I’m sitting in front of my laptop, hoping to write something reasonably interesting. Something that people will want to read past the first paragraph and either ‘Like’ or post a (positive) comment about. Or simply smile at the end of the one-pager, glad that they spent a few minutes going through it. After all nobody wants to write something that will bore the reader. And if you’re bored reading my writing, then there’s something wrong with you. Or at least that’s how I justify it to myself.
However, I can’t come up with one mind-arousing topic to write about. My brain is a complete blank. I’m attempting to scan it, desperately searching for ideas. Some clue that will guide me forward.
Still nothing.
Considering how much I love food, not just eating but experimenting with, it’s surprising that I haven’t dedicated a single page to it. Can’t say that I haven’t considered it as a topic. Several times I’ve thought about penning words that will make my readers hungry, have them fantasize about their favorite treat, get them to a point where they have no choice but to stop whatever they’re doing and walk over to the refrigerator to look for something delicious. And if the fridge isn’t cooperative, drive down to their favorite bakery/restaurant/snack shop to indulge, with or without the guilt.
But it’s not happening. I’m not quite getting the right words to fill up a drool-over post.
My friend Elsa who I’ve mentioned previously, is very witty. Actually most of my friends are and it’s really laughter that brings us together. When Elsa visited me recently, we would have these goofy conversations (as we always do), play on words, talk and laugh almost continuously. I remarked to her that I should record our conversations and publish them on my blog. She however didn’t think it was such a good idea. “It’s OUR thing,” she said. “You can’t just share it with everyone.”
So much for writing about my goofy conversations with Elsa.
(‘Conversations with E’ could be a good title though).
(I still think that it would make for a very funny read).
(Doesn’t help that I can barely remember any of those conversations now).
I could write about my travels. Travels outside of New York. Which I also happen to enjoy very much. The problem is that these other places don’t give me the kind of fascinating material that NYC does. And I’m very sure that my readers are sick of my (I-wont-name-the-city-again) posts.
P.S. I, on the other hand, am certainly not sick of writing about ‘her’!
As a last resort I suppose I could make stuff up. Pretend that something incredibly fascinating happened in my life that I must share with everyone. I could get ideas from the newspaper (maybe not - it’s all pretty much depressing news), lives of movie stars (but then I’d have to read about them and why would I do that?), lives of people I know (hmmm ... never mind).
I guess I have to accept the fact that my life is largely uninteresting. I’m at a point where I’m struggling to write about Something. Anything.
Instead all I have for you is a page about Nothing.
Tso Moriri, Ladakh
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
A sequel to The Love Affair
Previously on The Love Affair ....
Is my love affair coming to an end?
I have no idea. But I figure I’ll have the answer in a couple of months.
I recently returned to Bangalore after spending 7 1/2 weeks in the US of A, 5 1/2 of which were spent in New York City ...
Week One could not have been better, staying with dear friends, perfect sunny spring days and nippy nights, the trees starting to bloom, tulips adorning the city, the return of outdoor seating in restaurants, the Tribeca Film Festival thanks to which I was in the same room as Martin Scorsese, Souleymane Cisse and Ed Burns, discovering a cart selling macaroons in Soho, my favorite meal, the Sunday brunch with a chorizo omelette. Damn! I was even toying with the idea of taking up a consulting assignment and staying back for a while!
Week Two I move into my sublet. Another almost perfect spring week except for a rainy Wednesday. Elsa, the friend I love to death and fight with a lot, visits from Chicago and we spend our days walking, eating, drinking, watching performances, getting to know Gabrielle the waitress/actress, Allie the bartender/model, Celine, Elsa’s niece/waitress/dancer, Michael the waiter/traveler ... there were others but I forget their names. We ate small meals many times a day so we could try out more places. We celebrated Cinco de Mayo, Elsa with beer and I with way more margaritas and tequila shots than should be legal, leading to stories about me that were told at parties later. I discovered that I loved the West Village and the East Village way more than Greenwich Village. New York still had the best pizza and bagels. Yes, life was bloody good!
