Fried

At the gym yesterday, I struggled on the Craig (wide legged stance plus swinging arms) machine and then I staggered to the stepper near the other other sweating guy and finally I settled on the treadmill in front of the huge picture windows and glass doors, facing the back, where the parking lot stretches out, because I am all nosy like that. It was the weekly Farmer's Market and busy, even in the thin, miserable rain. There were people milling about with wholesome hemp bags full of organic produce. I am not full of organic produce, but hoped by osmosis I would become unhealthier. That, plus the whole treadmill thing.

The stand right outside the window was serving up plates of handmade Indian food, served to white, dreadlocks college boys by a Latino family, because Santa Cruz is like that. It was good watching, while the treadmill tried to kill me.

At one point, the fellow serving up huge plates caught my eye. I smiled and he smiled and he waved his water bottle at me, like "Want this water bottle, cheerful, red-faced, fat lady?" And I shook my head and pointed at the huge container of samosas he had just placed beside him and then pointed at my mouth in the most G-rated fashion I could muster. And he smiled and I smiled.

And then a minute later, I looked over and he had a bag of samosas and was trying to open the fire door to hand them to me.

No, no! I mouthed. I couldn't! I was furiously blushing. The woman on the treadmill next to me, who had been watching all of this with widening eyes, started muttering oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no.

Yes! Take them! He mouthed back.
Delicious!

No, really! I waved my hands furiously. You shouldn't! I was kidding!

Take them! He mimed.

No! No! Take them away! I was just joking!

Delicious! Take them! he mimed back, with waving and nodding.

I'm fat! I mouthed. I pointed around me, at my middle, still running (slowly, ohgodsoslowly). Faaaaaaaat! No food!

Take them! he waved again. They're vegetable!

Fat! I bleated, but silently. Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!

I watched, transfixed as he scaled the side of the building, holding the drainpipe and the side of his truck. He dropped them in through the transom window, where I caught them in my outstretched hands. Ohmygodohmygod came the noise from the woman next to me - just a high-pitched keen.

I ran home with them, like a thief.

Although I adore Indian food, I didn't want them. I am faaaaaaaaaaaat and I am trying to lose weight. But I took them home, these still-warm, flaky, utterly gorgeous samosas and I ate them. They were, I swear, just as good as you'd expect free, sweet of heart and no strings attached, hard-delivery samosas to be, and I enjoyed them immensely, because I am not such a fool as to insult such a gift.