weekend led to me waking up bloated and apparently five months pregnant on Carnival Monday. To hell with Jorge and his diet. I don’t want to see celery, cream cheese or avocado for a very long time.

As much as I love Carnival, my mas-playing days may be numbered. I’m used to young men saying “Hello Aunty” in my living room but when it happens on the road – in the band!- it is mighty disturbing. I don’t want to be rubbing shoulders – or any other body parts – with my kids’ friends in a Carnival band.

And don’t talk about the pernicious glitter. I changed the sheets and scrubbed every inch of my body yet I still glisten in the sun. Then there’s the mud and paint. Up to this morning I had to clean paint out of my ears. A trip to the spa might be in order.

My body needs to recover and the country needs to get back to work. The wave of visitors over the Carnival season is both a blessing and a curse. Yes we want those lovely tourist dollars, especially with oil prices falling. But tourists bring other things with them I can do without, thank you very much.

At the height of the Ebola scare Government ministers began hinting at cancelling Carnival. Public outcry ensued. In T&T society, partying and revelry trump the risk of wining on an Ebola bumper any day. Luckily the Ebola outbreak was contained and mas leaders around the country breathed a collective sigh of relief as the spectre of diminished Carnival costume dollars faded away like smoke from the La Basse.

A new health issue emerged to taunt us, yet curiously I seemed to be the only one concerned. Never mind Ebola, what about the influx of unvaccinated Americans? I like living in a measles-free country. No-one else was worried about this? Just me? Alrighty then. If I were the Minister of National Security – and let’s face it, in T&T anyone is qualified to do the job – I’d insist on no entry without proof of Measles Mumps Rubella immunisation.

Thankfully the mass exodus began today. Carnival season is like swimming in a sea of Freshwater Yankees. They outnumber every other tourist group and are omnipresent. For my non-Trini readers, a Freshwater Yankee is a Trinbagonian national now residing in the USA. Their accent is a strange blend of American twang and Trini lilt; only marginally less annoying than finger nails on the blackboard. Having said that, Carnival would not be the same without them. Every year I delight in watching them hit every fete, eat every local dish, and get lost trying to find the entrance to Grand Bazaar.

The Lenten period of reflection and sobriety begins today. Like all good Christians I will be abstaining from something – although I am not sure what that something is yet. Right now I am still basking in the glow of one of my best Carnival experiences ever. Machel and Angela say party done…for me the memories are just beginning.




Christmas Musings

By now several of you reading this are feeling the effects of ingesting an average 7000 calories per day for the better part of a month or so. My yoga pants are now skinny jeans and every maxi dress is my new best friend. I might also need a new liver but every drop of Prosecco was worth it.

This is also the time of year when most Trinis realise they have no chance in hell of losing the Christmas weight before Carnival, and panic sets in. I literally broke the scale when I stood on it yesterday. (I’m not even kidding. The plastic window cracked and pinged off the bathroom wall.) I interpreted this as A Sign and immediately purchased Jorge Cruise’s Happy Hormones, Slim Belly off Amazon.

A good portion of this week was spent lying in bed nursing a post-Christmas cold (inevitable result of forced close proximity to germ-harbouring friends and family) and reflecting on a frenetic Christmas season. Christmas is my favourite time of year. I love everything about it – the food, the music, the fellowship – everything. Well, almost everything. Why is it that far too often Christmas brings out the worse in us?

Take driving for example. Why do people drive so badly at Christmas? Do The Powers That Be circulate a secret memo at the beginning of December mandating cackahole driving and dickhead parking? How else can one explain the upsurge in straddlers, those wonderfully considerate drivers who take up two parking spaces by straddling a white line instead of parking between two lines? And let’s not forget the Pushmattees who force their way into a congested intersection effectively blocking movement of traffic in any direction.

My irritation with Christmas driving is eclipsed only by my aversion to Christmas shopping. Shopping of any kind is a major challenge but food shopping in December is a nightmare. Supermarkets turn into dangerous places. People get real ignorant when it’s 6pm on Christmas Eve and there’s only one tin of cranberry sauce left on the shelf. I had to share a six-pack of sorrel shandy with a fellow shopper after we reached for it at the same time and neither one of us wanted to let go. He’s lucky I wasn’t desperate.

