I used to make this exotic Indian dish. It combined so many spices—like cardamom, coriander, and a hard pulpy substance called tamarind that I soaked in hot water and used only the juice. It was a giant Middle Eastern stew. It was half science and half art. It was math at its best, generally, I despise math. It smelled so foreign and exotic, it contrasted with the wife and 2.3 kids placed neatly around the dinning room table, waiting on the finishing touches, sprigs of fresh cilantro tossed atop each bowl. An Indian bread called naan was dipped in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing. The wine—smiles—laughter, I can still smell it and taste it. And now, on lonely winter nights, my take-out tandoori chicken smells like a TV dinner.