Archive | October, 2012

They’ve All Gone To Look For America

19 Oct

By the time you read this, I will be flying over the vast North American continent, squealing like a 6-year-old about the excitement of being on a plane again, and singing Alleluia on repeat in my head.

Destination: America.

As much as I delight in my Californian life–the brilliant weather, geographical gorgeousness, access to global culture, technology, and some of the brightest minds in the world, an easy, convenient life with so much of Home–there is no doubt in my mind that the Real America lies 6 hours east, on the highways of New Jersey, in the towers of Manhattan, in the madly rust-and-gold colors that bedeck Syracuse in my dream version of a wedding baraat, around the potholes of Scranton, amidst the knock-your-chaddis-off charm of New England, in the memories that lurk in every corner of Philadelphia’s University City.

America was my 20s. America brought me up. America took a still-naive 22-year-old, seduced her, taught her survival, chewed her up, spat her out, and sent her home a newer, stronger, bruised and burnished person, a care package of heartbreak and her happiest memories in tow. For all the years that I lived in Bombay after moving back, the East Coast was my America. In the 20 months that I’ve joyfully settled in California, the East Coast is still My America.

Even as I type this, I can hardly believe that we will renew our acquaintance tomorrow.  Even as I type this, I can hardly believe it’s been a separation of 7 life-changing years. And even as I type this, I can hardly believe I’ve been to London, Paris, and New York in the same year. (Take that, Ali Zafar!)

Who was that girl from a decade ago? How much hope did she tote around lightly around her shoulders? Who is this woman going back to romance her yesteryears, revisit the life that once consumed her, introduce her partner, her new life, her new position in another societal slot and decade? Whoever she is, she’s going to be surprised. Because someone else is going to pop out screaming–and possibly shedding a few overwhelmed tears–when she first drives up University Ave and comes face to face with ghosts she left behind far too long ago.

Amidst all that is unbelievable about this journey, this I firmly know: loving your past is your best gift to the present, and at long last, my friends, it is finally time.

Advertisements

Happy Hausfrau Series: Akoori

14 Oct

Greetings from the home of the happy hausfrau! Don those aprons and follow me into the kitchen, chop chop.

This blog has given me many things. But since my last hausfrau post, its greatest gift has been the realization that you guys are kindred spirits. You love eeda. I love eeda. Ergo, TrueLuv4Evah. We’re twin flames! Yolkmates from lifetimes past! With the crack of each shell, our karmic connection  (and LDL) grows stronger! And in celebration of this life-changing event, today we make akoori: authentic Parsi scrambled eggs.

Joining us on this journey of Higher Learning are:

Clockwise, from top:  Salt, cooking oil, 2 medium onions (preferably red), fresh cilantro/coriander, the 3 Magi of Indian spices: coriander, turmeric, and red chilli powders, ginger-garlic paste, 2 medium tomatoes (no, you aren’t seeing things, I substituted), and 4 eeda.

Why are the eeda white this time? Because we’re an equal opportunity household and value diversity.

Start by pouring some oil into a pan and remembering to turn on the heat.

Drizzle and then sizzle. Oh yeah.

While the oil’s getting all hot and bothered, turn your attention to the onions. Onions, I’ve always felt, are the classic middle children of all god’s creations. Put to work, but not really acknowledged. Hands up if you’re a middle child. *keeps hers smugly lowered.* :mrgreen:

Peel and chop the onions into fours. The reason you’re being spoiled with so many pictures today is because we had a guest photographer in the house kitchen. I hereby dedicate a song to him: I love yoooooooou, You pay my rent.

Hit that ‘chop’ button. GRRRRRRRRRAAWWWWR!!!!

Once the onions are soft and translucent, add a teaspoon of ginger-garlic paste and order them to assimilate. They’ll meekly comply if you threaten to share the Parsi sugar-in-milk story.

Next, your tomatoes do the bump-and-grind routine. In red spandex. And leg warmers.

