Book Club

I always wanted to join a book club. There are so many scenes in movies with men and women sitting in cozy rooms huddled over a book. The conversation is smart, funny and yet it is a conversation between friends. The book at hand is a very good pick. It might be an old classic or a more recent cult sensation; in any case the book has been picked after much consideration.

More recently there have been entire movies about book clubs - the Jane Austen Book Club for one. And I am impressionable :). Who says that TV is bad for our imagination? So I joined a book club that met 3 miles from here, had great ratings with lots of members leaving behind posts about how varied the opinions were, how lively the conversation was and so on. What could possible go wrong? We would pick a good book, gather in some cozy restaurant and chat away.

As always when you build things up they are bound to let you down. So when the book that was chosen did not meet my expectations I blamed my rather steep expectations. We picked Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris. I have nothing against David Sedaris and I rather enjoyed the book but it was just not what I expected from a book club.

Things looked up a little after that. The book club seemed quite organized, I got reminder mails, comments and also a list questions that would aid discussion. So though I did not think that the book in itself lent itself to much analysis or discussion I thought with a bunch of irreverent, funny people this would be good. They did pick a very politically incorrect, laugh out loud kind of book and if that says anything about them, I expected a fun bunch of people.

Since it was my first book club meeting ever, it was clearly not enough for me just to read the book. I have spent a large portion of my life taking examinations and now I worked on converting a leisure activity to something that resembled an examination. I made notes about the questions asked, googled other details of interest, jotted down salient points. Three weeks after I had RSVP'd, I turned up at the designated time at a Panera Bread where a table had been booked for our meeting.

When I met the crowd I was not exactly elated. There were 7 women and 2 men all of whom avoided any eye contact or pleasantries. A couple of them seemed to know each other but that was about it. Things went downhill rather quickly... With the exception of two women most of the people there had either not read the book, or read it so long ago that they did not remember the details, or had read so many of Sedaris' books that they had no idea what this particular one said. Great start!!

I tried to cling to my mental picture of lively conversation, cozy rooms but this situation was past help. The questions were read out and everything contributed their half a cent (I give 2 cents to an entire sentence). I tried to contribute however the discussion was not what I had hoped for. One question dealt with coming up with the cast of a movie based on the book. David Sedaris is a self absorbed, funny, intelligent man who was a former drug addict, abused alcohol and spent most of his life without any goals. I had given this much thought and decided that Hugh Grant would play this role well. The group there however had decided because David Sedaris was gay, the person who would do this character most justice was Sean Hayes a very gay character in Will and Grace. That is like casting Kal Penn in every Indian role including Tipu Sultan and Gandhi. All in all we got through the list of questions very quickly. Clearly all my homework was to go to waste.

The conversation then got worse. There were two teachers and they began talking about their job. One was a female teacher who talked a lot about an 11 year old who just had sex on her mind. She of course dropped to a whisper every time she said the S word but the impression I got was that this teacher also clearly had "sex" on her mind. The other teacher also talked about the hell his students were going through. There were stories about overdoses, homelessness, and violence. The two teachers then spent considerable amount of time coming up with the most shocking story of the evening.

There was also a girl who kept talking about how she loved self help books. Having done my research I knew that David Sedaris had kicked his drug/ tobacco/ alcohol habits with the help of self help books. Though this was a commendable feat, if David Sedaris talked about said self books in excruciating detail with every passing acquaintance stuck in an hour long book club meeting, I don't think I will ever read a book authored by him again.

After the first 10 minutes when I was trying to at least trying to answer some of the questions, I gave up and stared at the people with growing amazement. Yet another dream shattered. My mental pictures of hot cocoa, fireplaces, and lovely books replaced with this- what was effectively a retelling of a trashy reality show.

