America may be the home of the brave and the free, but Florida is the home of oranges and retired people. I know this. I marvel at it and occasionally snigger about it. Yet, it never fails to catch me unaware.
At the cinema, just out of Burlesque (both women belt it, the burlesque is more like burlesque and less like Vegas, Stanley Tucci is delicious and the young stud has a body to beg for, but otherwise, give it a skip), like every middle aged woman susceptible to incontinence, I deem it prudent to visit the ladies before our departure. I find myself at the end of a queue of white haired women. Hmmmm, maybe they let them out of their old age homes for a jaunt in the town on Sundays? As I wait my turn, I realise that my presence there has pulled the average age all the way down to 65!!
Hunger pangs strike me en route home and we stop at the causally termed Bob Evans... where there are 3 other sets of diners, naturally, all sporting various shades of grey and white atop their head. As we work our way though some indifferent food (this is what happens when you shun the fried stuff in an attempt to be healthy), the place starts to fill up, and the number of people with walking aids outnumber the people without. An elderly couple shuffles in with his mother, and I wonder if the restaurant has paramedics on standby in the parking lot (given the age of the clientele and the winningly themed choice of appetisers like fried zucchini, fried apple pie sticks, fried mozzarella, fried potato bombs....). The sound of cutlery and shuffling is interrupted by a geriatric demanding to see his favourite waitress, and insisting that he be seated next to some young girls. Deboo and I look at each other and shudder, but we are saved by his rather telling question, "ARE there any young girls in Florida?". Ummmm. Not in South West Florida there aren't...
What there is in South West Florida is an overabundance of hungrily growling, sexy Corvettes and macho rumbling Harleys cruising the streets. And old people. Yeah. You think about that. You do the math. I'im too busy wondering just why we're even bothering to eat healthy. The last thing this State needs is more people living to a ripe old age!
Ooook
My first flight was when I was 9 months old and I have flown regularly since then. Different cities, counties, continents. Been there, done that, and yet I find there are so many things that make my eyebrows vie with each other in a race to meet my hairline...
Of course, it's just me that wonders if Tire House is just a place where tired people go for a restorative session, till I see signs for Tire Kingdom and offers for a free Tire if you buy 3....
Or for that mater, the humongous sign stating WORLDS BIGGEST SHELL FACTORY.... that explains why they're so uniform on the beaches? No one I'm with deigns to shed light on my dilemma and I remain perturbed.
For example, the compelling sign just as we turn off to head home, offering:-
Convenience Store
Bait & Tackle
Barber & Beauty
Ooook. I'm just wondering if it's the bait and tackle specialist that does the barber and beauty or the other way around. I mean, technically speaking, barber and beauty is nothing but sophisticated bait isn't it? Well, maybe not that sophisticated. I wonder how many customers they have that use all 3??
Then, there's the classic enticement of the used sales car fraternity.... DIRT CHEAP CARS! with S A L E propped up against 4 of the best used vehicles, which the next day loudly shouts A L E!
Of course, it's just me that wonders if Tire House is just a place where tired people go for a restorative session, till I see signs for Tire Kingdom and offers for a free Tire if you buy 3....
Or for that mater, the humongous sign stating WORLDS BIGGEST SHELL FACTORY.... that explains why they're so uniform on the beaches? No one I'm with deigns to shed light on my dilemma and I remain perturbed.
But the most outrageous thing that not only shifted my eyebrows but wrings out a gasp of horror (yes, of the shock! Horror! variety) as the TV announcers plummy voice over proudly proclaims "The only show where the winner gets cut!". What?!?! 12 brides to be, competing and clawing with each other over several episodes for the chance of a lifetime to win not only their dream wedding but their dream body. You cannot be serious. But apparently, they are and happy to tell the viewers what bits of their face and bodies they want fixed. It takes me another 4 seconds to shut my jaws together. BRIDOPLASTY! Starting tonight....
Diving: A dangerous sport
2 textbooks - 400 pages. Jovial iterations of:-
You will die.
Death.
Unconciousness.
Numbness.
Disorientation.
Exploding lungs.
Burst eardrums.
Painful bends.
Nausea.
Blah, blah...
The book thoughtful reminds you that the leading cause of injuries however (and this is statistically documented, I understand), is sunburn. Cocky divers that forget to lay on the sunblock. Fittingly glamorous. As an Indian with a rabid dislike of tan lines, I applaud the safety precaution. Do they mention trying not to bump yourself off the boat while getting kitted out? No, they remain criminally silent on an even more stealthy way to injure yourself while diving, even before you get to when you can fall prey to natures heat. Have you ever tried crawling into a wet suit? The only time I'm copiously shredding skin, bleeding and potential exposing bone, not in a misguided attempt to draw sharks into an photo shoot, or pose as bait for any other perceived killers of the deep, but getting clad for my adventure to be! Trying not to fall over yourself, trip on your fins or fall back with the weight of your tank that slips... the only serious cause of injury is the sweaty, frustrating and fattening experience of tugging on a wet suit.....
Be warned. Be careful. Be a seal.
You will die.
Death.
Unconciousness.
Numbness.
Disorientation.
Exploding lungs.
Burst eardrums.
Painful bends.
Nausea.
Blah, blah...
The book thoughtful reminds you that the leading cause of injuries however (and this is statistically documented, I understand), is sunburn. Cocky divers that forget to lay on the sunblock. Fittingly glamorous. As an Indian with a rabid dislike of tan lines, I applaud the safety precaution. Do they mention trying not to bump yourself off the boat while getting kitted out? No, they remain criminally silent on an even more stealthy way to injure yourself while diving, even before you get to when you can fall prey to natures heat. Have you ever tried crawling into a wet suit? The only time I'm copiously shredding skin, bleeding and potential exposing bone, not in a misguided attempt to draw sharks into an photo shoot, or pose as bait for any other perceived killers of the deep, but getting clad for my adventure to be! Trying not to fall over yourself, trip on your fins or fall back with the weight of your tank that slips... the only serious cause of injury is the sweaty, frustrating and fattening experience of tugging on a wet suit.....
Be warned. Be careful. Be a seal.
America
May be the land of the brave and the free, but it is certainly not the land of good chocolate. For some acutely inexplicable reasons, the America palate is entirely unfamiliar with what chocolate ought to actually taste like, and all their proffered offerings are uniformly sweet, sticky and yucky. It is an unfortunate circumstance of history that Hershey was the purveyor, or should I say corrupter of the noble bean, in an industrialised fashion (I mean really, have you ever tasted the aberration that goes under the name of Hershey's kisses??? They actually have the cheek to call it chocolate! Fortuitously, I remembered just in time to ask for chocolate sauce on the side as the unattractive gloop that came along in a little bowl would have destroyed the otherwise fulfilling crepe filled with strawberries (although the red syrup that it was coated with was rather unnecessary, but there seems to be an urgent need to infuse sugar in as many locationes of your plate as possible). However, I will say that they have done rather a marvellous job of sticking whipped cream into aerosol cans. A perfect contrast to tart flavours and fluffy too..... Take two women with voracious appetites and it can only mean one thing....... oh yeah!
Iron Woman,
I'm not. More like old silver that's moulded into funky jewellery. Last night's strident protest lodged by my DNA at my unnecessarily uncharacteristic desire to add a 5 mile cycling bout after a morning of 2 dives has the rest of my body seconding, thirding and fourthing the screaming sentiment. Clearly, my mouth works on a parallel set of synapses, in a universe far, far away from the ones that work with my body. Or perhaps its my new found bravado on a bike.... boosted by the absence of any flying over the handlebar episodes (ungainly it might be, but it's gotta hurt less than an encounter involving you adhered to the bike and road in a tangled heap?).
I also wonder if I just have good instincts or do I just assume people will be what they say? My diving excursion was arranged over the phone from a number off the Internet, and we'd be taking a boat out 35 miles off shore for the dive.... sounds like a plan. Dive instructors wife shows up - a lovely lady who makes the trip even more fun. She's here so I wouldn't be the only girl on board and runs home as soon as we dock. Deboo wasn't just stretching her legs after the long drive to drop me off, she wanted to satisfy herself as to what kind of people I was dealing with. Apparently, two men and a boat are not words that bring comfort to all mothers. Well, what's to say the trio wouldn't have dumped my body in the deep blue after having their way with me? Too much Law & Order methinks. But it does make me wonder if I should even be entertaining these thoughts every time I sign up for something on the net, and venture out alone? But what's the point of 40 years worth of gut that tells you something feels off at the way someone talks or the things they say? Which also makes me think, I do not want to die underwater unless I'm eaten by a shark going straight for the jugular or skewered through the heart à la Crocodile Hunter. Sudden, succinct and spectacular. That's what I'm looking for.
