I used to hate curry.

In fact, I hated curry and the very sound of the word for at least eighteen years of my life. The name was always associated with cold meats, Miracle Whip, and celery. My mother used to make a disch called “Chicken Divan.” It was a heinous concoction that relied on the aforementioned ingredients, with a dash of curry powder. Just enough to turn the chicken a creamy yellow hue. This was the same curry powder the ladies at the church potlucks would sprinkle on their tuna fish sandwiches and hard boiled eggs. I would always opt out of the dinner and eat a PB&J in my room, alone, sobbing. I hated curry.

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