And to add salt to my fresh wounds apart from one English teacher not one of them had heard of Agatha Christie. :(

Improving Myself and Revisiting Other Teenage Horrors

I have now been in New Jersey 8 whole months. The initial months after my move were quite hectic. There was unpacking, organizing, buying furniture, assembling furniture, work related travel as I settled in. After those initial months now is a period of relative calm.

In a period of relative calm most mature people blossom. They pursue their interests, take walks and basically they stop to smell the flowers. I on the other hand, panic. But in my new avatar as an adult I decided to use the time on my hands to take steps to "improve myself". There were a number of things, as could be expected that needed "improvement". But zeroing in on my first "area of improvement" was harder than I would like to admit.....There must have been something I did in my youth that I could work on now.

Then it hit me, I could learn to dance!!!! I had learnt Bharatnatyam for a good 4 years in my teens so I could pick up where I had left off. So I looked up the dance classes in New Jersey. I found a rather long list of classes, all nearby, all convenient, all with teachers that had exemplary credentials. So all I had to do was call them and get things going. At this point I found myself strangely reluctant.

I had spent 4 years during my impressionable youth learning to dance, however I recollected quite reluctantly that my "impression" of my dancing was that I sucked (I tend to block unpleasant things). I was not bad in the front of my mirror at home when I practiced before my classes but when I got onto a stage, even a stage in front of other gawky, graceless teenagers, I froze. And not all teenagers are gawky and graceless especially those who spend their afternoons in a dance class. I had my share of comrades in arms. They like me had some redeemable qualities but just not this one quality. But there were also those who really belonged. Girls who were not clumsy, who could smile on cue, look sad on cue, bat their lashes to indicate the subtleties of emotion, stand still in a pose without rolling their eyes and giggling.

As I mentioned I was not a complete failure at dancing. The mechanics of it was not impossible. And with some effort I was able to be at least fairly proficient at least in that aspect of it. But dancing esp. Indian classical dances is not just about the mechanics. And though my class was full of little prodigies, expecting a 11 year old girl to emote the pathos of being Krishna's dejected Gopika seemed not only very hard but quite frankly also just down right inappropriate.

I could blame my mother for this. She had no time for "girly" pursuits. I could count on her to refuse to emote the pathos of a Gopika even if her life depended on it. Or my brother. I am betting all those graceful dancers could not climb trees like I could. But my tree climbing skills didn't help me on that stage. Or my father who spent turned up at all the dance events and was always spotted smiling and proud. So there was nothing wrong with what my father did but it made my "sucking" just a lot harder to come to terms with.

I also remembered that I enjoyed dancing. Moving to a beat is quite relaxing and exercise in the form of dancing is one of the nicer ways to exercise. And in all honesty, as I grew older although I still could not emote on stage I was emoting away in my head :). Despite that I think I will give the dancing idea a rest. There are some advantages of being a rather lazy teenager who spent most of her time reading. One of course is that there is no substitute for reading, none at all. The second is that maybe I do not have to relive my past failures and can at least fail at something new(My current favorite is horse riding).

And when I have come to terms with my limitations with respect to dancing I am considering Bollywood dancing. A good friend has been at it and is having so much fun that I am convinced that I should give it a shot.

Recipe - Couple of things I want to post. One is Aviyal which I did not appreciate as a child but have learned to love. Credit goes to husband who makes it all the time.

Macaroni grill serves this bread that I think is just delicious. I found a copy cat recipe and the end result was great. The recipe is here.

Where Are You Really From?

Growing up most of us have heard/ watched the famous "Mile Sur Mera Tumhara".  It is a beautiful number about national integration.  In a country with many different cultures and languages national integration is an important message. This song though inspiring and very well executed is a little too politically correct. The idea of national integration seems a tad incomplete without the idea of national identity. 

Living in a foreign country a national identity should be easy to stir. All things Indian are now dear and have fond memories attached to them. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. What is a little strange is that despite all the distance we have traveled our identities still seem tied to rather small part of our country. 