By the way, watching a forklift carry a boat and set it down in the water is really cool!
I also wonder if I just have good instincts or do I just assume people will be what they say? My diving excursion was arranged over the phone from a number off the Internet, and we'd be taking a boat out 35 miles off shore for the dive.... sounds like a plan. Dive instructors wife shows up - a lovely lady who makes the trip even more fun. She's here so I wouldn't be the only girl on board and runs home as soon as we dock. Deboo wasn't just stretching her legs after the long drive to drop me off, she wanted to satisfy herself as to what kind of people I was dealing with. Apparently, two men and a boat are not words that bring comfort to all mothers. Well, what's to say the trio wouldn't have dumped my body in the deep blue after having their way with me? Too much Law & Order methinks. But it does make me wonder if I should even be entertaining these thoughts every time I sign up for something on the net, and venture out alone? But what's the point of 40 years worth of gut that tells you something feels off at the way someone talks or the things they say? Which also makes me think, I do not want to die underwater unless I'm eaten by a shark going straight for the jugular or skewered through the heart à la Crocodile Hunter. Sudden, succinct and spectacular. That's what I'm looking for.
By the way, watching a forklift carry a boat and set it down in the water is really cool!
The kitty litter isn't enough
Bwaaaahaaahaahaa. You may be Bond. James Bond. But I am Jackson. Jackson "Miaaaaowww" Chaudhuri. And no meagre 00, cutie of the Queen can stop me from from my evil plans! The world is mine! I control everything and everyone and there's nothing you can do...! Bwaahahaha....
Apparently, taking a cat for a walk has a detrimental effect on my sense of the absurd, not to mention drama (which has already been known to have dodgy moments now and again). While middle age has seen me shed a lot of my previously and preciously held reservations (parental jocularity in front of friends, wearing flopping hats as protection against the sun, wearing pink, being caught dead buying spangled socks in Primark, culottes....), I find myself anxiously insisting that I'm perfectly fine walking the dog. I would have happily walked a hippo or even the unattractive pig at the animal shelter. Any animal on a lead as a matter of fact, but even middle age doesn't not allow me to insouciantly stroll down the street pushing a neon blue, mesh covered pram wheeling a cat therein. It is simply not acceptable to one's image, even if said cat happens to be a most attractive black and green eyed creature with an aura of demoniacal intent and a distinct sense of superiority.
It is superfluous to say, Jackson surveys the world through slitted eyes befitting the evil and naturally demented, megalomaniac cat who took over the world, undeterred even by his rather pedestrian chariot. Wonder if I'd be more willing to shed my inhibitions to wheel him around if he had a Batmobile or should that be a Catmobile?? Nope. Cat wheeling is definitely not on the agenda anywhere in the foreseeable future. Talk about a different perspective to the term catwalk. Miaaaaooow!
Apparently, taking a cat for a walk has a detrimental effect on my sense of the absurd, not to mention drama (which has already been known to have dodgy moments now and again). While middle age has seen me shed a lot of my previously and preciously held reservations (parental jocularity in front of friends, wearing flopping hats as protection against the sun, wearing pink, being caught dead buying spangled socks in Primark, culottes....), I find myself anxiously insisting that I'm perfectly fine walking the dog. I would have happily walked a hippo or even the unattractive pig at the animal shelter. Any animal on a lead as a matter of fact, but even middle age doesn't not allow me to insouciantly stroll down the street pushing a neon blue, mesh covered pram wheeling a cat therein. It is simply not acceptable to one's image, even if said cat happens to be a most attractive black and green eyed creature with an aura of demoniacal intent and a distinct sense of superiority.
It is superfluous to say, Jackson surveys the world through slitted eyes befitting the evil and naturally demented, megalomaniac cat who took over the world, undeterred even by his rather pedestrian chariot. Wonder if I'd be more willing to shed my inhibitions to wheel him around if he had a Batmobile or should that be a Catmobile?? Nope. Cat wheeling is definitely not on the agenda anywhere in the foreseeable future. Talk about a different perspective to the term catwalk. Miaaaaooow!
The million billion chicken shoppe
Chick-Fil-A. Not Chickalick, Not Lickachic or anything else I might have referred to it as... Chick-Fil-A. Deboo and I watch it sail past us on our way to run errands, and my teasing suggestion we head there for lunch is accepted with great enthusiasm to my even greater disconcertment. But they hype has been too great, and she's determined to discover what she has ignored thus far, the apparently miraculous food being offered at this paragon of chicken. One must do what one must in the name of science and behavioural theory, so we pull up into the parking lot. She, brimming with anticipation, me with trepidation, rolling her eyes at her startling comment that it seems to look like a McDonald's as we walk past the window. She insists we're really only going for the fries.
We walk into the telltale smell. of unhealthy fast food. Demographically, we are incorrect. Wardrobally, I'm an outcast. Like tourists, we peer at the overhead pictures, hastening to tell the cheery, spotty boy at the cashiers that we were just scoping the joint. I'm scanning for the awe inspiring, mega squeal spicy chicken and almost miss Deboo's wail, "But everything is fried...!". She is very guillible, this friend of mine. She honestly believed this was going to be something special from the way the adolescents raved about it. I spy the breakfast menu - ta dah!! This was what would have netted the Chicken Shack a billion if they'd stayed open on Sundays apparently and unbidden the memory of a piercing Amercian accent replays in my head, "Their biscuits are to die for, they're a little sweet because they have honey in them...". Ye Gads, Kill me now and end it. I look for a photo of fries, but fail to spot any. Do see some seedy gaufrette type thingies though, but I mean seriously, what kind of a fast food place doesn't even have fries??!! My contemplations are interrupted by a seriously distressed Ms. Chaudhuri. "Do you really want to eat here?", "Erm, no, I was never going to...". "Then let's go!". A semi-dignified, definitely hasty retreat is beaten to the exit and we lunge out the door double upped with laughter. Clearly, the generation gap is alive and well. Chick-A-Flic is nothing but the worst kind purveyors of fried chicken. (I've never understood the attraction of sticking that between a bun...)
"We'll go somewhere nice for lunch", she declares, and herds me towards Panera, not an easy task, as we shriek our mirth and double over a couple times . We walk through the door to the soothing scent of freshly baked bread. This time, not only do we match the demographics present, but even my wardrobe looks fetching. The helpful lady proffers a menu to save me craning my neck and we settle for an Asian sesame salad and broccoli cheddar soup with a baguette. I meander towards a table, smiling at this guy who's working on his crochet. Civilisation smells good and the food tastes even better. We mull over our experiment with some degree of snorting, carefully controlled. At least now we know.... don't trust 21-25 year olds that sound like high school students (junior high!) on their food choices!!
Veni, Vidi, On y va....
We walk into the telltale smell. of unhealthy fast food. Demographically, we are incorrect. Wardrobally, I'm an outcast. Like tourists, we peer at the overhead pictures, hastening to tell the cheery, spotty boy at the cashiers that we were just scoping the joint. I'm scanning for the awe inspiring, mega squeal spicy chicken and almost miss Deboo's wail, "But everything is fried...!". She is very guillible, this friend of mine. She honestly believed this was going to be something special from the way the adolescents raved about it. I spy the breakfast menu - ta dah!! This was what would have netted the Chicken Shack a billion if they'd stayed open on Sundays apparently and unbidden the memory of a piercing Amercian accent replays in my head, "Their biscuits are to die for, they're a little sweet because they have honey in them...". Ye Gads, Kill me now and end it. I look for a photo of fries, but fail to spot any. Do see some seedy gaufrette type thingies though, but I mean seriously, what kind of a fast food place doesn't even have fries??!! My contemplations are interrupted by a seriously distressed Ms. Chaudhuri. "Do you really want to eat here?", "Erm, no, I was never going to...". "Then let's go!". A semi-dignified, definitely hasty retreat is beaten to the exit and we lunge out the door double upped with laughter. Clearly, the generation gap is alive and well. Chick-A-Flic is nothing but the worst kind purveyors of fried chicken. (I've never understood the attraction of sticking that between a bun...)
"We'll go somewhere nice for lunch", she declares, and herds me towards Panera, not an easy task, as we shriek our mirth and double over a couple times . We walk through the door to the soothing scent of freshly baked bread. This time, not only do we match the demographics present, but even my wardrobe looks fetching. The helpful lady proffers a menu to save me craning my neck and we settle for an Asian sesame salad and broccoli cheddar soup with a baguette. I meander towards a table, smiling at this guy who's working on his crochet. Civilisation smells good and the food tastes even better. We mull over our experiment with some degree of snorting, carefully controlled. At least now we know.... don't trust 21-25 year olds that sound like high school students (junior high!) on their food choices!!
Veni, Vidi, On y va....
