Thai Cuisine.

It is interesting how I got hooked on to Thai food being the finicky eater I am. When you are a staunch vegetarian your whole life, it kind of becomes obsessive after a point. I keep on asking the waiter if the veggie soup broth is actually veggie stock. He says it is. I pause and ask "does it have any meat?"
He says. "no" I pause yet again and ask "can you make sure?"
Sure enough, he comes out and announces that he is not sure and I end up coming out to the restaurant eating a couple of lettuce leaves stuffed inside a bun.
Before I deviate - Thai Food. Satya is my vegetarian friend with a twist. She is extremely experimental with food. One day when we were out having a girl's day out, she literally forced me to go try Thai food. Reluctantly and after a thorough scrutiny of what went into the dish I was interested in, I placed my order.
This was some four years ago and Thai food has even since joined my list of favourite foods. I rarely venture into trying new "veggie" (like they have a lot! LOL) stuff, but I do enjoy eating it.
Should probably be that coconut flavour that I am so accustomed to as a south Inidan or just the carbs.
Well, I am on a dinner date tonight again with the friend who had forced this cuisine on me. I am happy I gave in and tried it:-)

Heroes.

Yes, they are usually those muscle men in tight leggings and masks. I am talking about the ones that we meet daily. The ones that have someting special and adorable and praiseworthy about them. These are not the kinds that come and rescue us in danger or display superhuman courage and adventure.
Let me explain.
What do women do when they meet? Yes, anyone's guess ! Gossip. I have no shame in admitting that a part of what I talk to my girlfriends and family is usually gossip. I cannot however get my older sister Seshu to ever gossip. She is firm on her principle. If you are looking around to kill some time with gossip or have some not so nice things to say about people (irrespective of how bad they are) don't ever go to my sis. Come to me instead. We can chat away over a cup of chilled caramel frappuchino from Starbucks.

Okay, jokes apart let me go ahead and list my heroes. Nalini ! She is my cousin. Technically second but has been closer to my heart like my own sibling. Naini has it. The voracity to read and gulp everything anything she can set her eyes on from sci-fi to culinary books. She is definitely my hero for her relegious and deligent reading habbit.

Geeta, my lil sis can get on anyone's nerves with her whacky humor. You still smile though she can be irritatingly irritaing. Her glory is perfection.
Geeta always completes the jobs she takes up (not just finishes them)> Any one can assign a task to her - could be as simple as brewing tea or as complex as making a dress for you. She takes care of perfection like a perfectionist and her organizing abilities are infectious.

Satya - My hero of Humor. This girl has such a childlike sense of humor. I am splitting my sides when ever I am on phone with her. She can turn the most boring of days into laugh riots. The one major lesson of life I learnt form my dear friend is to laugh at myself. Life is so much fun when you can look at yourself in the mirror and laugh at the person that looks back at you.

Mom - She has to be mentioned when it comes to devotion. This woman is devotion personified. She is easily the most devoted mom, wife and career woman I have ever met. The meticulousness of how she attends to my dad (lucky man) is worth its weight in blogs. Now I wish I had said that about myself.

Okay, let me not be a feminist here. Nor go on displaying my nepotism.
Dean Anderson, my neighbor is my Hero of enthusiasm. He can rip the house apart and build it with this enthu for getting things done. During Christmas time, our street looks like a mini Vegas. Courtesy Mr. Anderson. His RV is taken out 4 times a week and the family spends time trekking mountains and biking on trails.

Heroes. Such a grand word. Yet I come across them everyday.

Smell

Don't they say that the sense of smell is the strongest sense of all?
I still remember some smells form childhood. The smell of wet earth somehow brings back memories of playing with rain water that fell thru the open sun window, into the depression created in the center of our living room floor. Yeah...it would be cool to tell Aarti that I lived in a house that had an open sun window which welcomed all the elements into the house.

The smell of seasoning in dal.. Makes me hungry. Also makes me think of evening play dates in my neighborhood. We'd run into the house and smell it in the air. Cummin, mustard and asefotida married together creating the best ever vegetarian side dish. (oky this is open for arguement)

The smell of Petrol. Makes me think of childhood again. Living so near to a petrol bunk made this a very nostaligic smell

This brand named Fruits and Passion has a hand cleansing gel that smells like wild berries. I bought this when I was vacationing in Calgary, Canada. The moment I use this on my hands after cooking or cleaning, I am magically transformed into that crisp winter breeze of Banff National park. what a wonderful memory to rekindle!

I should mention this yucky smell of molasses that stinked the air in our grand dad's town. Makes me think of summer holdiays now. Hmm...Is that not a paradigm shift?

Givenchy Pi feels like Sarat.
EsteeLauder pleasures or Polo Woman makes me feel like a teenager.

Chicco soap is so Aarti these days.

And Yes, the smell of cut grass is alway a smell that makes me feel at home in a foreign country, it makes me feel grown up and in-charge.

Abundance.