 Which brings me to the title of my blog? A lot of conversations start with "Where are you from?”.  Since I bear a long Tamil surname with many A's “Delhi" as an answer does not seem to suffice. So I have taken to "I am a South Indian brought up in Delhi". For dinner conversation you would think this would be sufficient but that is seldom the case. "So what is your native place? Where were your parents from?" Again "My Dad was brought up in Delhi too and so was my Ma". Most polite folks stop here but some really persistent ones counter with. "Yes that's nice but you must have a native place?” 

To make things worse I am now married to a tamilian who was brought up in Bombay. So the questions continue. So where is your husband "really" from? What is your husband's "native place”?

Which leaves me to wonder why we obsess about where our forefathers are from. Is it our need to mentally put people into slots that we have in our heads? Just a need to keep our mind free from clutter? A mental equivalent of a filing cabinet? Maybe we meet so many people this trick is required to assimilate it all. 

In order to classify the people we meet (if we must do that) the questions about their hobbies, work, interests have now been replaced with tracing their genealogical tree all the way back to Adam. 

Do these questions give people an insight into my life that I have overlooked? I believed that my husband’s and my personality attributes were a result of our genes/upbringing/exposure. Perhaps it is not that complicated. Does "My native place" hold the key? 

To the person with this question it seems to hold all the answers. Despite my reluctance stemming mostly from the fact that I have no idea whatsoever where my native place is, the bearer of said question is usually quite persistent. As if I am withholding the one nugget of information that is the answer to all questions. The rest of the conversation might as well be -

Do you play tennis? Oh wait a second don't answer that. I know. Your native place is "XYZ". 

Do you like knitting? Oh I am sorry, why am I asking you this. Your native place is "XYZ".

Did you opt for biology in school? Pardon me, I am repeating myself. I know all the answers. Your native place is "XYZ".

Food for thought.....

While on food for thought. This Gujrati kadi was first introduced to me by my aunt - My Favourite Aunt :).

Old Friends

This last weekend I met a very old friend. P lives in Canada and intended to come to New York City for a few days to celebrate her birthday. The plan was to meet for dinner and a night out in New York City.

P and I had been friends from school. We were close friends in school but after that unlike the women in Sex and City who ended up living in the same city as their best friends, life took us in different directions. Soon we barely found ourselves in the same country let alone the same city. Also unlike the women in Sex and the City only one of us was fashion forward and owned clothes as expensive as her car or for that matter a car that was not bought on Craigslist.

So though I was looking forward to meeting her, I was also a little apprehensive. P and I had kept in touch over the phone and we had great conversations. We were still good friends at least over the phone. And I was worried that if we met and "went clubbing" things would change. The last time I went clubbing was to check out a club in New York City near Times Square that played Himesh Reshammiya and Punjabi talli numbers. Needless to say I loved it but also needless to say P would not touch that club with a 10 foot pole. Also the "last time I went clubbing" was over 2 years ago. I would like to pretend this is new and that I painted the town red when I was younger but sadly though long nights might have involved a bottle of wine and some merriment, clubbing was beyond me.

So I was worried that the meeting would change things. I liked having a friend who I have known forever and who has known me for long. So armed with a gag gift bag that belted out a Yiddish number when opened, I went to join the birthday celebrations at her hotel. 

When the door opened I was greeted by not one fashionable, beautiful woman with lovely, expensive taste but three. I was soon elbow deep in Burberry shawls, high heels, and sexy party clothes. The women had gone shopping in New York City and had loved it. Since I am the kind of local they turned to me with questions about where I shopped. To their credit when I mentioned the 9 dollar dress I had bought at some random store in NYC there was only a slight amount of surprise expressed ( They were pretty and gracious). After that when the showed me the bounties of their shopping expedition they preceded every item with " So have you heard of Coach/Gucci/ Burberry?".  Again I could only see the slightest relief on their faces (very gracious women). 