Balancing Act
"Oh, it'll come back to you...", they say rather blithely. Erm, there is a base supposition in that statement to suggest that I had it to begin with for it to actually come back to me, yes? My skills on a bicycle are notoriously laughable. I can send family and friends into gales of convulsive laughter with my simple admission at being asked if I can cycle. Erm, sort of... as long as I don't have to turn or stop, I can get by on perpetual motion on straight roads. While it's a useful skill to have to generate unlimited mirth at a gathering, it tend to be more prophylactic in nature when it comes to actually venturing atop one.
Still, some reckless synapse frizzles a signal that sends a, "Why not?" in response to a "Do you want to go for a ride?" and suddenly, I'm looking at Deboo wheel out Jaideep's bike with a dry mouth. Shit. Why on earth did I say yes? Gingerly, I take the bike and nearly unbalance it and myself. Not what could be referred to as an auspicious start. Deboo starts to look a tad worried and suggests it might be a good thing if she held on to me for a bit. I promptly concur. Perhaps I ought to have included my inability to start as well as stop, citing genetic inner ear related equilibrium issues. We wobble along unsteadily before my feet, calves and thighs start functioning as a single unit, and then Eureka! it did come back.... Crap. Now that we've got perpetual motion going, how the fuck do I stop?! Decidedly inelegantly, in a rush of cycle, woman and excited dog. Debrani consoles me with a, "Even I find it hard to turn in such a tight space". I survey the double car width road in front of me, and start to snigger. Yeah right. But she doesn't give up, "There's a roundabout at the end of the street where you can turn."
I grit my teeth and ignore the pleadings of my inner ear. The damn right pedal refuses to co-operate and my rude under breath mutterings has Deboo offering my encouragement. Miraculously, I manage to get rolling (in more than just a metaphorical sense) and suddenly, I find myself enjoying the wind rushing past my face. A mile with strategic roundabout assistance, I'm actually enjoying myself. I even manage to actually remember to softly squeeze the brakes and come to a stop in a relatively gentle fashion, without even a whiff of sailing over the handlebars. Deboo gauges I'm not likely to flip over into any of her neighbours garden and we take Polo along for his run without any untoward incidents from either dog or friend. A couple of more miles and I'm thinking perhaps I should give this another try tomorrow, over the question of its absolute necessity from my thighs. Given that I'm unlikely to have ever used these particular muscles before, I sympathise, but am chuffed by the unexpected enjoyment of the ride (not to mention success tinted only by minor wobbles).
It's ironic, but the last time I actually cycled was a good 15-20 years ago and that too at the hands of the relentless woman by my side. Must be karma. Or Debrani.
Still, some reckless synapse frizzles a signal that sends a, "Why not?" in response to a "Do you want to go for a ride?" and suddenly, I'm looking at Deboo wheel out Jaideep's bike with a dry mouth. Shit. Why on earth did I say yes? Gingerly, I take the bike and nearly unbalance it and myself. Not what could be referred to as an auspicious start. Deboo starts to look a tad worried and suggests it might be a good thing if she held on to me for a bit. I promptly concur. Perhaps I ought to have included my inability to start as well as stop, citing genetic inner ear related equilibrium issues. We wobble along unsteadily before my feet, calves and thighs start functioning as a single unit, and then Eureka! it did come back.... Crap. Now that we've got perpetual motion going, how the fuck do I stop?! Decidedly inelegantly, in a rush of cycle, woman and excited dog. Debrani consoles me with a, "Even I find it hard to turn in such a tight space". I survey the double car width road in front of me, and start to snigger. Yeah right. But she doesn't give up, "There's a roundabout at the end of the street where you can turn."
I grit my teeth and ignore the pleadings of my inner ear. The damn right pedal refuses to co-operate and my rude under breath mutterings has Deboo offering my encouragement. Miraculously, I manage to get rolling (in more than just a metaphorical sense) and suddenly, I find myself enjoying the wind rushing past my face. A mile with strategic roundabout assistance, I'm actually enjoying myself. I even manage to actually remember to softly squeeze the brakes and come to a stop in a relatively gentle fashion, without even a whiff of sailing over the handlebars. Deboo gauges I'm not likely to flip over into any of her neighbours garden and we take Polo along for his run without any untoward incidents from either dog or friend. A couple of more miles and I'm thinking perhaps I should give this another try tomorrow, over the question of its absolute necessity from my thighs. Given that I'm unlikely to have ever used these particular muscles before, I sympathise, but am chuffed by the unexpected enjoyment of the ride (not to mention success tinted only by minor wobbles).
It's ironic, but the last time I actually cycled was a good 15-20 years ago and that too at the hands of the relentless woman by my side. Must be karma. Or Debrani.
Merry Thanksgiving?
Here's an interesting recipe for ye ole melting pot of cultures.....
Ingredients
Thanksgiving weekend 2010, USA
1 little 'once upon a time' middle class Maharashtrian lady doctor with receding hairline
1 really little 'once upon a time' middle class Maharashtrian husband of said lady
1 cross faced Tamillian lady disguised as best friend of above lady doctor
1 broadly accented, wine purveying doctor husband of Tamillian persuasion attached to cross lady, prone to calling the quarterback "yidiyot!"
1 very quiet and still lovely non-matriarch type parent of cross looking lady
1 very pretty and equally tiny Amrikan graduating daughter of Maharashtrian couple
1 small, sweet, very spoiled and killed by an absurdly high pitched piercing tone Amrikan daughter half way through dentistry school daughter of Tamillian couple
1 dudey, bearded, accented, MBA'd, med school to be completed son of Tamillian couple with freakishly small feet
1 pie baking, white American girlfriend who for some strange reason isn't thanking her givings with her family
2 well travelled, divorced, bemused and clearly invited out of pity, sticking out like sore thumbs Bengali schoolmates
1 turkey that surprised the hostess by being delivered whole and not sliced (later rectified by surgeon hopeful) accompanied by mashed potatoes, cranberries, corn on the cob, stuffing and gravy from Publix
1 green bean casserole
1 cabbage type salad tinted by turmeric
1 nos. items resembling poha which could have been rice
1 mixed vegetables with aspirations of being grilled
Bread
6 desserts of non chocolate origins - apple pie, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, apple/cherry cobbler, mango mousse (of the fake variety), cherry pie
Method
Randomly throw together all the ingredients along with American football, dinner split between large dining table to seat those aged 40 and well below and kitchen table for those 50 and above. Blithely add some utterly indiscriminate raving about ChickFlic? Chicshack? FlicChick? and their amazing, out of this world and they'd make a million, nay a billion extra each year if they just stayed open on Sundays with their spicy chicken sandwiches, fried chicken and other assorted chicken concoctions that bring on squealing fit for a 12 year old girl at the sight of Menudo by all at formal dining table, bar the bemused Bengali women. Throw in some fevered calculation about how many years 1,000 Sundays would be (and a range of conclusions from 20 to 200 years), temper with some of the latest gossip that shock the children about known neighbourhood couple splitting and let simmer. To spice it up, have haphazard photos taken by charmingly barking Tamillian doctor, "Don't turn, don't turn... tchah! you turned" and add whipped cream (light) to all the desserts. Wonder to yourself how any of these children could be out of their teens (but save that for a raucous discussion in the car on the way home). Thank everyone and take home the leftover green been casserole.
Without a doubt, the oddest dinner party of the thanksgiving variety I've been to. Perhaps it is the punkin' pie that makes the 22-25 year olds chatter, squeal and ruminate with great excitement like 15 year olds about all this inconsequential and good old fashioned hospitality and pity that saw us there.
Clearly, the calorie content makes this a 'must be careful while consuming this during cynical (?) middle age years'. Till next Thanksgiving........
Ingredients
Thanksgiving weekend 2010, USA
1 little 'once upon a time' middle class Maharashtrian lady doctor with receding hairline
1 really little 'once upon a time' middle class Maharashtrian husband of said lady
1 cross faced Tamillian lady disguised as best friend of above lady doctor
1 broadly accented, wine purveying doctor husband of Tamillian persuasion attached to cross lady, prone to calling the quarterback "yidiyot!"
