Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride

This past Christmas, my mom was lamenting the fact that no one would carry on the family's renowned Christmas fruit-cake tradition after her time. A laborious process, the completion of said cake is a true test of one's culinary prowess. Not only does the chef need the skill to reduce pounds of sticky, candied fruits to chunks only slightly larger than a grain of sand, but the cake also requires the successful completion of a proper caramel. The latter is a lot harder said than done, primarily due to the similarity in appearance of a perfect and a burnt caramel. Both are particularly viscous and dance the delicate line between deep amber and charcoal gray; what they lack in physical dissimilarity, however, they more than make up for in flavor profile. While a proper caramel is rich, with mild bitter undertones to temper the cloying sweetness of the sugar, a burnt caramel tastes much like what I imagine burnt tire rubber would taste like, an acrid, almost sulfurous, smothering of both the organs of smell and taste.

My mother's well-founded concerns raised a few musings of my own regarding my culinary skills. Having run my own tiny, university kitchen for the past two years, I feel that I've reached a point where a perfomance review is well in order. And unfortunately this review will have to be more negative than I would have liked.

Let me start off by saying that cooking is a lot harder than it looks. I've had plenty of kitchen, if not cooking, experience, to the point where I can effortlessly dice and slice onions and other vegetables into perfect, symmetrical pieces. In any task involving a mortar and a pestel, I am almost unanimously nominated for the job, having demonstrated time and again the strength to obliterate whole peppercorns to  dust with one fell swoop of the pestel. I am an expert puri-ball roller, and veggie peeler, and even the designated Thanskgiving mashed potato masher. And yet, when in comes to cooking I come off looking worse than a complete amateur. Hence the title of the piece, or perhaps more aptly modified in my situation to read "Always a sous chef, never a chef."

Granted, I have come quite a way from where I first started. I remember a time when I couldn't even make pasta, a dish well summarized by the following recipe: boil water, add salt and noodles, drain when cooked and add store-bought sauce. I remember a time when I would pull the noodles out of the pot, still as crunchy as when they first went in, and when my sister would complain that her food wasn't cooked (which it wasn't), I would casually brush it off as her lack of appreciation for the "al dente" texture. Another time, by another stroke of my culinary brilliance, I had forgotten to drain the pasta after it had cooked. The result was that each strand had swollen to an alarming size, and when prodded with a fork, disintegrated into a watery, starchy mess. Needless to say, that wasn't a particularly pleasant meal in the household.

In managing my own kitchen, without the direct tutelage of my mother, I've picked up quite a few invaluable lessons, chief of which is never cook when you are hungry. Hunger is a fearful influence, on par with drugs and alcohol. Hunger has the power to manipulate one's judgment regarding doneness, leading to such egregious mistakes that people who are not under hunger's influence will have great difficulty understanding the thought process that got you to said point. I remember an early attempt of mine to fry fish. The recipe is deceptively simple, just salt, turmeric and chili powder, mere child's play in any South Indian kitchen. My mom left me unsupervised, confident that even I wouldn't be able to mess up such a simple process. Much to her shock, I did manage to mess up, and that too pretty badly. Suffering from severe hunger pangs, amplified by the smells of frying fish, I had been pulling the fish out of the oil too early. Each piece was still partially frozen and a pale white in color, a sharp contrast to the expected golden-brown. I'm pretty sure everyone in the family spent a fair hour or so perched on the toilet that night.

Another thing that I learned is that one can never underestimate the power of salt. Many a time have I undertaken a recipe and everything seems just perfect: I didn't burn or undercook anything, the spices are just right, and the smell is heavenly and just like mom's. Only when I sit down to eat do I realize that I have forgotten to salt or undersalted said food, and down the drain or into the garbage the food goes.

Granted, there have been a few instances where the food I made was amazing, like my first and only attempt to date at fish cutlets. These instances, however, have been few and far in between, and each time it happens I find myself having to pinch myself to believe it's real.

Since, I'm taking the time out to reflect on my culinary experiences, I also thought it would be appropriate to write out an apology letter to my future husband, well in advance, just so my legal bases are covered. Here goes....