Week Three was exhausting with my Culinary class, but also fabulous with me spending time reading my book and people-watching in various parks during the picture-perfect afternoons. Speaking of the class, I haven’t worked so hard in a very long time. It was like being on Top Chef, being constantly watched, afraid I would overcook the meat, have vinaigrette that wasn't blended (who was the genius that thought of mixing oil with vinegar?), limp salad leaves, measure incorrectly, cut my finger while chopping, burn my hand while flambe-ing. Fortunately none of that happened and our team consistently had the best dishes according to us!! After spending hours and hours in the kitchen Monday through Friday, I was ready to call it a week and sleep in the next 48 hours. What a ridiculous thought. Sleeping is a complete waste of time in New York City, even if you’re exhausted from a culinary class.
Week Four was a disaster weather-wise. It rained the entire week. Constantly. I don’t like getting wet. I kept buying and losing umbrellas. I hated that my shoes were wet. I began missing home. I wanted warm meals served to me. I didn’t want to do laundry. I wanted more space than just the room I was confined to. The parking garage across the street was too noisy and kept me up at night. The highlight was Pooja’s visit over the weekend, when the rain temporarily stopped, we ate scrumptious meals, bought some art from Union Square, ate cupcakes from a place that sold them out of a window in Soho, discovered that Crocs was now selling shoes that were actually wearable ... stranger things have not happened too often!
Week Five, I got more homesick. Pradipta, who was supposed to come and stay with me for 4 days, called to say that his trip had been canceled. Susan (from Kentucky) and Akshit with family (from Boston) however came in to town so I had some fun times with them. Brunch at the members only dining hall of the MET and the night at Greenwich Village, bar hopping, Southern Comfort shots and standing in line for kati rolls at 2:30 am were particularly memorable. However, the highlight was Sunday night at Washington Square Park, listening to Colin Huggins (http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/31/nyregion/thecity/31pian.html), the Crazy Piano Guy (http://www.thecrazypianoguy.com/links.html), playing beautiful classical numbers, enthralling his audience, followed by popular tunes, incredible vocals by David Gordon and Nick Ganju on the guitar. Also the Crazy Dancing Lady, 60-something, visiting from Los Angeles who had had back and knee surgery and who wasn’t shy about showing her unique and endearing dance moves. The audience, clapping, singing (I sang every single song and missed my friends from Chicago like crazy), dancing, lapping up the entertainment being provided in the park. My $10 tip was too little for the magnitude of joy that it brought me. I had a lump in my throat and I wished that I could relive that evening over and over again. For a few hours I was in the zone and not thinking of home.
There were only a couple of more days left in New York after returning from a week each in Chicago and New Jersey. The purpose of my visit was to renew my vows with the city and reestablish my relationship with it. Despite the incredibly amazing time, I had a feeling that it was going to be goodbye for a while. As I walked around some of my favorite hangouts, I was struggling with my emotions. I was happy to be heading home and equally sad that I was leaving. I didn’t know when I would be back to maybe stay in the West Village, experience the unique vibe of the East Village, make friends like Shafik in Vive la Crepe, or David, sitting on the bench next to me in Washington Square Park, share life stories with the bartenders, Allie and Jeremy at Cafe 50 West, get the best foot massage in Chinatown, watch a guy in a suit skateboard to work, be surrounded by artists, musicians, actors, dancers....
Was this the end of our affair? Could the affair really end? Even if I didn’t come back for a while?
One of the people I met this time said to me ‘this city grabs you and never lets you go’. I heart you New York like I heart no other city. But you’ve got to let me go.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
The Love Affair
A strange thing happened to me the other day. A friend of the family sent an email out inviting me to a 17 day trip to Mount Kailash and Lake Mansarovar in September. Venkat, the sender of the email, is an avid mountaineer and participates in multiple treks every year. A couple of years ago I had expressed to him an interest in going to Lake Mansarovar and although there have been opportunities in the past, the timing was never right.
You’re probably thinking “so what’s so strange about being invited to a trek to the Himalayas?”.
I’m getting to that part in a bit.
As some of you may be aware, I am off to spend a couple of months in New York towards the latter part of April. I’ve always talked shamelessly about my love affair with the city, written several posts about it and probably bored many to near-death. It’s been 16 months since my last visit to New York and you would think that I would be euphoric about being there in a few days.
Don’t get me wrong - I’m definitely looking forward to it. I may even go to the extent and say that I’m excited. But the ‘strange thing’ is that (here it comes) I’m way more excited about spending 17 days in the mountains, 5 months from now. My mind has put New York into the back burner.