1 very quiet and still lovely non-matriarch type parent of cross looking lady
1 very pretty and equally tiny Amrikan graduating daughter of Maharashtrian couple
1 small, sweet, very spoiled and killed by an absurdly high pitched piercing tone Amrikan daughter half way through dentistry school daughter of Tamillian couple
1 dudey, bearded, accented, MBA'd, med school to be completed son of Tamillian couple with freakishly small feet
1 pie baking, white American girlfriend who for some strange reason isn't thanking her givings with her family
2 well travelled, divorced, bemused and clearly invited out of pity, sticking out like sore thumbs Bengali schoolmates
1 turkey that surprised the hostess by being delivered whole and not sliced (later rectified by surgeon hopeful) accompanied by mashed potatoes, cranberries, corn on the cob, stuffing and gravy from Publix
1 green bean casserole
1 cabbage type salad tinted by turmeric
1 nos. items resembling poha which could have been rice
1 mixed vegetables with aspirations of being grilled
Bread
6 desserts of non chocolate origins - apple pie, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, apple/cherry cobbler, mango mousse (of the fake variety), cherry pie
Method
Randomly throw together all the ingredients along with American football, dinner split between large dining table to seat those aged 40 and well below and kitchen table for those 50 and above. Blithely add some utterly indiscriminate raving about ChickFlic? Chicshack? FlicChick? and their amazing, out of this world and they'd make a million, nay a billion extra each year if they just stayed open on Sundays with their spicy chicken sandwiches, fried chicken and other assorted chicken concoctions that bring on squealing fit for a 12 year old girl at the sight of Menudo by all at formal dining table, bar the bemused Bengali women. Throw in some fevered calculation about how many years 1,000 Sundays would be (and a range of conclusions from 20 to 200 years), temper with some of the latest gossip that shock the children about known neighbourhood couple splitting and let simmer. To spice it up, have haphazard photos taken by charmingly barking Tamillian doctor, "Don't turn, don't turn... tchah! you turned" and add whipped cream (light) to all the desserts. Wonder to yourself how any of these children could be out of their teens (but save that for a raucous discussion in the car on the way home). Thank everyone and take home the leftover green been casserole.
Without a doubt, the oddest dinner party of the thanksgiving variety I've been to. Perhaps it is the punkin' pie that makes the 22-25 year olds chatter, squeal and ruminate with great excitement like 15 year olds about all this inconsequential and good old fashioned hospitality and pity that saw us there.
Clearly, the calorie content makes this a 'must be careful while consuming this during cynical (?) middle age years'. Till next Thanksgiving........
Ooops I did it again...
....yes, displayed yet another flawless performance of making travel arrangements and booking them for the wrong dates..... the charming drawl on the phone politely inquires if I had intended to book the shortest trip to Miami on record.... or had I perhaps made an error?? He assumed, correctly, that my plan wasn't really to arrive in Miami at 1215 on November 30 and swap buses to depart Miami at 1215 on November 30. The man takes several moments to calm my hysteria, consoling me with soothing, "Don't worry about it, I can fix this right away", "I knew it was likely to be a mistake... we always have humans go through all our bookings". Clearly, the bookings were made by an alien being with a panache at putting through the wrong date in the final try when the payment window does clear approval! I toy with the idea of telling him I'm chronically inept when it comes to travel bookings and this is but yet another recorded incident of my multitudinous lapses in this field. Instead, I thank him profusely and sincerely wish him a Happy Thanksgiving back....
I swear, I will not make another booking this year. Hell, I won't make one for the next quarter. The end of the financial year. Whatever....!!!
I swear, I will not make another booking this year. Hell, I won't make one for the next quarter. The end of the financial year. Whatever....!!!
One Night Stand
I sense I'm not alone, and the corner of my eye is snagged by the shadow that falls across my door. He moves stealthily, confident in his power, his eyes mesmerising as he stands at the foot of the bed, unblinking, waiting.... I can hear my heartbeat as my eyes mesh with his, and involuntarily, my body acquiesces. He moves closer, within touching distance, still waiting, watching. A soft sound and I'm his, and he knows it, rubbing his head against mine as I press my lips to his head, inhaling his scent, abandoning myself to his magic as he nuzzles my face, running his tongue over me, a deep throaty, sexy purr rumbling through his chest, as I stroke him. Warm, wet mouth against my chin and lips, lightly nipping me, his eyes hypnotic, soft little moans of need making me want to please him....
I awake to the sun already high overhead and alone in bed. I see him when I go for lunch, but he walks by me like he can't see me. I'm disappointed, but not surprised. I'm a big girl, right. But then, he's back again the next night and the night after, in my bed, on the sofa, adoring me..... Every night since then, only to leave before the sun comes up, when I cease to exist for him, as potent as water off a duck's back. Tonight is no different, and this time, I'm the one that walks away, knowing what the morning will bring. But I also know, that tomorrow and every other night, he'll be back with the darkness....
I awake to the sun already high overhead and alone in bed. I see him when I go for lunch, but he walks by me like he can't see me. I'm disappointed, but not surprised. I'm a big girl, right. But then, he's back again the next night and the night after, in my bed, on the sofa, adoring me..... Every night since then, only to leave before the sun comes up, when I cease to exist for him, as potent as water off a duck's back. Tonight is no different, and this time, I'm the one that walks away, knowing what the morning will bring. But I also know, that tomorrow and every other night, he'll be back with the darkness....
Friends who cook...
..are always handy to have. Friends who cook well, are a delightful menace to society and a threat to weighing scales world over. Naturally, she would come to me just on the verge of tossing the leftovers into the bin asking if I would have any interest in a mango mousse and she wasn't sure if it was still ok. A swift sample later, it is without a doubt ok. Ok enough that it deserves several spoons to validate my initial finding about it's suitablility for consumption. After all we are in the land of the FDA. Once I have confimed beyond a shadow of doubt, it is perfectly edible, I scoop up a proper dessert portion and park myself in front of the TV for the perfect couch potato moment. Because I'm a generous, kind hearted, do good to the world kind of person, I insist we make some more for the Thanksgiving dinner we've been invited to and we duly spend the afternoon shopping. I feel cheated by the ingredients that involve nary an egg, but cream cheese and sour cream. This is so NOT a mousse. The recipe says pie, but it's not that either, so we'll just stick to the fake mango mousse which is tragically easy to make, which makes it the perfect choice from Deboo's delicious kitchen endeavours for the lazy person.... aka moi.
Deboo's Fake Mango Mousse
Deboo's Fake Mango Mousse
Ingredients
Gelatin (unflavoured) - 28gm x 3
Mango pulp – 3 cups
Cream cheese – 225 gm
Sour cream – 3 cups (if you can't find sour cream, use ½ yoghurt + ½ cream)
Sugar – 1 cup
Boiling water – 3 cups
Method
Mix gelatine, sugar and boiling water together. Add the cream cheese and blend till frothy. Add in the sour cream and blend once. Then add the mango pulp and blend again till its a smooth pouring consistency. Pour into a pretty bowl and refrigerate for 12 hours and ta-dah, your fake mango mousse is ready to serve.
One tequila, two tequila,
three tequila, floor!
Well, not quite, but a couple of excellent maragritas, or four, will make you very merry and even a tad loquacious! Add to that some deep cheese covered fries with jalapenos, bacon bits and ranch dressing and honey chipotle baby back ribs, and finesse that with chocolate fudge brownies with ice cream and you've got a nicely developing coronary on the way....
Loquacious I might be, but cunningly equilibriated.... certainly not!
Well, not quite, but a couple of excellent maragritas, or four, will make you very merry and even a tad loquacious! Add to that some deep cheese covered fries with jalapenos, bacon bits and ranch dressing and honey chipotle baby back ribs, and finesse that with chocolate fudge brownies with ice cream and you've got a nicely developing coronary on the way....
Loquacious I might be, but cunningly equilibriated.... certainly not!
Is it only in this country where you pay more for an incoming text message than you do for a phone call on your mobile? My outrage at being charged for incoming anything at all dissolves into an open mouthed gape at this cherry, new information. How bizarre is this? A simple 'k' text costs me double an entire minute of conversation. Guess I must be in Amrika. You have a good day now....
Beaches
It's only poetic that the land of the brave and the free (not to mention, less bright) has one of the best beaches I've seen. Pure white powder sand, with the most peculiar ability of being able to refrain from being scorching! Quite unnatural, but I assure you, this particular brand of silicone has evolved into something so sophisticated, that it does not retain the heat of the suns rays. It's the kind of sand you want to wallow in, be buried in. Gah! Can't believe I actually said that, but it's just so freaky, you want to keep running your hands in it, dig your toes in deeper, feeling the contrast between the mild warmth of the surface and the menthol like coolness hidden below. Unfortunately, the tranquility is marred by piercing accents (so intrusive that I fail to notice when they move away...), the umbrella rentals are extortionate, the fries indifferent and the water freezing. Guess December really isn't the best time to dive even in the Orange state. In case you're wondering, it's the beach at Siesta Key, Sarasota. Perfect for a morning of antipathy followed by a smashing salad brimming with artichokes and palm hearts, leading to a leisurely inspection of an art gallery with some very interesting pieces and a keen salesman paying homage to your taste if not your wallet, with a grand finale of rich, dark fudge ice cream to push you over the edge.
