online casino promotions Singapore For many years in my life, we were four generations living together under one roof. The grand old nonagenarian, my Nana Caro, left behind a legacy of three children, six grandchildren, twelve great grand children and a host of loving in laws who married them. Summer vacations were inevitably the times we got together in our home in Pondicherry and before the family descended, Nana would stock the meat safe with her delicious pickles, chutneys, and sweets, both to be enjoyed during the visit and to take back home. When twelve coconuts defied the Corona restricted movement ban and showed up on my doorstep yesterday, Nana’s coconut sweets popped into mind. With constant commentary from Zoë on how I don’t measure ingredients accurately, on how I had promised to make the sweet at Christmas but didn’t, on the choices of food colouring, etc., etc., etc., I turned out a plate full of coconut sweets (and yes, she also said I should have cut out diamonds and not squares. The pictures below are in remembrance of ‘cousin times’ and Nana’s coconut sweets that are forever etched in memories that start with ‘Once upon a time…’
Husainābād ivermectin horse wormer amazon I grew up in a generation who had the privilege of having a grandmother in the home. She was Nana to almost everyone and over the years became Nana, Pondy Nana and Granny Nana as the family moved away and expanded. As I was growing, it seemed to me that there was nothing my grandmother couldn’t do and her culinary skills outshone the rest. Hayley and I have the fondest memories of coming home from school, every evening, to delicious aromas wafting out from the kitchen. My favourite was banana fritters, and hence, now that I am at leisure, thanks to being homebound, I am cooking up the past into which my beloved Na, my Superwoman, is intrinsically woven.
party poker download Rawson My beautiful hometown!
https://espacedeseaux.com/29917-ivomec-plus-injection-for-cattle-5065/ Cleansed of human presence, we see it in all its beauty. The beautiful beach that used to afford us hours of uninterrupted cycling, back and forth, back and forth, from one end of Goubert Avenue to the other. Today, when I reminiscence over the years spent growing up in the environs of the White Town, this is what I miss the most. These days, going to the beach in the evenings means having to jostle for walking space. No vehicular traffic is permitted between 5.30 in the evening till around 8.30 the next morning. That means no more cycling. So I compensate. I often make visits to the Secretariat on work which is at one end of the cours chabrol. As soon as I enter Goubert Avenue from the other end of the road, I tell my driver to drive as slowly as possible. He used to wonder at my request. Now, he considers it just another whim of mine. I pull down the car windows and let the sea breeze in. I gaze at the huge expanse of water to my right and remember what my youth was all about right up to the time we moved to live outside the boulevard. I afford myself this luxury of living in the past for a few minutes, till I hear Nagaraj ask me if it is all right that he parks.