I had already decided that this time I was going to do things in New York that I probably hadn’t done before. I have no idea what they are but I’ll figure it out. Probably do ‘off-off-Broadway’ instead of ‘off-Broadway’ or ‘Broadway’. Find high-in-character, low-in-glitz, scrumptious-in-taste restaurants. Take photos in streets that have no name (corny I know). I’m starting off by staying in Flatiron, a location that is quite new for me. The rest, I guess, will follow. Oh and I have the Fine Cooking class that I’ve signed up for, friends and some family coming to visit me while I’m there. I know I’ll have more than a blast.
So maybe it’s the excitement of going to a new place, the serenity of the Himalayas, the being-one-with-nature that has got me more excited. I know I’ll be eating basic food, lugging my luggage, staying in tents, freezing my butt off. Doesn’t sound like too much of a holiday, does it? Then why is it that every time I think about it, my heart almost begins to pound? We all know the answer. I’m just playing with you guys!
Strange thoughts are now being processed in my mind. Thoughts such as ‘this could be my last trip to New York in a while’. It costs me a lot of money to visit the city that I love, largely because I choose to spend a significant amount of time there and renting a place in Manhattan is expensive. Maybe I need to channel those funds elsewhere and discover new loves (or hates). Until a few days ago, it was a given in my mind that I’d be making a trip to the Big Apple every year. I used to make fun of this friend in Chicago who, every summer, went with his family to North Carolina. Never went anyplace new because it was tried and tested and they knew what to expect. I could never understand it. And then I think that, am I really being the same way? Should I be making fun of myself now? I know it’s not the same thing because New York isn’t my only vacation of the year. But still.
Is my love affair coming to an end?
I have no idea. But I figure I’ll have the answer in a couple of months.
You’re probably thinking “so what’s so strange about being invited to a trek to the Himalayas?”.
I’m getting to that part in a bit.
As some of you may be aware, I am off to spend a couple of months in New York towards the latter part of April. I’ve always talked shamelessly about my love affair with the city, written several posts about it and probably bored many to near-death. It’s been 16 months since my last visit to New York and you would think that I would be euphoric about being there in a few days.
Don’t get me wrong - I’m definitely looking forward to it. I may even go to the extent and say that I’m excited. But the ‘strange thing’ is that (here it comes) I’m way more excited about spending 17 days in the mountains, 5 months from now. My mind has put New York into the back burner.
I had already decided that this time I was going to do things in New York that I probably hadn’t done before. I have no idea what they are but I’ll figure it out. Probably do ‘off-off-Broadway’ instead of ‘off-Broadway’ or ‘Broadway’. Find high-in-character, low-in-glitz, scrumptious-in-taste restaurants. Take photos in streets that have no name (corny I know). I’m starting off by staying in Flatiron, a location that is quite new for me. The rest, I guess, will follow. Oh and I have the Fine Cooking class that I’ve signed up for, friends and some family coming to visit me while I’m there. I know I’ll have more than a blast.
So maybe it’s the excitement of going to a new place, the serenity of the Himalayas, the being-one-with-nature that has got me more excited. I know I’ll be eating basic food, lugging my luggage, staying in tents, freezing my butt off. Doesn’t sound like too much of a holiday, does it? Then why is it that every time I think about it, my heart almost begins to pound? We all know the answer. I’m just playing with you guys!
Strange thoughts are now being processed in my mind. Thoughts such as ‘this could be my last trip to New York in a while’. It costs me a lot of money to visit the city that I love, largely because I choose to spend a significant amount of time there and renting a place in Manhattan is expensive. Maybe I need to channel those funds elsewhere and discover new loves (or hates). Until a few days ago, it was a given in my mind that I’d be making a trip to the Big Apple every year. I used to make fun of this friend in Chicago who, every summer, went with his family to North Carolina. Never went anyplace new because it was tried and tested and they knew what to expect. I could never understand it. And then I think that, am I really being the same way? Should I be making fun of myself now? I know it’s not the same thing because New York isn’t my only vacation of the year. But still.
Is my love affair coming to an end?
I have no idea. But I figure I’ll have the answer in a couple of months.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Homer Simpson and the Chicken Pox
About a month ago I was watching an episode of The Simpsons in which little Maggie gets the chicken pox and passes it on to her father, Homer. Now I bet you can never guess who Homer subsequently passes on the virus to. And no points for guessing if you already know.