Jackson's jacuzzi
Watching the sunlight glint of the water is hypnotic. I can sort of understand how a cat my get carried away and find himself in the pool for all sorts of inexplicable reasons. But wait.... Jackson fell into the jacuzzi last night..... Granted they have spectacular eyesight, but an overcast sky does not cast alluring shadows on the water. Hmmmm... what was that cat up to? How we missed him as he dripped his way to the TV room in search of sympathy and a dry towel, escapes me. Pacino is good but obliterate a dripping cat good? The allegedly traumatised cat look more sheepish than feline. He might have gobbled up the 'oh poor cat fell into the water' treats with abandon, but his sly slink up the stairs before his bedraggled state was noticed, combined with the distinct 'I'm not going to look you in the eye' aura strongly suggests our boy was feeling like an utter ass. The sympathy party's guest of honour knew he was a twat. What kind of cat goes for a stroll on a rim the size of a freeway and just falls into the jacuzzi?!?! Hah!
Still, it is immensely rewarding to watch a supercilious creature trying to act nonchalant, valiantly pretending he's not really an ass in disguise.
Still, it is immensely rewarding to watch a supercilious creature trying to act nonchalant, valiantly pretending he's not really an ass in disguise.
She who dithers, will get precious little done. And while I may be the queen of procrastination, this is a different kettle of fish altogether. The complete absence of any discipline. The harder something is likely to be, the greater will be my efforts to avoid it. Like posting the photos of the safari. It's taken me ages to merely get the title sorted, and the page stares back at me blankly when I try to write anything about it....
How does one describe the indescribable? Pretend to be able to capture in words the experience, the sensations, the frisson of exhilaration raising the hairs on your nape at the sudden sighting of a big cat. Or even a little one. It's something you have to feel for yourself, because no one else can even to begin to paint a picture. They might say a 1,000 words, but still not enough to capture the essence of the land, the wonder of nature.
Guess I'd better get back at yet another attempt at the impossible....
How does one describe the indescribable? Pretend to be able to capture in words the experience, the sensations, the frisson of exhilaration raising the hairs on your nape at the sudden sighting of a big cat. Or even a little one. It's something you have to feel for yourself, because no one else can even to begin to paint a picture. They might say a 1,000 words, but still not enough to capture the essence of the land, the wonder of nature.
Guess I'd better get back at yet another attempt at the impossible....
Alone
She looks at the skin straining across her knuckles. Tense, bones standing out in relief. The hands of a stranger. A deep breath, carefully controlled. Inhale. Exhale. To the count of eight. It does nothing to ease the tautness of her left shoulder, the deltoids poised for imminent combat. Another deep breath as she wills her body to obey, but the fury sweeps through unabated. A swift roll of the shoulder leaves it unyielding. She focuses her mind on her fists. She grits her teeth and breathes slowly and deeply. All at once, she can feel the sting of a clam shells on her palms, now a dull, throbbing ache. It's like dealing with rigor and she forces her fingers to open. The joints protest as they reluctantly unfurl into claws. She gazes unseeing at her palms, the crescent marks livid against the slowly returning blood. Why doesn't she feel cleansed by the white heat of rage sweeping through her? The desire to hurt still crippling her, holding her in its thrall. Anger won't bring back what's lost. She knows that. But it won't leave her be, snaking around her, squeezing her tighter and tighter, gnawing away at her, each breath hurting more. Her mind is able to catalogue the yawning chasm between the two pure emotions. Joy. Hate. Creation. Destruction. She knows it will turn everything to ashes, but can only helplessly watch it swamp her being, drowning her, choking her. She wants to fight it, but still hasn't recovered from the last battle. The irony gouges out a harsh laugh. She gave it her all and it wasn't enough. Now, there's nothing left to give. Nothing but fear, pain and anger. She's empty inside. Alone. Her nostrils flare and her tongue flicks over her lips unnoticed, her attention captivated by the bright red rivulet welling it's way down her ankle. So different from the dark, sticky, congealing pool under her left foot.
Raindrops on roses...
....and whiskers on kittens.
I hate roses, but psychotic catlets that pounce on unsuspecting inanimate objects... that's a different story. Add to that a litter of 7 week old puppies, and the teeniest, scruffiest of the fur balls in my hands, bestowing wet kisses all over my face... and yet again, I wish I had a tail and could have a litter of feline/canine babies instead of the human variety. Hmmmmm. Freud would have a field day with this. But the joy at watching a kitten do it's special mad, pouncing leap and look startled at the end of it is just priceless. As is the unexpected sighting of dolphins in the Bay, and the indescribable thrill of having one of them swim up right next to you, just a couple of feet away.... a perfect bottle nosed dolphin, so close to the surface, you can see it's smiley face, it's blowhole and sleek skin before suddenly with a swish and a splash, she's turned and run away...! I don't think I've ever seen a wild dolphin up so close and it's different when you're on a boat and they're swimming along side. This one literally came up to us as we stood on the edge, a quick teasing but perfect glimpse before disappearing... pure magic.
I believe I had it right when I was 5. A dog, dolphin and tiger. What every child needs....
I hate roses, but psychotic catlets that pounce on unsuspecting inanimate objects... that's a different story. Add to that a litter of 7 week old puppies, and the teeniest, scruffiest of the fur balls in my hands, bestowing wet kisses all over my face... and yet again, I wish I had a tail and could have a litter of feline/canine babies instead of the human variety. Hmmmmm. Freud would have a field day with this. But the joy at watching a kitten do it's special mad, pouncing leap and look startled at the end of it is just priceless. As is the unexpected sighting of dolphins in the Bay, and the indescribable thrill of having one of them swim up right next to you, just a couple of feet away.... a perfect bottle nosed dolphin, so close to the surface, you can see it's smiley face, it's blowhole and sleek skin before suddenly with a swish and a splash, she's turned and run away...! I don't think I've ever seen a wild dolphin up so close and it's different when you're on a boat and they're swimming along side. This one literally came up to us as we stood on the edge, a quick teasing but perfect glimpse before disappearing... pure magic.
I believe I had it right when I was 5. A dog, dolphin and tiger. What every child needs....
Florida pace
The breeze lifts the hem of my skirt as I settle down on the grass. Unbidden, I hear Otis Redding crooning, "Sitting on the dock of the bay... " but instead of the the tide rolling away, I'm watching the red snapper jump out of the water, only to land back with a juicy splash. Just another lazy day in Punta Gorda, the soothing run of water from the jacuzzi to the pool behind me, the lapping of the waves against the boats in front of me. Deboo has seen a manatee in these waters and crocs are not unusual too... gulls, cranes and even the odd pelican swoop over the water, skimming the surface with impudence. I wonder who would be more startled if the snapper leaped at the precise moment when one of these was just overhead.
The sun's personality is lightened by a steady breeze and instead of balmy, my eyelids blink faster in an attempt to stay awake in the cozy silence, broken only by the splashing fish and the rustling of lizards in the grass. A plaintive meow makes me smile and I inhale a black cat before being accosted by a wet tongue. Bliss.
The sun's personality is lightened by a steady breeze and instead of balmy, my eyelids blink faster in an attempt to stay awake in the cozy silence, broken only by the splashing fish and the rustling of lizards in the grass. A plaintive meow makes me smile and I inhale a black cat before being accosted by a wet tongue. Bliss.
Keeping the Faith?
While it might be an universal truth that men are fundamentally stupid, it is also an indisputable fact that women are genetically more stupid than their male counterparts when it comes to getting involved with a married man.
Men have no trouble at all grasping the simple concept. If a man is married, he will stay that way. He has no intention of leaving his wife, and it's only fun. Women, know this. They say it. But for some obscure reason, they don't really believe it. They always think they're somehow going to be different. That they're not like every other foolish woman that's said the same thing. It doesn't matter what race, financial background, IQ level, hair colour, education a woman has or aspires to, she will believe that somehow she is special. Different.
I find myself wondering about Cinderella. What did happen to her after the ball? Happily ever after. Every woman, intelligent or otherwise knows that it's a fairy tale. So why does she still believe in Prince Charming? Or that she'll be more than just some chick he's banging on the side? He's never going to leave her, it'll always hurt you when you see them together, you will fall in love with him, and he won't understand why you're making such a big fuss. Your girlfriends will sympathise and tell you he's scum. Your male friends will roll their eyes and say I'm sorry, but you knew he was married.. what did you expect?
Monroe got passed around, Hepburn stayed single, Malini got to be wife no. 2, Desai got dumped and we cried for a broken heart. Well, if nothing else, Cinders did get some spiffy shoes, and Snow White...... well, let's just say she was busy all week... no wonder Prince Charming only showed up when she was in a coma!
Security Alert!