But I had no reason to worry. Some old friends stay friends. We could still talk like we did when we were 17. I had put on a brave front about the whole clubbing thing but I think P knew that I was a fish out of water.  P did my hair, lent me clothes and let me believe that I fit in ( I didn't !!).  P looked lovely and after much makeup which did nothing for me apart from embarrass me but made the three women even more glamorous we headed out for dinner and fun. P also held my hand through the mad crowds in clubs. Early in the evening I noticed P guarding the vegetarian appetizers ( I am the only vegetarian). She was making people put back the avocado sushi even as they were going to stick it in their mouths. 

After that sweet, silly gesture I was completely relieved. She might be a successful girl with glamorous clothes but she had made one friend too early.

The recipe for this post is Poha. It is the simplest recipe but is perfect breakfast/snack food. Husband adds ginger and skips any chilly powder and relies only on the green chillies for the heat. 

Fun Parent

It is not appropriate that parents have a favorite among their children. All effort must be made to treat all of your children as equals. You must buy them similar gifts, hug them same number of times, punish them in similar ways and other exhausting details. Children on the other hand are free from these rules. There is always a favorite parent and this is declared out loud without guilt or shame. The favorite parent is commonly the one of the opposite gender - Daddy's girl , Mommy's boy and so on. But there is another factor that plays a major role especially in the younger years of a child. The phenomenon of the "fun parent"

The fun parent has fewer rules for the child, buys them food/ toys that may not be pre-approved, has a enormous repertoire of jokes, games, tricks. The fun parent conspires with the child sometimes against the other parent. The fun parent is the one who gives the kid all the lovely childhood memories.

The other parent has picked the short straw. He/She is in charge of enforcing discipline, making sure that the child eats right, studies right etc. Basically the job of the un-fun parent is to be the villain of the piece, the bad cop of the good cop, bad cop duo. The child if blessed with any introspection will look back at his/her childhood and decide " Oh yeah He/She was great. I never realized that". And after that will have a new found respect for the un-fun parent. Really, who wants that job?

So since I am a planner I had planned that when (eventually) we have children I would hoard in on the fun parent role. It should be right up my alley. My husband is a responsible, kind, soft spoken man with a subtle sense of humor. I love that but come on the kids would totally like me better. Or that was my thinking.

What changed you ask? "You are frivolous, you should be capable of carelessly endangering your child for the sake of a good time, you should be able ignore the scars that you inflict as you expose the kid to small forbidden pleasures - inappropriate jokes, sweets in the middle of the day, comic books... what happened?" - you cry (OK so maybe you don't cry but do play along).

Well the training job for a fun parent is of course the fun aunt. For one it is a lot less responsibility. A job created to hone your skills before the real game. I thought I would totally rock this job. I would buy inappropriate gifts, give the kid money, ice cream (hmmm maybe I shouldn't put all of it down because most of the parent friends are going to stop having me over). Anyway that was the plan.

But life has played a cruel joke on me. The whole responsible adult thing crept up on me and I was caught unaware. I always assumed it was the kind of ailment that only "other people" suffered from. I knew it was the death knell for my fun parent plans when I caught myself in the educational toys aisle whenever we go out to pick a gift for a child. What was worse (salt in my fresh wounds) was that my "responsible husband" was busy playing with hand puppets and remote control cars with lots of light on them. Hmph.

I did not expect to behave in this manner. I try to avoid all curse words around children and when something slips I stare at the kid in shock checking to see if I have caused any immediate damage. And babies they just scare me. Whenever I encounter a baby my reaction is one bordering reverence and fear. My husband needless to say picks them up, makes ugly faces at them, sings to them ( I married freaking Mary Poppins).

With the fun parent job slipping through my fingers my plan is to just fill my husbands head with all the horrors of what can go wrong ( poor trusting man hehehe) so that I can still be a fun parent at least in comparison.