Yes, it was me. Talk about reality TV - this is hitting too close to home. I’ve decided that I’m not watching any more medical shows. Go away Doctor House, no reruns of Scrubs or the next season of Nurse Jackie. God only knows what I may catch from one of them.
While the chicken pox is not a life threatening illness, it sure is a life annoying one. The picture of Homer Simpson scratching his spotty body with a branch was embedded in my brain, wanting to do the same, but refraining from it. After all I’m not a cartoon character who magically will be spot free in the next episode. I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I heard someone say (over the phone of course, while wagging their index finger is the picture in my head), “Make sure you don’t scratch the lesions because they’ll leave a permanent scar”. Really? How come no one mentioned it earlier?
Now keep in mind that I could have no human contact, so the phone was my only connection with the outside world. In this age of instant communication, it wasn’t long before a significant number of people found out about my condition via the ‘have you heard’ method. So of course, I was kept entertained by many ‘when I had the chicken pox’ stories, as a child, as an adult, the unforgettable pain in the ass illness.
Thank goodness for the phone though. And thank goodness that I’m as popular as I am. Because on most days I had to charge my phone batteries both in the morning and in the evening. How else would I have been able to get through those dark two weeks?
Of course there were also the movies to keep me entertained. Before the Academy Awards ceremony, I had to make sure that I watched as many nominated films as I could. So I got The Fighter, The King’s Speech, The Social Network (which actually I had seen in the theater), 127 Hours (that one too!), Inception (oops, also in the theater), The Kids are All Right, under my belt. I’ve also downloaded Black Swan and True Grit but haven’t had ‘the time’ to watch them as yet, because I’ve been 'too busy’ on the phone.
Speaking of the Academy Awards, were they a big bore this year or was it just me bored to death? If this was the ‘younger and hipper’, give me the ‘older and frumpier’ back. Give me Alec Baldwin, Steve Martin, Billy Crystal, Jon Stewart back. Please. I could have used a few laughs.
So even though I’ve recovered from the virus now and the scabs have all fallen, I feel like I should be named ‘Spotty’. Thankfully my face is not bad but the rest of me is covered with pink spots, which means that I’ll be wearing long pants and long sleeves for a while. Eventually I hope to be spot free again. And by eventually I mean by the end of April when I fly out to New York, the coolest, awesomest and definitely the most superficial city in the world. I really heart it!
So here it is. My story of how Homer Simpson gave me the chicken pox and messed up two weeks of my life. It was the un-funniest episode I have ever experienced.
Yes, it was me. Talk about reality TV - this is hitting too close to home. I’ve decided that I’m not watching any more medical shows. Go away Doctor House, no reruns of Scrubs or the next season of Nurse Jackie. God only knows what I may catch from one of them.
While the chicken pox is not a life threatening illness, it sure is a life annoying one. The picture of Homer Simpson scratching his spotty body with a branch was embedded in my brain, wanting to do the same, but refraining from it. After all I’m not a cartoon character who magically will be spot free in the next episode. I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I heard someone say (over the phone of course, while wagging their index finger is the picture in my head), “Make sure you don’t scratch the lesions because they’ll leave a permanent scar”. Really? How come no one mentioned it earlier?
Now keep in mind that I could have no human contact, so the phone was my only connection with the outside world. In this age of instant communication, it wasn’t long before a significant number of people found out about my condition via the ‘have you heard’ method. So of course, I was kept entertained by many ‘when I had the chicken pox’ stories, as a child, as an adult, the unforgettable pain in the ass illness.
Thank goodness for the phone though. And thank goodness that I’m as popular as I am. Because on most days I had to charge my phone batteries both in the morning and in the evening. How else would I have been able to get through those dark two weeks?
Of course there were also the movies to keep me entertained. Before the Academy Awards ceremony, I had to make sure that I watched as many nominated films as I could. So I got The Fighter, The King’s Speech, The Social Network (which actually I had seen in the theater), 127 Hours (that one too!), Inception (oops, also in the theater), The Kids are All Right, under my belt. I’ve also downloaded Black Swan and True Grit but haven’t had ‘the time’ to watch them as yet, because I’ve been 'too busy’ on the phone.
Speaking of the Academy Awards, were they a big bore this year or was it just me bored to death? If this was the ‘younger and hipper’, give me the ‘older and frumpier’ back. Give me Alec Baldwin, Steve Martin, Billy Crystal, Jon Stewart back. Please. I could have used a few laughs.