The self check in machine refuses to check me in. I'm not surprised. So far, the Canadians have ensured that it is going to be a fuck all day and I head towards the counter, subliminally willing them not to put me in a centre seat. Before that, I have to pass the American Airlines security challenge. My interrogator can't be more than 24 with spiky, gelled hair, indeterminate racial heritage from the subcontinent and an 'innit' accent.
Hello, I'm Rizwan and I'm from AA security. How's your day been so far?
You don't want to know.
Well, it's gonna get much worse.
Oh no, it can't possibly get any worse..
Trust me. It will.
With that winning sales spiel, the boy reels of his piece about security check and the usual how many bags, did you pack them, have they been in your possession and rifles through my passport.
Oh...!
Stop it!
No really...
STOP IT!
Hey Ahmed, take a look at this... how old do you think she is?
Ahmed strolls over and the boys have a snickering lads moment.
When was this taken?
Tchah!
Seriously, you're so much prettier in real life.
I can't help but grin at his obvious throw away line. What can I say, I'm easy.
So you live here.
Yep.
Do you have any ID?
Erm, you're looking at my passport?
No, no. Proof of residence like a drivers license?
Nope.
Where do you work?
Cushman & Wakefield.
Do you have a business card?
Are you kidding me? I'm going on holiday!
Well, yeah, but you never know..
Why on earth would I carry my business cards on a holiday?? Siigh. Let me check.
Naturally, I have none. But a-ha. I proffer my C&W access card.
Ok, that's fine.
Phew. Thank God for that since I'm now homeless and unemployed in the UK.
Did you pack the bag yourself?
Yessss.
Where?
At home.
When?
Last night.
Where do you live?
Maida Vale.
Nice!
You're going to make me miss my flight!
Oh you'll make it... trust me.
Is there anything in your bag that needs batteries?
Hmmmm, yes.
What?
Well, apart from my laptop, I have the camera and my vibrator.
Boy looks at me.
I look back. You asked.
He hangs his head.
Ook, you can go. I want you to walk straight ahead in that direction and don't turn back. don't you even think of looking back after what you've said to me!
I'll try and resist...
Hello, I'm Rizwan and I'm from AA security. How's your day been so far?
You don't want to know.
Well, it's gonna get much worse.
Oh no, it can't possibly get any worse..
Trust me. It will.
With that winning sales spiel, the boy reels of his piece about security check and the usual how many bags, did you pack them, have they been in your possession and rifles through my passport.
Oh...!
Stop it!
No really...
STOP IT!
Hey Ahmed, take a look at this... how old do you think she is?
Ahmed strolls over and the boys have a snickering lads moment.
When was this taken?
Tchah!
Seriously, you're so much prettier in real life.
I can't help but grin at his obvious throw away line. What can I say, I'm easy.
So you live here.
Yep.
Do you have any ID?
Erm, you're looking at my passport?
No, no. Proof of residence like a drivers license?
Nope.
Where do you work?
Cushman & Wakefield.
Do you have a business card?
Are you kidding me? I'm going on holiday!
Well, yeah, but you never know..
Why on earth would I carry my business cards on a holiday?? Siigh. Let me check.
Naturally, I have none. But a-ha. I proffer my C&W access card.
Ok, that's fine.
Phew. Thank God for that since I'm now homeless and unemployed in the UK.
Did you pack the bag yourself?
Yessss.
Where?
At home.
When?
Last night.
Where do you live?
Maida Vale.
Nice!
You're going to make me miss my flight!
Oh you'll make it... trust me.
Is there anything in your bag that needs batteries?
Hmmmm, yes.
What?
Well, apart from my laptop, I have the camera and my vibrator.
Boy looks at me.
I look back. You asked.
He hangs his head.
Ook, you can go. I want you to walk straight ahead in that direction and don't turn back. don't you even think of looking back after what you've said to me!
I'll try and resist...
Doctor Doctor!
The look of pure glee on the boys faces makes my shopping trip to Ikea Budapest worthwhile. 1 purple bed sheet with matching pillowcases, 1 green throw, 1 brown throw is mere excess baggage compared to the look of bliss two bottles of Gyógtnövénylikór brings. Naturally, it's the one with the 15 herbs and not the one with the 37 that tastes vile. I smirk in victory at my argument over Sarolta, although, I have to admit, her piquant, "that doesn't mean he doesn't want it" to my, "he's written the one with 37 is vile.." does bear considerable merit.
The sight of two bottles seems to be a signal to celebrate and the previous bottle is brought out from hiding before the ties come off, and ceremoniously poured out and as she who is bringer of plentiful booze is giving the first taste, even as Vinod looks positively orgasmic as he sniffs it. Jan looks on like an expectant father, and I grin and salute them. Hmmmm, it smells distinctly medicinal and my first sip encourages a vitriolic coughing fit. Dammit to hell and back! Those bloody Benedictine monks! Purveyors of pure alcohol. It's utterly disgusting! I shudder as I think this is the 15 herb mix and not the 'vile' version. I accuse them of just being pathetic medical practitioners. This is nothing better than home made dispensary brew, to be served in little plastic cups as a cure all! Vinod obliges me by gargling with it. They grin and nod and keep smiling through sniff and sip. Manna it seems. Psychos methinks.
Jan is more than happy to ease my pain, although he's a bit shocked that I really don't wish to continue with this fullsome libation and tells me how they acquired it from a gypsy market. In return, I regale him with the scintillating dialogue shared by the Hungarian and yours truly, "Do you not know where that is?" "Do I look like a tourist?" Damn, she's good.
Vinod returns sparkly clean and as excited as a 6 year old blonde with her new barbie and helps himself to another glass. Clearly we're celebrating. He skips off to organise dinner and threatens the still tie'd Jan with cold pizza while trying to educate me on the beneficial effects of Gyógtnövénylikór and demands to know the correct way to say it. We call Sarolta, and cunningly her phone diverts to voicemail and a rather rude message saying "I'm unable to take your call but don't leave me a voicemail, better send me an email". Vinod promptly goes onto leave a lengthy and somewhat obscure message thanking her and parading his inability to say Gyógtnövénylikór with any kind of grace.
It's gonna be a fun weekend!
The sight of two bottles seems to be a signal to celebrate and the previous bottle is brought out from hiding before the ties come off, and ceremoniously poured out and as she who is bringer of plentiful booze is giving the first taste, even as Vinod looks positively orgasmic as he sniffs it. Jan looks on like an expectant father, and I grin and salute them. Hmmmm, it smells distinctly medicinal and my first sip encourages a vitriolic coughing fit. Dammit to hell and back! Those bloody Benedictine monks! Purveyors of pure alcohol. It's utterly disgusting! I shudder as I think this is the 15 herb mix and not the 'vile' version. I accuse them of just being pathetic medical practitioners. This is nothing better than home made dispensary brew, to be served in little plastic cups as a cure all! Vinod obliges me by gargling with it. They grin and nod and keep smiling through sniff and sip. Manna it seems. Psychos methinks.
Jan is more than happy to ease my pain, although he's a bit shocked that I really don't wish to continue with this fullsome libation and tells me how they acquired it from a gypsy market. In return, I regale him with the scintillating dialogue shared by the Hungarian and yours truly, "Do you not know where that is?" "Do I look like a tourist?" Damn, she's good.
Vinod returns sparkly clean and as excited as a 6 year old blonde with her new barbie and helps himself to another glass. Clearly we're celebrating. He skips off to organise dinner and threatens the still tie'd Jan with cold pizza while trying to educate me on the beneficial effects of Gyógtnövénylikór and demands to know the correct way to say it. We call Sarolta, and cunningly her phone diverts to voicemail and a rather rude message saying "I'm unable to take your call but don't leave me a voicemail, better send me an email". Vinod promptly goes onto leave a lengthy and somewhat obscure message thanking her and parading his inability to say Gyógtnövénylikór with any kind of grace.
It's gonna be a fun weekend!
Flying 2010
2010 has been a stellar year for flying, even by my standards. Technically speaking, Chile was 2009 with only spillover in 2010, so I shan't take into account the, what was it? 2 doz take off and landings we participated in?
This year has seen multiple trips to Amsterdam and Geneva, unnecessary ones to Sharm and Cairo, inevitable ones to Bombay (and some better left undone!), Zurich/Interlaken, Vegas (via Philly and Atlanta!), Budapest, Copenhagen, Nordborg, Nairobi (and Laikipia/Masai Mara), Rotterdam and then Fort Myers via Miami. Heathrow feels like home.