"Dear Future Hubby,

I am sorry if you were expecting a wife that could cook. You may have me confused with my mother, or my aunts, or any other one of my female relations who do possess such skill. I, unfortunately, am not a cook. Actually up until we married, the only job title I have ever held was student. Job description includes lab work, especially lots and lots of chemistry lab- gen chem, o-chem, you name it, I did it. As such I feel that my lack of skill in the culinary department is well-justified. If you approach cooking with the same mentality as a chem lab (take 1.657 grams of compound x and add to 3.425 grams of compound y; place in crucible and heat over medium high flame, etc.), I imagine the end result would taste just like one of the compounds I made in lab. After all, cooking is an art, and not a science, lacking the rigid procedure and precision of a chem experiment.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, please do not be fooled by the vast amounts of kitchen related items my mother will undoubtedly pack me off with. I hope you have been amassing a catalogue of your favorite take-out restaurants. Trust me when I say that the phone directory will be getting a lot more use than any of our pots and pans.

On a more positive note, I have great confidence in the fact that our future children will be born with an iron immunity against all sorts of intestinal disorders. After years of eating my own cooking, I know I am resistent to pretty much any stomach-related illness, so it's only natural that they will take after me.

With love,
Shirley"

Confessions

1) To this date, every year I visit India, I buy an issue of Tinkle, usually at the Trichy railway station. Whether or not I remember all my baggage, I make it a point to sprint the entire length of the crowded platform, to the lonely bookstore tucked away at the very end of the station, to purchase said Tinkle. Needless to say, I usually get a lot of strange looks when I return, comic book in hand. Judging from my haste, I feel like people expect me to be running after a departing train, or in pursuit of a purse-snatcher, or at the very least, to the rescue of a toddler teetering precipitiously close to the edge of the platform as an incoming train comes uncomfortably close to crushing her to death. Imagine their disappointment when they discover that all of the fuss was just over a comic book.

2) Every year, despite the obvious set-back to my ever-increasing waistline, I make it a point to visit Seakings, a.k.a. God's gift to mankind [Can I get an Amen from all my Trichy peeps???] Not once, but at least several times a week. And yes, the chocolate sundae does kick the choco-chips butt, big-time. To all those choco-chips fans out there, you have no idea what you're missing out on.

3) Every year, I also make it a point to play a round of carom, despite my admitted ineptitude at the game. An older male cousin had a great time watching my most recent attempt. Apparently, I would be the world champion if points were awarded for most failed attempts at getting a single coin into a hole.

4) This is probably really going to date me, but "Chikku Bukku" from Gentlemen, the anthem of my early childhood,  is the most played song on my Youtube searchlist. In a close second comes "Mukkala Mukkabala" from Kadhalan.


5) To date, whenever I pass by a park, I make it a point to head straight for the swings and swing blissfully away for hours on end. This is extremely difficult considering that my backside, considerably larger than the children for whom the swings are manufactured, usually becomes completely numb after a few minutes of being squeezed into a volume only a tenth of its actual size. Given that, and the fact that the parents of the other children usually give me the stink-eye for hogging the swings, as their disappointed little babies stand by, eyes welling up and lips quivering pitifully in a preview of the waterworks to ensue. [I swear, I don't do it on purpose. The swings are always empty when I first get on them, and before I've even had the chance to use it for 30 seconds, 20 wide-eyed kids are waiting expectantly for me to get off. It's definitely some sort of conspiracy.]

Most of the confessions I made above are of the little things I do, even as a twenty-something, to relive the exhilarating joy of my childhood. Most of them are just rituals now, like the annual carom game or the issue of Tinkle, a feeble but worthwhile attempt to recreate an event that had a positive emotional impact on my life.

Others are an attempt at connecting with my roots, like the visits to Seakings. As third-generation Trichy folk, many of my cousins have had the priviledge of graduating from the same schools my parents, aunts, uncles, and even grandparents studied at, having the same teachers in certain extreme cases, and even frequenting the same hangouts. Few places in America are invested with that kind of history for me. That's why Seakings holds such a special place in my heart; whenever I'm there I can just imagine my mom bunking college with her buddies to listen to the latest Michael Jackson tapes playing at the parlor, or I can visualize my dad and his entire extended family taking the two buses from their house to Main Guard Gate, every single Sunday, to gorge on multiple ice-creams. Imagine the size of the bill they worked up each week!!!

Still other rituals have died a peaceful death, like my childhood infatuation with playing dress-up, using blankets to re-create a sari. Back then, wearing a sari held an unmistakable attraction, a symbol of the forbidden fruit of maturity and of being "grown-up". Now, a sari is merely a symbol of acting my age, and in a way, this has had the opposite effect on its appeal. The three saris my mother has forced me to purchase sit gathering dust in my closet, while every day, my inexplicable urge to wear my hair in pigtails again grows stronger and stronger.