A coach bag - Actually a tote. Big enough to house a tub of wipes and a stack of diapers, lip gloss, car keys, two jars of baby food and a book (to read)

A vanity - with little pots of color for the face and nails. Numerous brushes. A sectioned translucent trinket box containing earrings.

A closet - with an array of bold colored sairs, salwar suits, t shirts and trousers. Not to mention bags of all shapes and sizes to accesorize.

A kitchen - busting at the seams with pots and pans. One for sambar, one for rasam and one for steaming veggies to mention a few.

A pantry - smelling like New India Bazzar. Full of pearl pet jars and spice assortments.

A front yard - blooming with roses - Hybrid tea. Pink, yellow, red and lavender.

A book case - showing off the well read people. From technical to spiritual. From fiction to relegion. A book case that also displays baby shoes and little kinck-knacks. Girly knick- knacks.

A heart - full of emotions, zeal and love for live.

But a Mind - short of ideas to write a blog. A mind that has one thing in abundance - Confusion!!!

Appetite

It is not funny at all. Aarti takes anytime in between half and hour to an hour and a half to eat a single meal. my right hand seems to be in a perpetual angle holding her soft tip spoon full of mashed rice and veggies sometimes or yoghurt or oatmeal cooked in milk sometimes. Her taste is strange. Or should I say her taste does'nt exist at all. Whether it is cake batter ice-cream from Coldstone or heavy whipping creme from that pineapple pudding I made, feeding her the third spoon always becomes an ordeal. She does'nt seem to care for food at all. Coming from a family of foodies (at least on her mom's side) this is kind of unusual for her.
She loves a couple of things. Green peas and slices of cucumber. She bites into cucumber slices with her front teeth and crunches them away with her gums. The only time I see her restless with reference to food is when she sees green peas on top of the fried rice I make. Now if I steam green peas and feed them with some butter, it becomes a big no no!
Finger foods are always on the floor. She loves playing with her cheerios and sweet potato puffs. If you think cheese or cheetos whould excite a kid, nay, not so!
My day begins with the dreaded thought of feeding her breakfast and usually ends with the guilt feeling of not have fed her a full serving of dinner.
Is'nt life strange? I am, on the other hand, trying to confine my appetite to lose those post partum pounds that keep me from fitting into those lovely pair of GAP jeans. I am subconsciously thinking of food all the time, whether it is about feeding Aarti of myself:-( Thai fried rice from the local resturant, Onion rings form IHop (not to forget the pancakes and maple syrup) Malai Kofta and hot rotis from Sangam are a few things that cross my mind more often than the most common things that are supposed to be crossing my mind. LOL.
Dunno what, you are probably hungry from all those descriptions by now, or you are bored. Either way is a nice reason to open that fridge and do some binge eating.
May I suggest you to bring your food to your computer and tell me a thing or two about increasing and decreasing appetite for my daughter and me (respectively) while you are at your munching!!!!

Solids.

Okay, I am ready to experiment with Aarti's food. I ask a gazillion people, I get a gazzilion advice. All different and contradicting one another. I am not sure where to start and with what to start. My Doc says such and such things are okay. Some website says they are not. An advice nurse I talked to gives me a long list and says, "Just feed her what ever works out of these". Yes, confusing indeed. I remember my youngest sibling being fed on solids. There wasn't this much speculation about the process. Yeah, that was 20 years ago. But it doesn't seem that long. The luscious beets I see in the Indian store and the cricket ball sized peaches in our backyard beckon to me - "Puree us and feed us to Aarti"
Obsessively, I google and find out more confusing info. Why don't I just go ahead and start with something not too experimental? Is it the over protective parent in me? Am I ending up where I thought I should never end up? "In the international parents club of paranoia?"
Aarti's little mouth that savors the rice cereal with somuch interest is sure to enjoy the other foods nature has to offer. I should make sure I enjoy giving them to her.

Smile.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, this one is worth a million. My pint sized star, with her twinkling eyes and heartful smile won over the intensive care nursery when she was just a couple of days old. She went thru an ordeal tougher than her mom's. Stayed in the ICN when all of us were at home. She had a character about her, She had feelings to convey and stories to tell. Everytime I took her out of the incubator and those bright billy lights, she would open her eyes ever so slightly and give me a smile. "Mom, don't worry" she seemed to convey - "I am stronger than I appear to be"
Aarti taught me a lot in life, even when she was only hours old. I learnt from her that life is a battle that should be won with a smile. A journey that unfolds umpteen experiences - of joy, sorrow and most importantly love. She taught me what unconditional love is. When I held her for the fist time, I knew she is here to brighten my life with that smile and enrich it with a love that is beyond all words.

To Sir - With Love.

To Sir, With Love. 8/18/2006 2:37 AM
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays ;
And their uncessant labors see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid ;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.