So even though I’ve recovered from the virus now and the scabs have all fallen, I feel like I should be named ‘Spotty’. Thankfully my face is not bad but the rest of me is covered with pink spots, which means that I’ll be wearing long pants and long sleeves for a while. Eventually I hope to be spot free again. And by eventually I mean by the end of April when I fly out to New York, the coolest, awesomest and definitely the most superficial city in the world. I really heart it!
So here it is. My story of how Homer Simpson gave me the chicken pox and messed up two weeks of my life. It was the un-funniest episode I have ever experienced.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Writer's Blog
It’s been a while since I wrote anything. I hope that you’ve noticed. I know that some of my readers have noticed and have wanted to know why. There is however, no reason. Except that I’ve been too busy traveling and cooking. And lazing. Which in all honesty accounts for most of my time.
Those of you associated with me on facebook or those of you that are actually in touch with me, are aware of my travels and experiments in the kitchen. Unless you’re a facebook friend that has ‘hidden’ me, ‘blocked’ me or someone who just whizzes past my status updates and pictures. In which case you’re probably not reading this piece. And if you are, I whizz past your status updates too. So there!
The first six months of my 2010 were spent writing my first ever script. Towards the end of those six months I went through narrating it to various people and every time I did, I felt less comfortable with it. So I decided to take some time off and come back to it with a fresh perspective. I hadn’t counted on taking 7 months off but I couldn’t really help it. I was having too much fun. And I excelled even more at being lazy.
Having just returned from my holiday in Kolkata, I have now decided that enough is enough. I must begin writing again. Correction. I must begin re-writing again. Make my script more interesting, change the personality of one of my protagonists, add some mystery to it. The intent is good. The mind needs to work creatively.
The past 4 days I’ve been watching movies like there’s no tomorrow. Good movies. Bad movies. Ugly movies. Hoping to learn something from each one of them. What works and what doesn’t. Most of the time I’m going, ‘edit that scene dammit!’, ‘too much conversation ... losing interest’, ‘the dialogues suck!’, ‘the script needs to be tighter’, ‘could you end this movie already?’ and then once in a while ‘what a brilliant scene’, ‘perfect characterization’ etc. etc.
Sigh. I may never get done with my movie. My expectations are too high. I demand too much from myself. My mind is too damn critical. I will NOT be associated with yet another crappy movie!
"Calm down", I tell myself (yes, I admit that I speak to myself). "Do the best you can and put it out there"
"But .. what if everyone hates it"
"They wont"
"But what if they do?"
"People who like you will pretend to like your movie"
"But I’ll see through their insincerity. You know I will"
"Well .. then ..."
"What???"
"Just go into hibernation. Don’t show your face to anyone after that"
I guess I could do that. Or maybe I could get a new identity and a new face. A sharper nose for sure. Could I maybe get a new body? Taller body? It would be completely worth it. And fun too. I’d lead a whole new life. Imagine starting out afresh. This could really work. Either way I win.
So dear reader, I must end this piece now and go back to my half-assed script. None of us know what the outcome of this exercise will be. Whether I will ever get done. And if I do, will I find someone to make the movie. And it can’t be just anyone. It has to be somebody good or nobody at all. Will the movie work? Will everyone love it? Or will everyone hate it? Or will some people love it and some people hate it? And some people simply like it? Will I walk the red carpet? Will I win an award? I have no frigging idea. All I know for sure is that I’m going to have more than a good time through the process.
And if I do end up becoming famous, I’m going to get myself a whole new set of friends.
Those of you associated with me on facebook or those of you that are actually in touch with me, are aware of my travels and experiments in the kitchen. Unless you’re a facebook friend that has ‘hidden’ me, ‘blocked’ me or someone who just whizzes past my status updates and pictures. In which case you’re probably not reading this piece. And if you are, I whizz past your status updates too. So there!
The first six months of my 2010 were spent writing my first ever script. Towards the end of those six months I went through narrating it to various people and every time I did, I felt less comfortable with it. So I decided to take some time off and come back to it with a fresh perspective. I hadn’t counted on taking 7 months off but I couldn’t really help it. I was having too much fun. And I excelled even more at being lazy.