Emotions are particularly close to the surface at Christmas time. Forget road rage – trolley tantrums are the new public hissy fits. Try cutting into a checkout queue that snakes along the aisles. You’re likely to be beaten to death with a frozen ham.

Retailers capitalise on our hunger for consumables by opening new stores in time for the Christmas rush. There is something mesmerising about an “Opening Soon” sign. No surprise then that like the rest of the sheep I shuffled through the welcoming doors of the latest mega supermarket in my neighbourhood.

What I love about mega stores – you can literally buy anything from a can of soup to a computer in one spot. What I hate about mega stores – unless you know the layout you can spend two hours trying to find toothpicks.

Eyes pointed upward, we push our trolleys uncertainly down the aisles simultaneously trying to read the signs to find what we came for while being distracted by an enticing array of goods we don’t normally buy. Roasted red pepper pesto with almonds? Oooh, yes please. We end up taking twice as long to complete a simple shopping expedition and spending three times as much as we intended.

Isn’t it about time supermarkets had one-way aisles? Instead of jockeying for position in the pasta section wouldn’t it make more sense for us all to be moving in the same direction? Think of the trolley tantrums that could be avoided.

Let’s say you manage to successfully navigate the shopping and traffic quagmires. The real trial of the season is the family gathering. As much as we love our relatives, they also irritate and infuriate us. Tempers flare easily at Christmas time, particularly when alcohol is involved. Long held grudges have a habit of boiling over with the turkey gravy.

We all have that uncle or cousin who thrives on drama and needs no invitation to dominate a family gathering. This is the family member who turns up drunk for Christmas lunch, tells off-colour jokes, and confesses (loudly) to sleeping with their sibling’s spouse before passing out in the sherry trifle. This season my relatives in England provided the family punch-up and dammit, I wasn’t there to see it.

My mother looks forward to Christmas Day with a malicious glee. It is a golden opportunity for her to criticise my every action; from my cooking to the way I style my hair. It was gratifying therefore to see the genuine delight in her eyes as she opened my Christmas present to her, an ipod. Of course she couldn’t help giving a backhanded compliment: “This is the first time you actually gave me something I asked for” #OyVey

By Boxing Night the food coma is wearing off and most of us have had enough family bonding, thank you very much.  We cling to the promise of New Year’s Eve and the opportunity to press the annual reset button. My New Year’s Eve was far from exciting. I spent it policing my property thanks to my teenage daughter and her friends throwing a rather noisy party at our house. The neighbours who didn’t hate us before now do; and those who did, feel justified in calling the police the next time we throw a party.

Despite the cackahole driving, trolley tantrums, and family drama I had a great Christmas season and look forward to doing it all again this year. By December I will have forgotten how long I spent standing in queues and how frequently I swore at other drivers. All I will remember is the delicious aroma of Christmas food, laughter, and the overwhelming sense of relief as I sat down to Christmas dinner surrounded by those I love most.

Happy New Year everyone.


How was your Christmas season? Do you have a tale of woe/mirth to tell? Please share in the comments below.


Excuse Me While I Butt In

Yesterday, Wednesday 12th November 2014, Kim Kardashian attempted to break the internet. If you don’t use social media you may have missed this. Well, the internet didn’t break, but Kim did manage to add a crack (pun intended).

Today Kim threw a pair of melons in the mix; and just in case we weren’t sure, showed us where North came from. Not surprisingly this sparked an internet and talk show frenzy of outrage and admiration, in almost equal proportions. Meanwhile the producers of Paper Magazine are gleefully rubbing their hands together and counting the ka-ching.

Here’s my take: Well played, Miss Kardashian, well played. Kim succeeded  once again in manipulating the media and getting exactly what she wanted – all of us talking about her. Love her or loathe her, Kim is a marketing genius. She knows exactly what she is doing. Before you start hating on me, hear me out. I am NOT debating the morality of Miss Kardashian’s actions; nor am I arguing what she did was right or wrong.

People who say Kim K has no talent are wrong. THIS IS HER JOB PEOPLE. Kim’s job is self-promotion and she’s exceptionally good at it. Whether or not this is a worthwhile, honourable, wholesome profession is a whole ‘nuther discussion. Kim figured out at a very young age that her body was the key to her fortune. She branded it, exploited it, and sits that big booty on an even bigger pile of cash as result. Do I envy her? No. Do I wish I had her money? Hell yeah. Let’s get real people. Who doesn’t want to win the lottery?

