Today I was accused of being a racist.

I was accused of being a racist because I said I want to marry an Indian man to get homemade rogan josh, chole, sandesh, cham-cham and roomali roti everyday.  I also want a closet full of beautiful saris, lehengas and cholis. 

Blindie-ji’s cousin, who I haven’t yet forgiven for setting me up on a lousy blind date, said I was blatantly racist.  He said I was objectifying Indian men.  That when I looked at them, all I saw was food. 

I almost agreed with him. He’s put on way too much weight and his face is turning into butter nan. 

It didn’t help that I told him I have dreams of marrying a Bollywood star who would prance around me, serenade me on his sitar and practice the Karma Sutra on me step-by-step. 

So what was so racist about that? What’s the difference between what I said and women proclaim their soul’s desire to marry a man for his Christian values and how loud he prays?  How different is my list from that of a man who want to marry a woman from one tribe and not another because she can cook his favorite food, yell really loudly during sex and have abnormally long labia minora?   

Some women want tall, dark and handsome.  I want tall and olive-skinned with a strong nose and a mother-in-law who is a Bengali Martha Stewart.  Surely, there is nothing racist about that? 

Or maybe there is. 

Or maybe Ugandan restaurants should get a clue. 

Okay, I couldn’t find an appropriate lead-in to a totally different topic.  Whatever, it’s my blog and I am fabulous. 

So.  I bought a meal from a Top Restaurant that is Listed as a Top Restaurant by people who do those thingies in the Ugandan press.  The food was great and all, but …

… why?  Why?  Why? 

Ugandan restaurateurs don’t fail to disappoint.  If it isn’t tomato sauce in a cut-up plastic bag, it’s three tiny pieces of pineapple, cow ghee, kanzaali or mashed avocado stuffed in kaveera.  All this, despite the ban on low-grade polythene bags and that it is in obvious bad taste.