Having just returned from my holiday in Kolkata, I have now decided that enough is enough. I must begin writing again. Correction. I must begin re-writing again. Make my script more interesting, change the personality of one of my protagonists, add some mystery to it. The intent is good. The mind needs to work creatively.
The past 4 days I’ve been watching movies like there’s no tomorrow. Good movies. Bad movies. Ugly movies. Hoping to learn something from each one of them. What works and what doesn’t. Most of the time I’m going, ‘edit that scene dammit!’, ‘too much conversation ... losing interest’, ‘the dialogues suck!’, ‘the script needs to be tighter’, ‘could you end this movie already?’ and then once in a while ‘what a brilliant scene’, ‘perfect characterization’ etc. etc.
Sigh. I may never get done with my movie. My expectations are too high. I demand too much from myself. My mind is too damn critical. I will NOT be associated with yet another crappy movie!
"Calm down", I tell myself (yes, I admit that I speak to myself). "Do the best you can and put it out there"
"But .. what if everyone hates it"
"They wont"
"But what if they do?"
"People who like you will pretend to like your movie"
"But I’ll see through their insincerity. You know I will"
"Well .. then ..."
"What???"
"Just go into hibernation. Don’t show your face to anyone after that"
I guess I could do that. Or maybe I could get a new identity and a new face. A sharper nose for sure. Could I maybe get a new body? Taller body? It would be completely worth it. And fun too. I’d lead a whole new life. Imagine starting out afresh. This could really work. Either way I win.
So dear reader, I must end this piece now and go back to my half-assed script. None of us know what the outcome of this exercise will be. Whether I will ever get done. And if I do, will I find someone to make the movie. And it can’t be just anyone. It has to be somebody good or nobody at all. Will the movie work? Will everyone love it? Or will everyone hate it? Or will some people love it and some people hate it? And some people simply like it? Will I walk the red carpet? Will I win an award? I have no frigging idea. All I know for sure is that I’m going to have more than a good time through the process.
And if I do end up becoming famous, I’m going to get myself a whole new set of friends.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Life, Lemons and Lemonade
Recently life gave me a bunch of lemons.
I was at my friend Ramji's farm outside of Auroville less than two weeks ago, and as we were touring the place, he asked me to help myself to the freshly fallen lemons from the trees. So with an (unused!) garbage bag in hand, I began collecting beautiful organic lemons. On the way Ramji even plucked me one of the best tasting papayas I've had in a very long while as well as a bunch of bananas.
I had a party planned for the day after I was returning back to Bangalore, where I was expecting approximately 35 guests. I had asked Rajesh, my man-Friday to buy some lemons/limes, which we would need for some of the items that were being served as well as the jugs full of cocktail that I would be making. Usually he buys fewer lemons than what I need and ends up having to run out for more. This time he did the opposite as a result of which I had a lemon filled kitchen and refrigerator. Although I had no idea what I would do with them, it still made me happy.
I love lemon tarts and lemon pies and lemon cup cakes. All I have to do is ask Rajesh to make them. How much easier does it get? Unfortunately I had promised myself that once the party was over, I was on a strict health regime. Regular work outs and no sweets. Too many holidays in the recent months had resulted in flabbier love handles and my pants being uncomfortably snug.
So yeah, desserts were out. It pains me even to write that as I salivate for excessive sugar filled treats, instead of settling for a bowl of organic granola that I picked up from the Auroville store. Somehow it just doesn't send the same signals to the part of the brain that is looking for a slice of decadent chocolate cake, maybe some pecan pie or the apple strudel cheesecake from Olive Beach that made my taste buds ecstatic. Dammit, I'd even settle for the chocolate eclair from Cafe Noir!
However, I digress here. Getting back to the lemons, I was still in a fix. Whoever said, 'If life gives you lemons, make lemonade' obviously wasn't thinking 'quantity'. I wasn't about to make myself a tub full of lemonade. After much deliberation, I decided that the only option was to pickle them. As much as I am into cooking, eating, feeding, I have never tried pickling. And never thought that I would. Even Jamie Oliver couldn't get me to watch his show about pickling for the winter months.
Strangely enough a couple of weeks ago, I had stumbled across a site that had an easy recipe for pickling lemons. Almost as if I had a premonition about the farm lemons. Once I got back home however, the site was not to be found. I even went through my web history but for the life of me, there was no such link. Had it been a dream? And if so, why in the world would I be dreaming about lemon pickle?