These opening lines form Andrew Marvell’s poem “The Garden” stir a whirlwind of emotions after a decade of studying the poem. (I should acknowledge that do not even have an okay memory) In 1996 when I was still a teenager, working a fulltime job and trying to finish my bachelors degree in English literature, I was in for more challenges than I could handle. Though I had a penchant towards the language, the cryptic poetry and prose we had were too hard to understand without having a teacher. I never made it to a single correspondence class in my 3 year degree owing to a job that would not allow me many casual leaves.
Experiences come in a lot of disguises. This one wonderful experience that is etched deep and clear, came to me when I approached Vara Prasad Sir to teach me poetry from my second year bachelor’s program. Sir was a family friend, very well known to my father. Though he never taught me during my school days, I heard a lot about him from my older sister and her classmates. I had a very casual and close relationship with him and we used to chat on phone and talk about everything from movies to food when I met him.
So on a fateful weeknight, I went to his house with my poetry text and a notepad clueless about the most wonderful learning experience I was going to have.
He was dresses in a lungi. He wore a cross around his neck that entangled with the thread that he wore across his shoulder. His breath smelled heavily of cigarettes and he seemed to ignore me when I was talking about something. He settled on the floor and I sat in front of him giving him my poetry text. “Let’s study Andrew Marvell – I announced” giving him the opened book. He quickly scanned thru the poem and said “very well my dear,‘The garden’ it is”
He started reading the poem aloud. It made no sense to me though I could understand all the words in it. Word by word, line by line – he unfolded the meaning of the first paragraph. I was listening to him mesmerized. We finished the first three paragraphs on the first day and continued it on the following day. By the time I went to him the next day, he opened the door before I knocked. I had a feeling he was waiting for me to arrive. We settled in our usual place and started the study again. He opened a piece of paper that would hardly cover his palm. His writing was tiny – really tiny. And very artistic. He wrote the entire notes for the 9 paragraph page in that piece of paper. That too, on one side. He paused sometimes as he explained it. It looked like he was trying to remember what he was about to say. He was actually pausing to appreciate the poet’s talent. After a few seconds of silence he would say “ yenta baga rasado…..”
I walked back home that day, clutching to that piece of paper like it were a charm. Till date I have it, the physical memory tucked in my teenage treasure chest, and an emotional memory that I would one day hope to share with my offsprings. A memory so pure and clear, that it left an unmistakable mark on who I am today.
Life had changed for me that evening. An overwhelming emotion, filled with a gazillion positive feelings, An unspeakable appreciation for all the hardwork he put in to teach me the most important lesson of my life lingers in my memory lane long after many memories got buried in time.

The last time I saw sir was at my wedding. He wrote to me from Hyderabad when I sent him my wedding invitation. Jyoteeshwari teaher was battling with her life. “Each day is a precious gift from God” he wrote, explaining her health condition. If your wedding day is not the last one He’d bestow upon her, I’ll be there” he added.
My wedding took place in Hyderabad. He hugged me, placed his hand on my head, blessed me and sobbed silently.

I wrote my second year’s English paper in my Third. I never looked back at that tiny paper again to remember what he told me nor do I need to look at it again. Andrew Marvell’s genius work had been immortalized for me by a teacher who is larger than life. A teacher who gave the opportunity to learn more than what the text book taught. A teacher who taught me just one lesson – the most wonderful of it all.

Namesake

Midnight is the time when profound thoughts strike me.
Is orange the color named after orange the fruit or is it the other way round?
why is yellow not called banana or banana not called yellow then? How about apple and red???
No matter how childlish the ponderings are, they are indeed thought provoking.

Windows.

My yearning to create a better work space made me paint the office room. The room has an inaccessible wrought iron balcony that stages some fake flowering plants to add that splash of color. I tried to bring that hue in. After our thirty minute pondering over the color pallettes in the paint section, I ended up with a creamy orange shade, which looked more orange than creamy when applied to the walls. But warms colors have a thing about them and I liked the way the room turmed out. The color in the balcony tied up with the color inside but my quest for creativity prompted me to think of a border to go around the top of the wall. I asked for a few suggestions and did'nt find any strinking or challenging enough. I googled "office space wall paper borders" and came up with an exhaustive selection, but none of them pleased the discerning eye in question. A thought flashed across my mind, unconvincing in the beginning but appealing as the time passed by.
Fast forward to a four rung ladder, a bunch of talkon brushes and acrylic paint in bright hues that define windows paired with a semi seasoned hand that makes things appear a lot easier and an enthusiasm of a three year old, Bill gates' windows adorn the now colorful office space. The prime colors add the required splash and voila, the place becomes complete. The arched window with the wooden blinds and the wrought iron balcony and the microsoft windows that seem to pop on the wall stage the same thing. What is that word? color!!!

Tense.

Before my Paradigm takes word form, I really need to ponder over the Tense. Grammar "tense" that is.
Once, when I was in seventh Grade, Seshakka told me something remarkable while teaching me Algebra. "If you don't use it, it'll get rotten (she referred to my brain) just like flour goes bad after a while".
What words of wisdom? It has taken me a decade and a half to understand what she actually meant.

I notice a lot of "tense fluctuations" in my writings which never happened a year ago. Well, it took me an year to actually start writing, and the flour got bad.
Reason enough to do this writing more frequently may be I can stop if from turning even badder:-))