 I guess the real confession I'm trying to make here is that no matter how old I get, or how many responsibilities I undertake in life, I have and will always continue to feed my inner child. Adults take themselves way too seriously, and I feel that taking the time out to be a kid every once in a while is the only thing that can help preserve our sanity in the crazy world we live in.

Just 'Cuz

Ok readers, today's post will be an exercise in stream of consciousness thinking. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, it's kind of a literary convention describing the deranged path your thoughts tend to follow when you think about something. You know what I mean, one minute, you're sitting there writing an exam about cellular function, then all of a sudden the cell as a factory analogy they taught you in class makes you think about Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Two hours later, whether or not you remember anything about what a Golgi apparatus does, you most certainly do remember how hot Johnny Depp looks in eye-liner and mascara and you've got a sudden, inexplicable craving for a Nerds rope. Totally insane, but makes for very entertaining reading.

This morning I had a memorable stream of consciousness episode that I thought I'd share. I had a playlist running on Youtube when the song "Anjali Anjali" from Duet popped on unexpectedly. Apart from bringing on a rush of great childhood memories, the song started me thinking about the vast ocean called love. That got me thinking about cute marriage proposals, which got me thinking about the cliche one that everybody always does: proposing at the Eiffel Tower.

Now readers, I ask you, what the hell is so romantic about a triangular hunk of iron plopped unceremoniously in the middle of a city? Have you even been to the Eiffel Tower? I have, and I can confirm that there is nothing even remotely romantic about being 986 feet above the ground, unprotected from 90 mph winds that make it impossible to see out of the hair whipping painfully about your face, while you can't help but think that the cables of the only elevator you took up there, which seem to have last been serviced in 1889, could very well snap on your way back down. Being on the Eiffel Tower will definitely help bring you closer to God  as you will most certainly be praying to get back down safely. Bringing you closer to your significant other, not so much.

Thinking about the ineptitude of the Eiffel Tower as a setting for expressing one's everlasting love [ it's a radio-broadcasting tower for goodness sakes!!!] got me thinking about an underutilized yet infinitely more logical proposal site: the Taj Mahal. What screams love like a massive, marble mausoleum? Our love is so amazing even death can't do us part.

Easily the cutest kid on screen, ever. Image courtesy of lazydesis.com

The Taj Mahal was the transition to my next thought, a classic scene from Slumdog Millionaire. In said scene a young Jamal, now eking out a living scamming gullible foreigners as a tour guide at the Taj Mahal, proudly proclaims that Empress Mumtaz died in a traffic accident. Apparantly she couldn't get to the hospital on time to deliver her umpteenth child; sources say it was very tragic.


Which then got me thinking about Chowpatty Beach and roadside chaat stalls, which reminded me of how hungry I was since the last meal I had consumed was almost 10 hours ago.

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Studies have shown that being awake for 17-19 hours is similar to functioning at a blood alcohol level of about 80mg/ml. Considering how much sleep I've been getting lately, I'm probably functioning at a blood alcohol level of 240 mg/ml. I promise to try and get more sleep so that posts wil return to their normal sanity (or insanity, depending on your personal opinion) levels.

A Field Guide to the NRI

Although I was born and brought up in the USA, India holds a special place in my heart. A welcome respite from the sterility and order of the western world, I can honestly say that I have never felt more alive than when I am caught up in the never-ending throngs of people, noise, heat and activity that characterize India. Unfortunately, these warm feelings of nostalgic longing are not ones reciprocated by the general Indian populace with regard to NRIs. Regarded with a strong derision, most Indians are extremely antagonistic to their bumbling foreign counterparts, who undeniably, have just gone soft in their sojourns abroad. The following list aims to enumerate some of the reasons why native Indians are probably not that far off in their (hurtful, but accurate) perceptions of the typical NRI.