Given how much I hate flying and I won't even get into packing/unpacking, I clearly need to work on a better strategy for my life and travels. Still, the early arrival to Budapest with the Capt's announcement, "I'm pleased to say we are a full 10 min. ahead of schedule. Make sure you use it well" to another flight (coincidentally to Budapest again), which saw the brunt of some nasty weather and an excessively witty Capt, who's last rejoinder was a splendid, "It's going to be a bumpier ride than usual and if any of you has a problem with that, come see me after the flight", to the CityAir propeller engined aircraft that was the worst take off in my history of flying - thought we were going to be rattled into the sea before our wheels could remove themselves from the tarmac, where flawless service offered us not just drinks but full on snacks and sandwiches for a 40 minute flight, and even had a safety card featuring my phone, the classic Nokia 6310 (quite the conversation starter incidentally wherever I go to top up on prepaid options!)
While I don't believe in the superstition that you will spend the rest of the year doing whatever you were on New Year's, this year, I plan to be at home... well, till the 1st of Jan 2011!
This year has seen multiple trips to Amsterdam and Geneva, unnecessary ones to Sharm and Cairo, inevitable ones to Bombay (and some better left undone!), Zurich/Interlaken, Vegas (via Philly and Atlanta!), Budapest, Copenhagen, Nordborg, Nairobi (and Laikipia/Masai Mara), Rotterdam and then Fort Myers via Miami. Heathrow feels like home.
Given how much I hate flying and I won't even get into packing/unpacking, I clearly need to work on a better strategy for my life and travels. Still, the early arrival to Budapest with the Capt's announcement, "I'm pleased to say we are a full 10 min. ahead of schedule. Make sure you use it well" to another flight (coincidentally to Budapest again), which saw the brunt of some nasty weather and an excessively witty Capt, who's last rejoinder was a splendid, "It's going to be a bumpier ride than usual and if any of you has a problem with that, come see me after the flight", to the CityAir propeller engined aircraft that was the worst take off in my history of flying - thought we were going to be rattled into the sea before our wheels could remove themselves from the tarmac, where flawless service offered us not just drinks but full on snacks and sandwiches for a 40 minute flight, and even had a safety card featuring my phone, the classic Nokia 6310 (quite the conversation starter incidentally wherever I go to top up on prepaid options!)
While I don't believe in the superstition that you will spend the rest of the year doing whatever you were on New Year's, this year, I plan to be at home... well, till the 1st of Jan 2011!
Immigration Interrogation
Rotterdam airport is quaint. Immigration lies at the foot of the gates and I wave JP ahead, well aware that my passport will bear greater than EU scrutiny.
Where are you going?
London.
Where do you live?
London.
Why were you in Rotterdam?
For lunch.
Now I not only have the young, dashingly uniformed immigration officer holding my passport's attention, I have the one next door's as well and I am cross examined with far greater interest that is usually warranted on such an occasion.
For lunch?
Yes.
For business?
Well, sort of.
Just for lunch?
Yes.
They are far too refined for a nudge nudge wink wink....
In a restaurant? (This from officer not holding my passport).
Yesss.
Where?
Uhmmmm... how do you say it?! Ricewig?
Ah, in Rijswijk
That's the place.
What is it called?
Creme Crue.
With the big boss? (my chappie with understanding nod)
Sure (why the hell not?).
Miraculously, my smirk is really tiny.
Big celebration?
Clearly.
You travel a lot. (He who holds passport and flicks through the pages with far greater focus).
Yes.
Was it a good lunch?
It was excellent.
Now you go home?
Yes.
The boys have now run out of questions, and reluctantly, he stamps it and they both graciously bid me a good journey.
Where are you going?
London.
Where do you live?
London.
Why were you in Rotterdam?
For lunch.
Now I not only have the young, dashingly uniformed immigration officer holding my passport's attention, I have the one next door's as well and I am cross examined with far greater interest that is usually warranted on such an occasion.
For lunch?
Yes.
For business?
Well, sort of.
Just for lunch?
Yes.
They are far too refined for a nudge nudge wink wink....
In a restaurant? (This from officer not holding my passport).
Yesss.
Where?
Uhmmmm... how do you say it?! Ricewig?
Ah, in Rijswijk
That's the place.
What is it called?
Creme Crue.
With the big boss? (my chappie with understanding nod)
Sure (why the hell not?).
Miraculously, my smirk is really tiny.
Big celebration?
Clearly.
You travel a lot. (He who holds passport and flicks through the pages with far greater focus).
Yes.
Was it a good lunch?
It was excellent.
Now you go home?
Yes.
The boys have now run out of questions, and reluctantly, he stamps it and they both graciously bid me a good journey.
If it's Thursday, it must be Rotterdam...
My farewell tour of Europe (as someone rudely referred to it) continues with a relatively spontaneous lunch at Crème Crue in Rijswijk, a quaint little suburb of Rotterdam. New to the block, it lacks a menu. Instead, it offers a choice of 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and even I believe 7 courses for dinner. Lunch is a more sedate affair with the choice of 2 or 3 courses. Naturally, it is the chef who will decide what you will eat. As a firm believer in supporting professionals at what they do best, I wait for the food to make an appearance.
The amuse bouche involves smoked eel, a frozen cube of bitter lemon and duindoorn berries arrayed rather fetchingly in a martini glass. A wispy sigh of pleasure escapes me. This can only get better, and I am not wrong in my assessment. Our starter arrives. Goose liver with red beetroot (some cunningly smoked while others more innocuously roasted) drizzled with pure chocolate. I'm not a huge beet fan, but let me tell you, smoked beetroots... they're just boss!
The main course is poached halibut with slivers of scallops (a much reviled fish in ordinary kitchens that submits well to a masterly chef) with curried cauliflower puree, trompette mushrooms, and the oddly pretty looking green cacti flower that tastes of cauliflower, gently napped by an apple cider sauce. Divine and I restrain the urge to lick my plate.
The palate cleanser (or pre-dessert as it's referred to) makes me clap with glee... the glass is angled precariously, filled to the tilt by three distinct shades of green, the middle bit sparkling like jewels. A piece I would be happy to display in any suitable nook. Ice cold soup of pineapple with a lukewarm sabayon of tarragon. Reluctantly, I tip the glass towards my lips and smother the giggle that threatens to escape at the startling combination of textures and temperatures that invade my mouth. It's on the cutting edge of avant garde and I debate it's merit as a sculpture over those of a pre-dessert.
Now, the time for debate. Dessert is an eclectically named elastic of chocolate, and I ask if I can have something savory instead. Cheese is offered and rebutted instantly given the look of disappointment on my face. Is there anything particular I had in mind? Just starter like in temperament... I'm happy with any leftovers from the kitchen the chef is willing to put together. The legal dessert arrives and is exquisite. The strip of chocolate is touchingly elastic, and I almost wish I'd asked for it.... apparently the coconut and Mandarin blobs do it grave justice. JP kindly leaves a bit for me to savour at the end.
The chef sends out his rendition of a savory something to end the meal..... sweetbreads with truffle, pear, hazelnuts and celery. I smile winningly, suppressing my inward shudder at the imagery the word celery conjures up, and inhale the rich aroma. Mhmmmm. My palate is shocked with what seems to be celery heart. Not only does it not have its customary icky smell, the texture is firm and reminds me of palm hearts and pairs astonishingly beautifully with the veal innards. Bliss.
I end my repast with the last bite of elastic chocolate before giving in to a cup of orange pekoe and chocolate covered apple petit fours. Crème Crue might have an unexpected 'e', but the chef and his entourage know how to entertain with panache. My request to get the menu written down results in a crisp letter head being produced at the end of the meal (once everyone knew what I would be getting in lieu of dessert) and I quote:
The amuse bouche involves smoked eel, a frozen cube of bitter lemon and duindoorn berries arrayed rather fetchingly in a martini glass. A wispy sigh of pleasure escapes me. This can only get better, and I am not wrong in my assessment. Our starter arrives. Goose liver with red beetroot (some cunningly smoked while others more innocuously roasted) drizzled with pure chocolate. I'm not a huge beet fan, but let me tell you, smoked beetroots... they're just boss!
The main course is poached halibut with slivers of scallops (a much reviled fish in ordinary kitchens that submits well to a masterly chef) with curried cauliflower puree, trompette mushrooms, and the oddly pretty looking green cacti flower that tastes of cauliflower, gently napped by an apple cider sauce. Divine and I restrain the urge to lick my plate.
The palate cleanser (or pre-dessert as it's referred to) makes me clap with glee... the glass is angled precariously, filled to the tilt by three distinct shades of green, the middle bit sparkling like jewels. A piece I would be happy to display in any suitable nook. Ice cold soup of pineapple with a lukewarm sabayon of tarragon. Reluctantly, I tip the glass towards my lips and smother the giggle that threatens to escape at the startling combination of textures and temperatures that invade my mouth. It's on the cutting edge of avant garde and I debate it's merit as a sculpture over those of a pre-dessert.