I knew that I had to take matters into my own hands and call my aunt who is famous for her pickles (among other treats). I asked her for the easiest lemon pickle recipe she had, bought myself a couple of jars and gave the instructions to Rajesh! This morning I woke up to find one of the jars filled with lemon wedges sitting in the balcony. It's a multi-part process and right now they're just soaking in the salt. I'll let you know how they turn out.
Moral of the story: When life gives you a lot of lemons, pickle 'em!
I was at my friend Ramji's farm outside of Auroville less than two weeks ago, and as we were touring the place, he asked me to help myself to the freshly fallen lemons from the trees. So with an (unused!) garbage bag in hand, I began collecting beautiful organic lemons. On the way Ramji even plucked me one of the best tasting papayas I've had in a very long while as well as a bunch of bananas.
I had a party planned for the day after I was returning back to Bangalore, where I was expecting approximately 35 guests. I had asked Rajesh, my man-Friday to buy some lemons/limes, which we would need for some of the items that were being served as well as the jugs full of cocktail that I would be making. Usually he buys fewer lemons than what I need and ends up having to run out for more. This time he did the opposite as a result of which I had a lemon filled kitchen and refrigerator. Although I had no idea what I would do with them, it still made me happy.
I love lemon tarts and lemon pies and lemon cup cakes. All I have to do is ask Rajesh to make them. How much easier does it get? Unfortunately I had promised myself that once the party was over, I was on a strict health regime. Regular work outs and no sweets. Too many holidays in the recent months had resulted in flabbier love handles and my pants being uncomfortably snug.
So yeah, desserts were out. It pains me even to write that as I salivate for excessive sugar filled treats, instead of settling for a bowl of organic granola that I picked up from the Auroville store. Somehow it just doesn't send the same signals to the part of the brain that is looking for a slice of decadent chocolate cake, maybe some pecan pie or the apple strudel cheesecake from Olive Beach that made my taste buds ecstatic. Dammit, I'd even settle for the chocolate eclair from Cafe Noir!
However, I digress here. Getting back to the lemons, I was still in a fix. Whoever said, 'If life gives you lemons, make lemonade' obviously wasn't thinking 'quantity'. I wasn't about to make myself a tub full of lemonade. After much deliberation, I decided that the only option was to pickle them. As much as I am into cooking, eating, feeding, I have never tried pickling. And never thought that I would. Even Jamie Oliver couldn't get me to watch his show about pickling for the winter months.
Strangely enough a couple of weeks ago, I had stumbled across a site that had an easy recipe for pickling lemons. Almost as if I had a premonition about the farm lemons. Once I got back home however, the site was not to be found. I even went through my web history but for the life of me, there was no such link. Had it been a dream? And if so, why in the world would I be dreaming about lemon pickle?
I knew that I had to take matters into my own hands and call my aunt who is famous for her pickles (among other treats). I asked her for the easiest lemon pickle recipe she had, bought myself a couple of jars and gave the instructions to Rajesh! This morning I woke up to find one of the jars filled with lemon wedges sitting in the balcony. It's a multi-part process and right now they're just soaking in the salt. I'll let you know how they turn out.
Moral of the story: When life gives you a lot of lemons, pickle 'em!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Mother's Day
Every year on Mother’s Day I plan to write a piece about my mom. The reason I end up not writing it is I’m afraid that the outcome will be sappy, which I don’t want it to be. Yes, it would be quite easy for me to do a lump-in-the-throat-post that will talk about several tender memories, which will get the reader all emotional, after which they will post a comment saying how sweet the piece was.
Being the youngest of five siblings meant that my mom had me quite late in her child-bearing life. As a result, my dad and mom often felt like something between parents and grandparents to me. I’m trying to come up with a clever name for this relationship but my mind is drawing a complete blank.
My mother, who also happened to be born on this date, May 9th, was all of 4 foot 10 at her tallest. As she grew older, she began shrinking, with the result that I, who by no means am I tall man, began towering over her. My parents used to live with me in Chicago and I remember one time my dad’s colleague came over to our apartment. She took one look at my mom, gave her an enormous hug and said ‘I never thought of myself as a giant!’
The first impression that my mom gave to most people was of a warm and affectionate little lady who cooked great meals, who was a dutiful wife/mother and who lived in the shadows of my dad. Ha! Those people could not be more wrong! And although my mom was sweet and loving and warm and affectionate, they hadn't been privy to the feisty woman behind that calm exterior.