Kim earned widespread condemnation for choosing to pose nude. “She has a child! She is a mother!” screamed the trolls. Really? I wasn’t aware women stopped being sexual beings post-motherhood. If so, I didn’t get that memo.  And do people honestly believe that women working in the “adult” industry don’t have husbands and children tucked away at home? Puhleease!

Several women in public life have posed nude or semi- nude, garnering praise and admiration in the process– Demi Moore, Janet Jackson, Jenny McCarthy, Pamela Anderson, Marilyn Monroe – the list goes on and on. Are we condemning Kim because she is already so overexposed?

Kim K irritates people because she is good at (apparently) doing very little. We not-so-secretly resent her ability to make millions through self-promotion while the majority of us working stiffs struggle to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. It is difficult to respect someone so obviously self-serving but I do admire her business sense.

“What will she tell her daughter when she grows up and sees those pics?!” Kim will tell North: “Mommy made a lot of money when she was young and pretty and that’s why you got a Lamborghini for your 16th birthday.” All jokes aside, who are we to judge the long-term effects of Kim’s career on her child? I try to be a good mother but I am hardly the Perfect Parent. WHO IS??

Many people believe Kim’s pictures were offensive and racist because she was naked and oiled; in the same manner African slave women were presented for sale, minus the chains. They argued that as the mother of an African/Armenian/American child, this was an insult to baby North.

*Deep breath* …If you look for racism in everything you will find it. Hand on heart I do not believe Miss K considered the possible racist connotations of the photo shoot. Kim is clever, but not very smart. I am sure the decision to use baby oil was based on “OOOH that will make my skin look fantastic!” Don’t assume that because Kim is married to a black man she has any clue of what it is like to experience the world as a black person. Baby North West will open Miss K’s eyes to several truths that no amount of money can overcome.

Miss Kardashian is cashing in on her assets. More power to her I say. Looks fade, asses droop, and breasts sag. Thirty years from now Kim might look back on her actions and think “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.” Then again she might be sunning herself on a luxury yacht off the coast of St Tropez and thinking “F*ck you biatches. I had the last laugh.”

What do YOU think?

Yuh Know You Is A Trini Too

Trinidad and Tobago is famous for many things – the smallest country to qualify for FIFA World Cup Finals; home of the Pitch Lake, the largest natural asphalt deposit in the world – to name a few. Perhaps T&T’s greatest claim to fame is their people; a diverse mish-mash of cultures and ethnicities that blend together perfectly to make a unique population with equally unique idiosyncrasies. Last year I blogged about how to spot this peculiar species in Yuh Know You is a Trini. Here are a few more identifying characteristics!

For those of you not familiar with Trini parlance, please refer to the Trinbago Dictionary here.

Yuh know you is a Trini too if…

…You are half Indian, half African, half Syrian, half French Creole, half Spanish and a quarter Carib.

…KFC deliverymen hail you out in the street

…You have several margarine/butter containers in your fridge containing anything but butter or margarine

…You fear maljoe

…You know somebody who knows somebody who has been jarayed

…Your name is Akil or Keisha; spelt with 10 letters and 2 apostrophes

…You had 300 guests, 6 groomsmen, and 6 bridesmaids at your wedding – and you’re unemployed

…You can’t spell Blanchisseuse

…Your car bumper sticker is “Ah What Less”

…You have a drawer full of plastic HiLo shopping bags

…At least one member of your family is a pastor/priest/pundit/imam

…You know a pastor, a policeman, and a bandit – and they’re all the same person

…You use the noun “ting” liberally – “Well look ting!” “Ting start” “Da’s he outside ting”

…You keep a cutlass and a box of tissues in your car

…You never run out of Crix

…You have given and received a good cuss out

…You spent your rent money on weave

…You don’t know what a zebra crossing is

…You know where to find Red Man

…Your boss is your sister’s baby daddy’s uncle’s half-brother

…You put coconut oil or Brillocream in your hair

…You douse your neck and chest in baby powder to keep cool

…Your have your loctician/barber/hairstylist’s number on speed dial

…You don’t wash and iron clothes on the same day for fear of contracting cramp

…You have no money on your phone

…You go out to come back

…You keep a sweater at work for when it rains

…Any temperature below 20°C is considered freezing

…You spend at least $50 a week on Lotto, Play Whe and scratch cards

…You plant something in your garden every Corpus Christi

…Your main source of news is Twitter

…The only time you used a turn indicator on a car was during your driving test

…Driving PH is your side gig

…You musical idol is 2 Chainz

…You believe ketchup is a vegetable

…Your sister posted a video of you getting licks from your mother on Facebook

…Four generations of your family live in the same house

…You sub-let an HDC apartment from your aunt

…Your Facebook status is “horning”