Recipe

This is my second favorite rasam. The first being Mysore Rasam. This one is simpler and is a constant in most of quick meals - Jeera Milagu Rasam. I avoid garlic in this rasam and only do tadka with mustard and curry leaves. But that's just me.

New Home

I moved to New Jersey eight months back. New Jersey is a much reviled place. Any mention of New Jersey has evoked strong reactions, predominantly negative among the Non Jersey istes that I know (which was of course everybody I knew before I moved here).

To begin with New jersey is a rather hard to take. The first sights/ smell that greet you as you drive away from the Newark Airport do not make the best of first impressions. The pharmaceutical companies that line the NJ turnpike, the total mess that is the local roads, the aggressive drivers who tailgate you on highway with 3 lanes and no traffic, all make for a very cold welcome. Driving in new jersey, that is a topic which has enough that can be said to make for a blog on its own.

Despite its very prickly exterior I feel more at home in New Jersey than I have in most other places ( well apart from Delhi, always back to Delhi :) ). After four years in the west coast I had developed some rather strange habits. I am polite (almost to a fault), I smile (and not a fake smile) at strangers that I make eye contact with in malls, on the street etc and in case you didn't notice I make eye contact with strangers. All habits that might have people pelting you with stones on a hot enough day even in Delhi.

I like to pretend that reason I moved here is the proximity to New York City but I wish that were true. My real reasons are not that glamorous. Life here is finally as it should be. The large Indian population, the anonymity that proximity to a large city bring you, the food, the people - I have found home again.

There are so many little things. I get my hair cut by a Gujju woman who rattles on about her her family, Akshay Kumar and Twinkle Khanna. She switchs to Hindi whenever she does my hair and lectures me about the benefits of "tel maalish". I get Tutti Frutti ice cream by the gallon in the nearby Indian Grocery Store. And what is more no matter where you go in New Jersey there is always a nearby Indian grocery store.

And the people are so deliciously rude. No polite pleasantries, no conversations with strangers. I swear at drivers, argue with shop keepers and had more than a minor altercation with an extremely annoying 20 year at my gym ( my excuse - large amounts of Endorphins and she was reaaally annoying). Such travesties would never have been possible in Oregon.

To do the place justice it is not all pharma companies, potholes and drivers brimming with rage though that is defintely the first impression. New Jersey is also close to some beautiful places - Catskills, Poconos, the beaches in Delaware. There is of course the proximity to NYC which I suppose is nothing to scoff at. Now Oregon is beautiful, breathtaking, awe inspiring and perhaps an old delhi soul just does not belong there. It is a hard fact to come to terms with but though I miss the (quite a bit) the beauty of all things Oregon the place just did not click as much. Due justice to Oregon I am probably a lesser person for this and not vice-versa.

So the other day while I was borderline elbowing and jostling a well dressed lady while picking bindi in the local grocery store it hit me that I am very much at home here( for now).

Recipe - forgot to add this. This week was decidedly Indian.

Really enjoyed Morkuzhambu. For than I used white pumpkin. This recipe is closest to one I made. Whats up with folks adding rice flour etc in it. Not acceptable.

Shopping continued

Me : I bought 8 bags of bakery biscuits in India. They were only 250 rupees. Isn't that great?

D : 250 rupees for biscuits hmmm.. (non committal)

Me (Thinking- Oh D does not get it. I must explain more). They were Golden Bakery biscuits. They had the choicest ingredients. They melt in you mouth.

D : hmm how many biscuits were there in each packet?

Me (Thinking - Oh my god she knows the biscuits and yet she wants more details) : They were around 25- 30 biscuits in each packet.

D : Hmmmm thats one rupee per biscuit. Is that really good value?

Me getting desperate, unable to do required math in head : They had little flowers on them. And some had almonds and pista.

D seeing that I am panicking, Giving me an oppurtunity for a graceful exit : Hmm maybe I am not familiar with the quality of these biscuits. (Is now unable to resist a smile and some eye rolling)

Me : And chocolate and did I mention flowers on the biscuits. Only 250 rupees.