Any time there was an ugly situation that involved anyone in the family, she would be in the front, fighting for one of us. When my dad, who owned a factory that was heavily labor intensive, ran into financial trouble and wasn’t able to pay his employees, my mom was the one who broke the news to them, built a case and asked for more time. When she didn’t have enough money to run the house, she was out there, pawning her jewelry , borrowing money and never letting us feel like we were in any kind of trouble.
Not only did she bring up five children in her home, for many years she even managed a couple of hundred more as the Principal of a school. In her fifties she studied Homeopathy and began working in a charitable clinic.
She threw great dinner parties, right from intimate meals for a few to catering for a hundred people on my tenth birthday and a hundred and fifty guests at her own daughter’s wedding! Now that you have to admit is unique!
My mother was the most social person I knew. Growing up in Calcutta, she knew everyone that lived in our neighborhood and if she didn’t know them, they knew her. When I bought my home in a primarily white neighborhood in Chicago, it took her no time to get to know the neighbors. She never got fazed by her accent, the fact that she was the only saree wearing woman or that even ten year olds were taller than her. One evening when she and I were out for a walk, I was amazed at her being greeted with a ‘Hi Champa!‘ by both children and adults. Not just amazed, I was impressed and proud.
I could keep bragging about my mother but I don’t want to overdose my readers!
My mother went through a very hard time the last three years of her life. It was a big chore for us to get her to eat anything. Anything besides puchkas/pani puris, which was something that would always light up her eyes!
I’m celebrating her birthday this evening with her favorite treat. And I’m pretty sure she’ll be out there watching and getting a taste of it too!
Happy Mother’s Day to all you lovely, feisty mothers out there!
Being the youngest of five siblings meant that my mom had me quite late in her child-bearing life. As a result, my dad and mom often felt like something between parents and grandparents to me. I’m trying to come up with a clever name for this relationship but my mind is drawing a complete blank.
My mother, who also happened to be born on this date, May 9th, was all of 4 foot 10 at her tallest. As she grew older, she began shrinking, with the result that I, who by no means am I tall man, began towering over her. My parents used to live with me in Chicago and I remember one time my dad’s colleague came over to our apartment. She took one look at my mom, gave her an enormous hug and said ‘I never thought of myself as a giant!’
The first impression that my mom gave to most people was of a warm and affectionate little lady who cooked great meals, who was a dutiful wife/mother and who lived in the shadows of my dad. Ha! Those people could not be more wrong! And although my mom was sweet and loving and warm and affectionate, they hadn't been privy to the feisty woman behind that calm exterior.
Any time there was an ugly situation that involved anyone in the family, she would be in the front, fighting for one of us. When my dad, who owned a factory that was heavily labor intensive, ran into financial trouble and wasn’t able to pay his employees, my mom was the one who broke the news to them, built a case and asked for more time. When she didn’t have enough money to run the house, she was out there, pawning her jewelry , borrowing money and never letting us feel like we were in any kind of trouble.
Not only did she bring up five children in her home, for many years she even managed a couple of hundred more as the Principal of a school. In her fifties she studied Homeopathy and began working in a charitable clinic.
She threw great dinner parties, right from intimate meals for a few to catering for a hundred people on my tenth birthday and a hundred and fifty guests at her own daughter’s wedding! Now that you have to admit is unique!
My mother was the most social person I knew. Growing up in Calcutta, she knew everyone that lived in our neighborhood and if she didn’t know them, they knew her. When I bought my home in a primarily white neighborhood in Chicago, it took her no time to get to know the neighbors. She never got fazed by her accent, the fact that she was the only saree wearing woman or that even ten year olds were taller than her. One evening when she and I were out for a walk, I was amazed at her being greeted with a ‘Hi Champa!‘ by both children and adults. Not just amazed, I was impressed and proud.
I could keep bragging about my mother but I don’t want to overdose my readers!
My mother went through a very hard time the last three years of her life. It was a big chore for us to get her to eat anything. Anything besides puchkas/pani puris, which was something that would always light up her eyes!
I’m celebrating her birthday this evening with her favorite treat. And I’m pretty sure she’ll be out there watching and getting a taste of it too!
Happy Mother’s Day to all you lovely, feisty mothers out there!
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