…You keep piles of old newspapers for “in case”

…Your email address is

…You have no idea what the sign “Take One Only” means

…You’ve already made a downpayment on a Carnival 2015 costume but you haven’t thought about Christmas yet


I’m sure there are many more idiosyncrasies I did not mention. Add yours in the comments below!

The Tipping Point

Someone somewhere at some time wrote the rules of tipping. Someday something will drive me to study said rules. Until then, I blunder forward in ignorance.

A little person (I don’t know what is the politically correct term; I just know I can’t say dwarf or midget) packed my groceries last week. She was so short she could barely get the bags into the boot of my husband’s SUV. So I ended up helping her.  Short on change (no pun intended), I gave her all I had – the magnificent sum of TT$3 (US 50 cents). She gave me a look, which quite clearly registered her disdain, and I shrank to two foot six.  Sheepishly I got into the car and drove off feeling guilty. I had committed a tipping offence. I am a repeat offender.

A few years ago I shared a van from Toronto’s Pearson Airport to my hotel downtown with other travellers. At my destination I offloaded some Canadian coins my father had given me on the van driver. He studied them, looked up at me and remarked sarcastically “Haven’t seen one of those for a while!” Oh, the shame…

I have a vivid memory of exiting a London black cab aged 11 or so with my mother and hearing the cab driver shout at my mother ” Don’t you people give tips?!” That sharp rebuke stung me to the core and left me with a morbid fear of being considered cheap because I am black.  I’ve gone so far as to apologise to taxi drivers when I don’t have enough money for a tip. But is an apology enough? Is it ok to express your regret and move on, leaving the other party disgruntled? Or should I hand over my vex money and hitchhike home?

When it comes to dining I firmly believe it is unwise to piss off the wait staff, particularly if you intend to visit the establishment again. Bad tips leave bad memories.  I’m convinced an uncomfortably large number of disenchanted wait staff would cheerfully leave a DNA imprint in my entree should I be regarded as miserly.

My husband, who clings to a dollar tighter than Cersei Lannister holds onto a grudge, thinks differently. As far as he’s concerned, people are paid to do a job. What do they need tips for? I try to always leave something. Memories of that cab ride haunt me.

I live in a country where tipping is the exception rather than the norm, so I am always a bit flustered when persons demand a tip. On a recent trip to Panama, a taxi tout actually chased my husband and I to the car and opened the door to demand his reward for pointing us in the direction of the taxi stand.  Fearing cab cartel reprisal I hastily handed over five bucks.

Contrast the Panamanian tout’s attitude with my T&T experience last month in the car park of a doctor’s building. After helping me fold my mother’s walker and get her into the car in pouring rain, the security guard refused a tip, insisting I was making him feel guilty for doing his job.  I cannot win.

Why can’t Trip Advisor or Lonely Planet publish Country Tipping Tips? That would prevent idiots like me from annoying the natives. Who to tip? When to tip? And how much? I’m not ashamed to admit I need help distributing small change.

Until the Tip With Confidence bible is written, perhaps you guys could help me? Share your tipping advice and mishaps in the comments below. You have to be better at this than I am.

Going Pecans

This blog post is dedicated to Gina Henning, author of Going Pecans.


Gina Henning is an American author of contemporary romance and commercial fiction. Click here to buy Going Pecans  on Amazon

Contact Gina:  Facebook    Website    Goodreads   Twitter


When Twitter pal Gina Henning invited me to join her Blog Hop “Going Pecans” to promote her book of the same name, I readily agreed. The premise is fun; write about a time when you were going nuts, i.e. pecans. But then I thought – what should I write about? Should I blog about the time I unwittingly signed up for HUET (Helicopter Underwater Evacuation Training) so that I could work on an oil rig? Or the time I was pursued by Mormons? Running out of money while backpacking solo across Europe certainly generated a few hairy moments. I eventually decided on the insane period following the birth of my second child.