1. The typical NRI couldn't pack to save his/her life.
Every year when my family and I touched down at Chennai International Airport, a small bus, rented from the local travels, would wait in the wings to transport all of our luggage to my aunt's flat. The typical airlines allows for a maximum of two pieces of checked baggage (weighing 23 kg and with maximum dimensions of 158 cm) and one piece of cabin luggage (weighing 7 kg and not exceeding 56x36x23 cm in size) per ticketed passenger. On top of that, passengers are also allowed to bring on board a small handbag, briefcase, laptop etc. To date, I have not been on a trip to India where we have not maxed out on our luggage limit, and our small handbags always seem, suspiciously, to resemble the sizes of our cabin baggage roll-ons.

If you thought that was amusing, picture this. It's 10:20 p.m., Chennai Egmore Station, 11+ pieces of luggage, and 2 minutes and counting to get to a second story platform and load said luggage onto the train. 6 extremely frazzled people, 2 of whom are arguing heatedly with the over-zealous porter over wages, and the other 4 who are busy pretending that they have no idea who the previous 2 are. 2nd compartment of the A/C 3-tier section of the Rockfort Express, and now 4 disgruntled fellow passengers who watch, dismayed, as every square inch of their precious space is occupied by bulky, foreign-returned suitcases, stowed away expertly by an intimidating woman who manages to maneuver acrobatically despite her constricting sari and high heels. Add to that the thrill of dodging past bribe-hungry policemen who insist that weighing in luggage of that size and quantity is standard procedure, although for a nominal fee they would be more than willing to waive the formalities. Now, I'd like to see our Superstar handle that-- wearing those ridiculous wigs, beating the baddies to a pulp while defying the laws of gravity, and lighting those cigarettes off of shirt collars are all getting a tad old.

2. NRIs are India's economic stimulus package. Ask me what my favorite city is and the answer that will immediately pop out without any hesitation is "Chennai." Ask me why I am so enamored of the city and the answer comes out a bit more hesitantly. You see, I could respond about how the amalgamation of cultures and lifestyles, from the cheri, Madras-basha afficianados along Marina Beach to the madisaar mammis of Besant Nagar, fascinate me. I could talk about the unique architecture of the city, melding its regal British colonial past with its modern, high-tech present. I could talk about the vibrant, youthful nature of the city, or of the infamous traffic conditions wherein one always travels with one's heart in one's mouth. Or maybe I should mention Kollywood and the infinite opportunities to celebrity stalk all over the city.
In reading the previous list, you are probably wondering why I mentioned that answering the question of what specifically attracts me to Chennai is difficult. I obviously had quite a bit to say on the issue. Problem is, in all of my visits to the city I have not experienced much of the above. All of the stuff I mentioned before is the stuff of my secret desires and the product of reading any travel guide to the city I could get my hands on. Truth is, the only parts of Chennai I have actually seen are Citi Centre, Spencers Plaza, Fountain Plaza, Alsa Mall, Higginbothams, RMKV, Naidu Hall (T Nagar), etc.
Three exacting women, two jet-lagged days, 6+ outfit purchases per woman. Enough said.
3. The Language Divide. NRI children will often lack the Tamil skills to communicate in any capacity with their doting grandparents. Do not be surprised, however, when nai, panni, pisasu, somari, kasmalam, and other choice words spew profusely from their lips. Such is life.
4. NRIs are an oddly shaped bunch. Nearly 40% of all Americans are obese, a health epidemic that is attributable to the sedentary lifestyles of the American people and the prevalence and relative inexpensiveness of high-fat fast foods. Unfortunately for the NRI, even if they manage to escape the siren song of American eating and physical activity habits, a greater evil awaits them back home. This syndrome, enacted at the hands of doting relatives who feel a compulsion to express their love through food, is aptly known as I'mSoHugeINeedToBeRolledOntoMyReturnFlight. Symptoms include relatives planning the several dishes to be present at lunch and dinner just as you've sat down to eat breakfast, and severe guilt trips equating eating "too little" with disinterest and a lack of affection for the cook.
5. NRIs have strange hygeine issues. My family and I once took a bus from Tiruchi to Bangalore, thanks to the lack of space by rail, as usual. When we were seated on the bus, every single eye was on us. The reason? My mother had taken out a pack of soapy diaper wipes and was energetically wiping her seat, the window sill, the bars of the window and any other surface the wipes would reach.
Also, on a side note, only the NRI would insist on paying 300 rupees for bottled Bisleri at every restaurant, despite its virtual indistinction from the cups of water the waiter places on the table.
I hope you enjoyed reading this list and got a good laugh. Feel free to add any other observations to the comments section.
P.S. No NRIs were harmed in the creation of this post.