Blank Grocery List: Fill & Download for Free

Not disclosing the net worth for privacy reasons. Wallet contains most common stuffs like others.4 Debit cards2 Credit cards (Intl)1 Amex Black cardHealth Insurance cardS.O.S details.Driving license.A small amount of Hard cashBike & Car documents - Smart card.Pan cardA blank cheque (unsigned)My Photo (a must for everyone)My Business card2 pics of Parents.PS: Found an old grocery list my mom gave while I was checking the wallet to answer this :/

Someone didn’t say something rude but did something really beyond rude.My daughter was home from college on vacation and I was given a long grocery list to fill at Whole Foods for a gathering with family, friends and college girl.She and I spent at least an hour getting special pizzas, cuts of beef, sushi, breads, veggies, yet still only half done.When suddenly I asked my daughter where she put the shopping cart and she looked blank asking me the same thing.Some dork had absconded with our shopping cart filled almost to the top with specialty items that had taken forever to order and waited again to have the items made up.We looked everywhere couldn’t locate the cart anywhere in the store.We gave up and went home. Explaining to her mom was dicey but she got sweet talked by the little girl and we ended up catering.Dork

My dad made the world’s best curry and I adored it as a little kid, even if my primarily white fellow students weren’t fans of the pungent odors or spicy taste if I decided to share. And man his tandoori chicken made on the barbecue was amazing. My bottomless pit of a stomach eagerly ate up every dish of Indian food he placed on the table, and “Indian food night” became my favorite way to wind down after a day playing in the suburbs of southern California. Where other kids’ houses shut down at night, ours came alive and lit up with spice and candles. We were the special house on the block, and the lone place to get Indian food in our small semi-rural town. Then we moved away, to Silicon Valley, and “Indian Food Night” became less and less frequent as my parents had to work late and I was consumed with a full course load and heavy extracurricular schedule, bringing us to solitary night eating butter chicken and the like out of styrofoam takeout containers with the lights dimmed down low. But every once in a while, my dad would find a spare pocket of time on Sundays, call his mum, and cook us a feast of Indian food.One Saturday, we returned home after flying back from one of my grueling week-long sports competition, and promptly went to bed at 2am to rise early to go to our respective gyms. Fast forward to 9:37am on Sunday morning, and my mum runs in front of my treadmill, waving her hands erratically in the air. Puzzled, I hit the emergency stop and thud to a halt, long enough to hear her say “Stop. We have to go now. Your Dad just collapsed in his gym class”. And so my life changed. I remember getting home that night at 10:30, my mom still at the hospital, and wondering what to make for my family. As I entered that dimly lit kitchen and let the cold wash over me, reflexively I glanced up to the tattered piece of cardboard we’d scratch down our grocery list and meal plan on each week. And I felt sick- sloppily written in my Dad’s hand was “Sunday- Tandoori Chicken on BBQ. Indian Food Night”. It was up to me now to cook, but damn I had no idea how to make tandoori chicken. A third culture kid, of a French-Canadian mum and Indian-Guyanese father, born in America, my cooking was limited to traditional French and Indian dishes with the occasional Viet or Persian recipe thrown in. Nope, it was decidedly uncool where I lived to “act brown” and the school lunches I made were of the “Californian” variety- Bhudda Bowls, poke bowls, whole wheat veggie pizza, and veggie burgers. At that moment I realized that I didn’t know any Indian recipes because I was too embarrassed of my ethnicity to ask my dad how. And there I was, a young teen, trying to figure out how to cook something utterly foreign yet so familiar.Point blank, my attempt at tandoori chicken was an utter fail, yet my sister and mum ate it without complaint and even included some fabricated compliments, but all the time we were just thinking about how it didn’t taste like dad’s. I became more emaciated as my will to eat waned as I saw my dad go through surgeries, an induced coma, and finally regaining consciousness, but I began loving to cook and wanted to show love in support in the only way that I could. Still, I never could make that damn tandoori chicken taste quite the same no matter how many blogs I read or spices I pulled out of the cabinet. One day, in the rehabilitative facility it dawned on me to finally ask him how. “Dad. I’ve been taking care of mom and G. I’ve been cooking for them, you know, just doing the best I can.” I paused and smiled. “But that amazing tandoori chicken you always make, I’ve never been able to make. Can you tell me how,?”his eyes opened and closed, while a soft laugh played across his features. “My tandoori chicken? It’s really not that hard. I just take the chicken out, let it thaw, and then mix the sauce and oil.”I was confused. “The sauce? What do you mean. I kinda need to know what’s in it”, I said.He laughed lightly and replied “I don’t now what’s in it either, but you can check the ingredients label. It’s the purple capped jar in the top left shelf of the spice cabinet”. I was utterly dumbfounded… all these years that delicious chicken was made with a paste from a jar and not family recipes? He later told me that when he called his mum, he wasn’t talking about recipes or cooking at all, but merely chatting about his day. He was just like me- a third culture kid who learned to cook a mishmash of whatever was around him, and very little of his “ancestral” fare, instead subsisting on Canadian food until he began yearning for his dad’s cooking after he passed. I'm lucky enough to still have my dad around, and every time we cook together (almost daily when I'm at home) we love to make our favorite bastardizations *ahem* “modifications” of dishes of our childhood and ethnicities (Montreal chicken wraps with fried plantain and cucumber avocado salad are one of our faves). It’s hard to figure out what makes you “authentically” one race as a mixed race 3rd-culture kid, and what makes you “too brown” or “not brown enough”, but we’re working it out together- sharing recipes, time, and secrets. And yes, his secret ingredient is still that dang jar paste.