We used to find ourselves in meetings daydreaming about that day, on that beach, when we found that jerk hut. Sweat pouring down our backs from baking in the sun, napkins piled high, chicken piled even higher, beer at the ready. Bliss! Or what about that time we zoned out on the subway and almost missed our stop; too busy remembering the walk home from school in Bombay. Gossiping as we slip out the school doors, racing across the street to avoid the cars and rickshaws, and always, always, a stop on the walk to buy a snack made right before us – curry leaves crisping in oil, turmeric staining our fingers, all wrapped in newsprint from the day prior. Food is memory. Food is fuel.