Add them to the pan and give everything a big stir. Oh you rabble-rouser you.

Next, add a flattened teaspoon of turmeric. …..

A heaped teaspoon of powdered coriander…..

And a flattened one of red chilli powder. You can substitute this with 2 green chillies if you wish.

We 3 kings of Orient are

Adding heat to OJ’s eeda

….and so on and so forth.

Dust the mixture with salt and stir, stir, stir.

Add chopped kothmir and stir, stir, stir. If you go all North Indian on me and call this “dhania”, this is all you deserve: 🙄

At this point, the akoori base starts looking decidedly green. In my mother’s kitchen. In mine, it stays red. But you know what Michael Jackson said. It’s what you are on the inside that matters.

Ready to crack your eeda?

Why do I have such gnarly fingers?

Oh look at that cozy family of four, the resident photographer gushed. We’re still humoring him. Because he pays the rent.

The resident photographer would like you to know that this is when you pop your waffles in the toaster.

(Pssst! English muffins/rotlis/toast will do just fine.)

He also thinks it imperative that you know the perfect heat setting to gently scramble the eeda.

I don’t eat no butter, he proudly proclaims.

(I get all my cholesterol from eggs.)

Scramble away, but ensure the eggs are still moist and slightly runny. They’ll continue to firm up after you pull them off the heat, and you don’t want them too dry.

Ladle the akoori onto the waffles and serve right away. And before you dash off, here’s a nugget of trivia: The Bollywood movie ‘Being Cyrus‘ was first titled ‘Akoori’, except there were concerns that the general audience wouldn’t know what that was.

Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas: educating the world, one clueless blog reader at a time. 😎

Jumjoji!

Poop Goes The Weasel

3 Oct

I’ve recently switched doctors and my new one wanted to conduct a series of routine tests, so last week, I traipsed along to the clinic, empty sterile container in hand, to donate some pee to the lab. Walking toward the entrance, I noticed a man—middle-aged, Asian, balding, with slightly rumpled clothes—headed toward the entrance as well, with a bottle of stool sample in his hand. And so began my not-so-pleasant reaction to the swishy brown contents of his bottle. All conversations in my head will hereafter be italicized:

Eww! Gross! How could he just bring poop in a transparent bottle like that? At least cover it with a paper bag! Some people.

Swish, swish, swish went the poop, as the gentleman stepped into the clinic lobby, with me a safe distance behind.

Disgusting. It’s so runny. Good thing I haven’t had any breakfast. Seriously, I get you’re a recent immigrant, but watch and learn, my friend! No. Scratch that. You’re not my friend. No friend of mine would walk around with poop in public view.

Poop-swisher took a seat, bottle in hand and on full display, while I chose one at the other end of the waiting area.

Really? Holding it so close to you like it’s your lost lover? You’ll die of an infection, man. Oh god I’m going to hurl. This should be illegal. There are kids with compromised immunity in this place. Have you no concern for the wee ones of the world??

Poop-swisher stared benignly into space, clutching the watery contents of his intestines.

I don’t believe this. Why couldn’t he just do it in the bathroom here, like everybody else? Maybe he has a performance anxiety issue. Maybe he had one of those tiger mums who said “Poop now or forever hold your piece.” Well, he’s sure holding his piece now!

Poop-swisher adjusted his position and I looked away for a moment, to give the impression I wasn’t turning cartwheels on the inside and emanating guttural gasping sounds of disgust.

Holy guacamole! He’s raising it to his mouth! Omigod, he has Pica! Somebody get mental health medics in here! Noooooooo! STOP IT! Don’t drink that!!!! I’m gagging, oh lord I’m gagging, I need the bathroom. Now!

Wildly looking around for a nurse or medical aide, I saw Poop-swisher from the corner of my eye, calmly take a swig from his bottle of Starbucks Mocha Frappucino, screw on the lid, and put the bottle beside him.

Oh.

“…………..”

 

If you ever repeat this incident to anyone, dear reader, you and I are OVER.