Husband, two year old son and I were living in a rented house in Cambridge, England. Short story – we had just returned from eighteen months in Mozambique and tenants were living in our own home. We were happy to be back in Cambridge where we’d spent many previous years.

They say that having a baby changes your life. Well, DUH. “They” also say that when you’ve had one baby, the second one is easier. Bull crap. The arrival of my daughter catapulted me into a Twilight Zone of perpetually crying children, an endless laundry pile, and a permanently screwed sleep pattern. I couldn’t even seek solace in a decent Sauvignon Blanc. Nature is cruel.

I didn’t know if I was coming or going. Whole days were spent in a front-opening nightgown with a toddler clinging to my leg and a baby hanging off my breast. Brushing my teeth and showering regularly became dimly remembered luxuries I could no longer indulge in. Sitting on the toilet with the door open became the norm. I needed the door open so that I could yell “It’s OK darling! Mummy’s coming just now!” over the combined wailing of my offspring.

Watching Orange Is The New Black recently brought back vivid breastfeeding memories. It was the episode where Polly answers the door to Larry with a nipple poking out of her unbuttoned shirt  Pride goes out of the window when you have a screaming child to feed. I couldn’t give a toss who saw my tits as long as a nipple in her mouth shut my daughter up.

Mealtimes – what mealtimes? – were forgotten altogether. My husband and I wolfed hasty bites of whatever scraps we could find between nappy changes and shoving fish fingers and mash into our son.

I envied my husband’s daily escape to interact with The Real World. I was stuck in an endless cycle of Children’s BBC (I can recite every word of dialogue from every episode of Postman Pat ever made), breastfeeding, and strategic cleaning. (I can’t call it housework. Everything was a mess). I was truly “going pecans”.

Even the simplest of chores became a major undertaking. A trip to the supermarket was a mammoth task. The sheer effort involved in getting a baby and a toddler dressed to face the British winter and strapped into car seats could take the best part of a morning. At least all I had to do was throw on a coat. No-one needed to know I was wearing a grubby T-shirt and sweatpants over yesterday’s knickers. As for make-up, don’t be ridiculous. A good twenty minutes was usually spent tracking down where my son had hidden the car keys. Inside the video recorder and behind the settee were favourite places.

We’d arrive at the supermarket and after parking in one of the coveted “Mother and Children” spaces I would spend the next forty-five minutes hissing at my son through gritted teeth “Benn! Come here! Put that down! Leave it alone!” By the time we got home I would be stressed, my son would be over-excited, and the baby would be cranky.

If it hadn’t been for my local National Childbirth Trust Mother and Baby Group I would have lost it altogether. NCT Group was my salvation. I lived for the weekly encounters with other harassed new mothers, several of whom were also doing the second child shuffle. We spent our meetings exchanging tips to stop Child No 1 from killing Child No 2 and bitching about our irritatingly calm husbands who took the changed family dynamic in their stride instead of having screaming hormonal breakdowns.

For two blessed hours I was in the company of women who were in exactly the same situation and handling it equally badly. There was something strangely comforting, indeed satisfying, in sharing our tales of woe and maternal failure. We bonded over rumpled clothes (who the hell had time to iron?), sleep deprivation, and sore nipples. Misery does indeed love company.

Not for the first time I appreciated the ability of sisterhood to save my sanity while nourishing my soul. As crazy as the time was – days would pass before I remembered to comb my hair – I wouldn’t have swapped the new baby-toddler-circus for anything. I understood this was a learning curve. I was starting at the bottom but I would get better. Or at least better at faking being a Domestic Goddess, with the support of my fellow new mommies.

Did I mention Nature is cruel? So cruel that when you become proficient at faking Domestic Goddesshood, Nature makes you forget the newborn hell and knocks you up again. The arrival of Baby Number Three threw me into a fresh nightmare. But that, my friends, is the subject of a whole ‘nother story.


Going Pecans Blog Hop

Please follow along and enjoy these great blog posts below. Everyone who comments on every single post will receive a Going Pecans Recipe Card signed by Gina Henning. Please be sure to include your email!

