The weather was foul. Steel grey clouds were threatening to send us even more pesky snow, and icy winds cut through us like sharp blades. You guessed it. We were in London. It was December 1997, my first trip to Europe. Outside the British Museum my father dragged my mother and me to a street vendor. In a few seconds I was holding a piping hot, brown paper bag in my hands. My father took one foreign looking object out of the bag and showed me how to peel it, revealing a pale caramel flesh. It was my turn to try one. The chestnut was soft, crumbly and sweet. I was hooked.
