Thai-ing one on

I have never been a fan of Asian food. Not just Chinese, in all of its rich derivations. Not Japanese, Korean or, in the case of this post, Thai. I don’t like the flavors, the prep styles or cooking methods. I like Italian, Mexican, German and French, but never developed a desire or taste for those others.
So when my daughter the chef asked me to pick up Chinese and Thai on the way home from work, I agreed because she is my daughter and I had no desire to cause division in the Pacific Rim. Later, she called and told me that she convinced boyfriend Russ to try Thai, so it meant just one stop on the way home from the gym. It also meant that I would not be the stinkiest thing in the car.
I can’t even begin to describe the aroma. Becky kindly identified it as curry, but what it looked like, I dare not describe. Even the beef fried rice that they got for matriarch Joyce had a scent – not curry – that defied identification.
I was content with my leftover chicken wing sandwich and chips, and the car recovered the next day, although I now have a permanent excuse should the smell of sweaty gym clothes ever find its way back in.
Let none of this be misunderstood as being seriously disrespectful of the flavors and food from cultures exotic and fair. It is just another example of how, when it comes to culinary tastes, my daughter and I are literally worlds apart.