D : It is just a stamp type thing you know. The flowers are really easy to make.
Me dropping subject despondently.


Later that weekend
D : Oh this was a total bargain. In normal stores you get this salwar kameez for 2500 rupess but at this special outlet you can buy the same for 1500 rupees.

Me (regular shopper at the streets of Sarojini Nagar where I could buy half a wardrobe for 2500 rupees, recognizing oppurtunity for payback) : Really (with big smile)

D ( she is a quick girl) : It is a nice mall you know not some pavement store.

Me ( Thinking - Damn how does she know? Mental Note to self must dress better at next get together. But still,I have got her) : OK (bigger smile)

D : The stitches will last forever. Very good quality.

Me : Reaaaaally?

D sulking now : You can't expect me to dress in clothes that are not fashionable any more.

Me Pause for effect : Yes , Yes I think I understand
(thinking - You can't expect me to eat biscuits from any bakery. This was Golden Bakery, do you hear? Hmph)

Spent weekend at chat stores and eating out. No recipes to post.

Shopping - A Complete Sport

I have become an unenthusiastic shopper. Do not rush to any conclusions - I still recite the chants of consumerism that plague this country ( and quite honestly the world ),march to the drum beats of department store, sway to the song of the supermarkets ... well you get the picture. But the act of shopping in itself has just lost its charm for me.

Shopping some years ago in India was a total package. The first step was to assemble a bunch of your friends/ relatives all of whom had their designated competencies. There was the "Bargainer" - this person can muster a disbelieving sneer at even the rock bottom prices quoted by men with shops set up in the scorching sun under an umbrella on the pavement. This talent would have been insufficient without the ability to counter any offer with 30% of the quoted price, with complete confidence and lock and maintain eye contact with said (skinny, probably starving, father of 6, caregiver of elderly parents) shopkeeper.

Then there was the "Fashion Expert" - this was the person who could stick her hand into a pile of export surplus, button missing, fashion disasters and pick up the one great piece, the one thing that will probably make the outfit that you bought with your mother in the branded store in Khan Market seem dowdy. This person could take one look at you and immediately divine the clothes that suit you, colours that bring out your eyes/hair/skin, and make suggestions about when the item of clothing can be worn.

Such a shopping trip would not have been successful without perseverance and patience. That brings me to the "One with the Stamina". Long after your sunscreen has worn off, your feet have given up, and your Bisleri is exhausted she perseveres. It is all about the hunt for this woman and she is no quitter. With her on your side you would try that 5th dress in the 8th store until you find the one that is just right.

Though not directly contributing the success of a shopping trip there is also the "Street Food Junkie" - she would ably guide you past the many mediocre chat shops to the one that makes the perfect tangy, melt in your mouth Suji Golgappa and also the "Very pleasant/ extremely pretty girl that all shopkeepers have discounts for".

Shopping then was a complete sport. These lovely women helped elevate shopping in India to a sport/ talent/ ability on par with learning an instrument (a harmonica perhaps, probably not a violin). Shopping rightly held its place in the activities section in the Orkut profile page along with hiking, reading and learning new languages. It required skill, endurance, training and as with any sport innate talent always helped. Long hours, lots of walking, people watching, navigating huge crowds all a part of this dying sport. At the end of such a day there was a sense of accomplishment and contentment that was a mix of an hour at the gym, a successful meeting where you beat the odds with your dazzling arguments, and a dark chocolate brownie with ice cream.

The scented, polished, branded version in America that is also fast becoming the dominant option in most large Indian cities offers the best in shopping but have laid the skills I developed all those years to waste. Now I just shop online and stare at travel shows with longing.

Recipe I tried and liked.

