The number of kilometers that our dinner flew in a suitcase, wrapped in tinfoil and ziploc bags, to be transferred to a hot wok, heated, assembled on our plates and then shoveled breathlessly into our poor coastal food-deprived mouths and hearts, courtesy of a most generous man that I haven't even met yet.
Three words that make this princess so very happy.
King of Donair.
Sigh.
(I'm sure he's my father, this elusive king. Since I am the princess, after all, and I love everything he makes.)