August 14th

Gina Henning Blog

August 15th

Waiting On The Westcotts

Anya Breton’s Blog

Missy Devours Delish Reads

August 18th

Kasper’s Ramblings on the Hunters of Reloria Website

August 19th

Loss For Words

The Edible Bookshelf

In Search of Romance

August 21st

Helen Rena

August 22nd

Word Forward

Amber Daulton

Ana Blaze

August 25th

Keepin it Real

Feeling Beachie

August 26th

Krysten Lindsay Hager

Anais Morgan: Things are about to get hot

DM Brain Waves-dmarblog

August 28th

Wilson Writes

August 29th

Writing About Love

See Bethany Blog

Lover of all things crafty

Susanne Matthews

Stumbling Towards the Finish Line


Click here to enter the Going Pecans Raffle!



Seared Ahi Tuna and Avocado Tartare


20140806_202336It is avocado season in Trinidad and Tobago and I have been experimenting with ways to enjoy my garden’s bounty. Tuna and avocado make a particularly delightful pairing thanks to the variation in flavour and texture. This quick and easy recipe makes a delicious lunch or light supper for four people.



The avocado should be firm and just ripe. Refrigerate the avocado for at least 2 hours before starting.

The recipe is based on locally sourced ingredients. However international chefs can happily make the following substitutions without changing the nature of the dish.


1 small jalapeno (seeded and finely diced) for  Trinidad hot pepper

Cilantro for shadon beni

Fresh oregano for parsley


Yield – 4 servings


4  5-6 oz sushi grade tuna steaks ¾ inch thick

6 tablespoons sesame seeds

1 large avocado peeled, pitted and diced

2 teaspoons diced Trinidad hot pepper

1/3 cup chopped fresh shadon beni

1/3 cup diced red onion

2 teaspoons fresh chopped parsley

1 – 2 teaspoons fresh lime juice

2 ½ tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper



First, make the avocado tartare. Mix the avocado, hot pepper, shadon beni, onion, parsley, lime juice, and 2 tablespoons of the olive oil in a bowl. Add salt and black pepper to taste. Cover and place in the refrigerator. The tartare must be well chilled.

Next, prepare the tuna. Stir the sesame seeds in a large heavy skillet over high heat until the seeds are a pale golden colour, about 2 minutes. Transfer the seeds to a large plate.

Sprinkle the fish with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Dip the fish into the seeds, coating on all sides and pressing the fish so that seeds adhere. Return the same skillet to high heat. Brush the skillet with the remaining ½ tablespoon of olive oil. Add the fish to skillet and sear until the coating is deep brown on the outside and still opaque in the center, about 1½ minutes per side. If you prefer your tuna more well done, you can cook for up to 2 minutes each side. Transfer fish steaks to work surface and allow to cool for a few minutes.

Thinly slice each steak and arrange the fish, slices overlapping on plates. Add a quarter of the avocado tartare to each plate. Garnish with lettuce leaves if desired.




Savour The Date

As Ramadan draws to a close, Trinidad and Tobago and Muslims around the world prepare to celebrate Eid ul-Fitr.  The overriding thought on many Trinis’ minds today? Which Muslim friend or family member am I eating by tomorrow?

Trinbagonians equate celebration with food. We love to eat. For every occasion, there is a dish to match. What trip to Maracas Beach would be complete without a bake and shark? Or a river lime without curry duck? Unimaginable. Going to Panorama Semis or cricket in the Oval? Pass the pot of pelau.

Trinbagonians take meal times and holiday food favourites seriously. Christmas is not Christmas without ham, turkey, pigeon peas, pastelles, ponche crema and all the local delicacies. I made the mistake of substituting a pork leg for roast turkey one Christmas Day lunch. My family revolted as one and were still complaining on New Year’s Day.

Every May 30th, dozens line up outside roti shops from early o’clock to get their curry fix. Luckily I don’t have to. I’m convinced the world would stop spinning on its axis if my mother didn’t cook curry duck and buss up shut on  Indian Arrival Day.

And can you really envision Eid without sawine? Divali – or Currylympics, as it known in my house – is an exercise in binge eating. How much curry can one consume in a day and still have room for left-overs?

I love that as a people Trinbagonians celebrate every holiday as one, irrespective of religion or ethnicity. This is the true beauty of our rainbow nation – the ability to come together and share each other’s heritage.

So stir the sawine, fry the samosas, and grill the lamb kebabs. Eid Mubarak – This hungry Anglican can’t wait to indulge.


What are your special occasion/holiday culinary traditions? Please share in the comments below – yum yum!

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