Pasta with Lentils and Carrot Recipe

Technicolour Dreams

Science is not of one mind when it concerns human dreams. While many scientists believe we dream in black and white, a number of them believe that though a portion of our dreams are in black and white we dream predominantly in colour. There are also those that believe that humans cannot dream in black and white at all.

The reason I know all this and other embarrassing details about dream interpretation is because I am a chronic dreamer. My day does not begin when I wake up but with the dream that I have prior to waking up. My husband is on to me now. A few mornings when I start giving my husband the evil eye before waiting for the customary half an hour he immediately demands that I spill the beans about my dream.

I am blogging about this because I have noticed a rather interesting trend in my dreams. Now I may not have had cable TV till I was 12 and did not have an email id till my engineering years but my attention span is already that of a gaming 10 year old on a sugar high with a coffee IV. My senses are continuously bombarded by everything on TV, websites - eye catching images, fast moving plots, intrigue, chases, excitement, colour, glamour, distant lands. But it is never enough what with my senses forever clamoring for more.

So of course we dream in colour!!! When I was young I dreamt about all the regular things - you know your 4th class teacher finding out that she was wrong and that much to her amazement you had grown up to be brilliant and were receiving lavish praise/ trophy from the community. Beating your brother in a running race, much to his amazement (other peoples' amazement at my feats is recurring theme hmmm).

My dreams now are far less revealing but far more interesting. I have recurring dreams of being chased. Now if this were a simple chase that would be OK. These dreams are rich in plot, colour, have glamorous women ... cough cough.... including me ( dreams in sharp comparison to cameras seem to take off 10 pounds). The spy/ evil mastermind/ assassin who is chasing me is clad in suits that would put Daniel Craigs dinner jacket to shame.

In addition to the visual treats that my dreams have become the plot is not very PG. There is frequently a silent plotter who is revealed at the end. Some of my dreams seem to be edited by an expert (cough cough), my dream the night before started with a women who had taken a plunge into the pool of a high rise 5 star hotel and then the dream in bits and pieces takes me back to the why it happened. OK so they are not going to be any awards for originality but that I dream like this is revealing not about my own psyche but about the world we live in. It seems even my dreams need special effects to get my attention. Think am going to take up some more reflective hobbies and give the movies and the Agatha Christies a break.

And so of course I had to look it up (you know you would do it too )- chase dreams represent anxiety... not that this would be a big surprise in these times. But keeping with our times, new age stress humdrum as it may be now has very good packaging.

Couple of things I thought I would try out

1. tag with Daniel Craig when I manage a mention hehehe

2. add a link to a recipe that I tried out and loved. This potato pasta cheese bake make for excellent comfort food. No gourmet chefs are going to be featuring this one in their specials but then if they did in all probability I would not have been able to make it. I would have liked to start this with a old but gold Indian dish but I had this for lunch yesterday and can't help myself.

http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/7192/gnocchi-and-tomato-bake

My Constant Friend

I should have started with this one. There has been only one constant and unwavering interest in my life. I am a flake with serious lack of commitment to any one pursuit but this is different. It has stood by my me in bad times (perhaps too much) and has been there to make my good times better and has always received my "fullest" attention. The most loyal of my friends and loves - Food. 

This blog is because considering how important food is in my life, a tribute of sorts is long overdue. It has played such a major a part in everything in my life. It was over a plate of food that I noticed how much I like my then friend, now husband. A lot of acquaintances have turned friends because they knew about the best chat shop, best dosa in town, where they serve the perfect cup of kaapi. When I know examine my list of friends I am hard pressed to come up with someone who cannot wax eloquent about food. 

