It is raining today and a very strong wind is blowing over the lake. In this wind, the house feels like a living and breathing entity, grabbing a lungful of air, expanding its girth, hovering for a few moments, and then rapidly deflating, as if the air is being sucked out of it. When this happens, the doors and windows rattle loudly in their frames. I am certain they’d be thrown open and banged shut, if they weren’t securely closed off for the winter.
This weather means it’s a perfect day for Indian comfort food … butter chicken, matar paneer, fresh naan and basmati rice. I made paneer early in the morning, stirring lemon juice into boiled milk, watching the milk separate into soft curds, which I then I pressed into a small disk and let sit all day to drain. Later the paneer would be cut into cubes to add to the fragrant green pea curry.
I also made naan, preparing the silky, stretchy dough in my bread machine. Everything was perfect. But where was the beer? Can’t have Indian food without a cold, crisp beer.
We called a colleague who was in Chibougamau for the day and asked if he could kindly bring us four Rolling Rock from Maxi. The doorbell rang. I opened the door and looked both ways and we make a quick clandestine exchange of cash and beer.
Does this make us bootleggers?