My love for food like all long relationships has changed and evolved with me.. Growing up in the heart of paratha land I had no appreciation for south Indian food. All sambhars tasted the same, rasam was to be avoided completely and unless it was my mothers divine alu sabji made with sambhar podi I had no time for any of the karis. I envied all my classmates with the parathas and puris and chole and burjis. And the karmic cycle is now being completed with me trying to reproduce my mothers wonderful dishes and making long distance calls for recipes. How could I have been so ignorant? Most restaurants here serve up a half way decent nan and paneer (mughlai food from india is like pizza from italy, our export to the world outside to be made your own) but few try and succeed in capturing the subtleties of the south indian fare. The simple, pristine white, soft, delicious idli, the kootus, the chutneys, the thuvaiyals all with their own flavour, subtle, one of a kind and even (god forbid) healthy. 

When I first landed here I stayed away from all restaurants to avoid any and all traces of meat and meat like ingredients in my food. After the initial months of enthusiastic cooking and carrying dabbas to work I weakened and because visiting the distant Indian restaurant was not always an option I decided to visit one of the nearby restaurants. I was assured that Mexican food was very vegetarian friendly and so off I went. It did not go well. Refried beans came off like a poor cousin of the rajma, the Spanish rice would have tasted so much better if it had been more like paruppa sadam and the tortillas were done wrong because why would anybody make them like this when somewhere in the world people knew how to make phulkas and chapathis? Needless to say I have changed my mind since then. New Jersey has a shocking lack of good Mexican restaurants and I feel their absence dearly. 

Since my arrival here I have been compelled to give new cuisines a shot while also having the opportunity to miss so many fine options from back home. Italian, chinese, malay, thai, sushis all have a place in my heart. My one regret (this one always gets a rise out of my very vegetarian husband :) ) is that I do not eat meat and will never fully experience a world of cuisine that is beyond those shut doors ( damn my upbringing).

ye delhi hai mere yaar

It was a Saturday night, the hubby and I had been invited to dinner with a bunch of his friends. It was a cold evening and once inside we were seated in the front of fireplace in a lovely living room. These were my husband friends so my plan was to sound charming, polite, well informed, and funny but use only very subtle, politically correct jokes ( Do I know how to do that?!!!). Well the plan was at least to do my best impression of the above.

The evening started with a glass of wine/ poison of your choice. Since the "plan" did not include rant, raves, funnies followed by my "evil laugh", or graceless dancing, ( one particular night hopping to Koi Kahe from Dil chahtha hai when parents were out of town leaps to mind) I refused all further refills. The party however continued without me. 

Dinner was served and the guys approached us with a drink in hand. They were clearly having a great time and with a certain amount of purpose in their step they sat down facing us. The conversation started pleasantly enough, music, food, restaurants, vacations, obama(what conversation does not include him) and then things took a turn. We were talking about south indians - north indians, women's rights, working women. All inflammatory topics that would have had a more unprepared me foaming in the mouth, cursing and shaking my fist in the air. But though I did venture to add my two cents worth to all the topics I stayed on course with my eye on the end of the evening when I would take my leave with my head held high.

The drift towards these more hazardous waters was not gradual (the party had most definitely gone on without me) and I realized that I was being Baited!! The purpose in their step and the glint in their eyes should have clued in me but it was a Saturday evening and the hot food, fireplace, little pretty appetizers ( I am a sucker for presentation) had mellowed me. Now that I was onto their plan for this evening's "entertainment" I gave myself a little pep talk and faced them with with renewed resolve. My pleasant face strained my facial muscles, my mouth hurt with all the teeth gritting and my neck throbbed courtesy thoughtful head bobbing. I am an adult, I couldn't be baited as a party sport, I am a calm, collected, together person .

And then it happened. One of them with a smile that betrayed his knowledge that he knew this was jackpot turned to me and said " I hate Delhi. People are so rude, it is crowded and polluted". All my resolutions went flying out the window, my knuckles unclenched, my smile melted and it was SO ON.... After all that what followed of course was the argument that they had been thirsting for all night. 

We ended the night with me a little ashamed and the rest with a poorly disguised self congratulatory grin. The evening did make me realize how much Delhi meant to me. I have lived in Delhi only for the first 17 years of my life and have never found my way back but I my heart belongs to Delhi.