Now, the time for debate. Dessert is an eclectically named elastic of chocolate, and I ask if I can have something savory instead. Cheese is offered and rebutted instantly given the look of disappointment on my face. Is there anything particular I had in mind? Just starter like in temperament... I'm happy with any leftovers from the kitchen the chef is willing to put together. The legal dessert arrives and is exquisite. The strip of chocolate is touchingly elastic, and I almost wish I'd asked for it.... apparently the coconut and Mandarin blobs do it grave justice. JP kindly leaves a bit for me to savour at the end.
The chef sends out his rendition of a savory something to end the meal..... sweetbreads with truffle, pear, hazelnuts and celery. I smile winningly, suppressing my inward shudder at the imagery the word celery conjures up, and inhale the rich aroma. Mhmmmm. My palate is shocked with what seems to be celery heart. Not only does it not have its customary icky smell, the texture is firm and reminds me of palm hearts and pairs astonishingly beautifully with the veal innards. Bliss.
I end my repast with the last bite of elastic chocolate before giving in to a cup of orange pekoe and chocolate covered apple petit fours. Crème Crue might have an unexpected 'e', but the chef and his entourage know how to entertain with panache. My request to get the menu written down results in a crisp letter head being produced at the end of the meal (once everyone knew what I would be getting in lieu of dessert) and I quote:
Soepje van duindoornbesen, waterijs van bitterlemon schuim gerookte paling
*******
Terrine van ganzenlever met rode biet en pure chocolade
*******
Heilbotfilet en coquille met bloemkool en een saus van appelcider
*******
Predessert, ijskoud soepje van ananas met lauwwarme sabayon van dragon
*******
Elastiek van chocolade met kokos en drie bereindingen van mandarijn
*******
Gelakte kalfszwezerik met truffel, peer, hazelnoot en knolselderij
*******
Crème Crue, Haagweg 114, 2282 AG Rijswijk
T: 070 365 1080; www.cremecrue.nl
Chef: Patrick Kelder
Panorama
Rotterdam is freezing, windy and wet, and while I like surprises, I'm dearly hoping the pre-lunch one will be indoors and warm. The Dutchman's odd explanation of travelling exhibition at my curiosity doesn't really get the juices flowing, but I accuse him of being totally Indian when he agrees to my suggestion of leaving the car with the valet at the Hilton as we pretend to partake of something necessary in their haloed premises while sneaking out the back door, after two failed attempts to snare parking. The valet smilingly takes the car and we pretend business before edging out the side door for a quick dash in the rain. JP has to drag me back as I hurl past the door and I'm confused as we enter into a small building called Panorama. We seem to be in a gallery. Ok, Dutch painters, I can do this. I'm reminded of the sunset in Budapest a few days ago and the magic yellow blue combination of the sky, which then, had made me think of the light and colours in so many Dutch canvasses. You have to be able to see a sky that colour to paint it.
It's the aptly entitled Panorama that's the surprise, and without much ado, we head straight for the piece de resistance. I walk into the room and am gobsmacked. I mean, quite literally, my gob is well and truly smacked and falls open in awe and wonderment. I'm standing on a shaded deck atop a sand dune. A sand dune littered with anchors, fishing nets, lost boot as dunes are wont to be. A 360 degree turn absorbs the city behind us and the open sea in front of us. Scheveningen in 1881. I continue to gape as I rotate again. Then once more for good measure, this time more slowly, taking in the details of the church spire in the distance, the woman hanging up her washing outside her home, the beached fishing boats, the rolling waves, the horizon receding into the distance. I swear, I can smell the sea, hear it. The shrieking gulls give way to commentary in Dutch. Unsurprisingly, my body is drawn seaward, and I leave the town behind me as I savour the open breeze and endless horizon. The experience is surreal. The painting magnificent. The hidden glass dome that sits astride the roof allows in natural light, which brings this behemoth to life. Everyday, it's a different day at the beach, given the season and the weather. It's uncanny, but this 14 m tall, 120 m canvass wrapped around you at a distance of 14 m away, makes you feel like you're standing outside, surveying life in the 1880's.
Hendrik Willem Mesdag painted it with assistance from his wife Sientje Mesdag-van Houten and 4 other painters in 4 months. How, I do not know. It's alive and makes you want to sit down by the seaside, have a drink and get philosophical about life as one does when faced with nature in her purest form. The crying gulls meld into the sound of the waves as the English commentary tells me that the panorama was sketched on a glass cylinder that was then lit from within and this is what was used to trace the massive pieces of canvas surrounding us. Ingenious, but just imagining them actually executing the piece leaves me breathless. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall, to watch them at work, the sketch thrown all around, bits of paint filled in, perspectives checked and double checked. It's a masterpiece. I have seen photographic panoramas before and been somewhat impressed, but this just takes your breath away. It has the depth and dimension you can only get from paint and canvass and the texture makes it more gritty, more real. You forget it's bitterly cold and wet outside and wallow in the bracing air of the sea instead, the pace slower, more relaxed as you unwind and let nature soothe you. Your thoughts wafting around your head as you contemplate the horizon in the far distance.
It's startling when one of the guides steps over the rail to walk the 14 m to the canvas, destroying the illusion... it makes you cross to have the magic vanish, but oddly enough, a few minutes later as your gazing out, the artists mastery over depth and perspective sweeps over you and the beach stretches for miles ahead, the waves rolling into the far distance. It's truly uncanny how they manage to create such a strong sense of the real in such a confined area, munificent size of the painting notwithstanding. True to the art form, the top and bottom of the paintings are hidden to perpetuate the illusion of not having any boundaries
I've never really thought of Rotterdam as place to have on my list to visit... but I stand corrected. Eventually, I let JP tear me away so we can go for lunch (the original plan!), and make a mental note to visit in the summer to do a repeat... different light, different ingredients (lunch...!) and a quick abseil down the tower. This city rocks! Our sneaky side door entrance goes unnoticed and we claim our car with panache, sans payment. Such lovely people, these Dutch....
It's the aptly entitled Panorama that's the surprise, and without much ado, we head straight for the piece de resistance. I walk into the room and am gobsmacked. I mean, quite literally, my gob is well and truly smacked and falls open in awe and wonderment. I'm standing on a shaded deck atop a sand dune. A sand dune littered with anchors, fishing nets, lost boot as dunes are wont to be. A 360 degree turn absorbs the city behind us and the open sea in front of us. Scheveningen in 1881. I continue to gape as I rotate again. Then once more for good measure, this time more slowly, taking in the details of the church spire in the distance, the woman hanging up her washing outside her home, the beached fishing boats, the rolling waves, the horizon receding into the distance. I swear, I can smell the sea, hear it. The shrieking gulls give way to commentary in Dutch. Unsurprisingly, my body is drawn seaward, and I leave the town behind me as I savour the open breeze and endless horizon. The experience is surreal. The painting magnificent. The hidden glass dome that sits astride the roof allows in natural light, which brings this behemoth to life. Everyday, it's a different day at the beach, given the season and the weather. It's uncanny, but this 14 m tall, 120 m canvass wrapped around you at a distance of 14 m away, makes you feel like you're standing outside, surveying life in the 1880's.
Hendrik Willem Mesdag painted it with assistance from his wife Sientje Mesdag-van Houten and 4 other painters in 4 months. How, I do not know. It's alive and makes you want to sit down by the seaside, have a drink and get philosophical about life as one does when faced with nature in her purest form. The crying gulls meld into the sound of the waves as the English commentary tells me that the panorama was sketched on a glass cylinder that was then lit from within and this is what was used to trace the massive pieces of canvas surrounding us. Ingenious, but just imagining them actually executing the piece leaves me breathless. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall, to watch them at work, the sketch thrown all around, bits of paint filled in, perspectives checked and double checked. It's a masterpiece. I have seen photographic panoramas before and been somewhat impressed, but this just takes your breath away. It has the depth and dimension you can only get from paint and canvass and the texture makes it more gritty, more real. You forget it's bitterly cold and wet outside and wallow in the bracing air of the sea instead, the pace slower, more relaxed as you unwind and let nature soothe you. Your thoughts wafting around your head as you contemplate the horizon in the far distance.
It's startling when one of the guides steps over the rail to walk the 14 m to the canvas, destroying the illusion... it makes you cross to have the magic vanish, but oddly enough, a few minutes later as your gazing out, the artists mastery over depth and perspective sweeps over you and the beach stretches for miles ahead, the waves rolling into the far distance. It's truly uncanny how they manage to create such a strong sense of the real in such a confined area, munificent size of the painting notwithstanding. True to the art form, the top and bottom of the paintings are hidden to perpetuate the illusion of not having any boundaries
I've never really thought of Rotterdam as place to have on my list to visit... but I stand corrected. Eventually, I let JP tear me away so we can go for lunch (the original plan!), and make a mental note to visit in the summer to do a repeat... different light, different ingredients (lunch...!) and a quick abseil down the tower. This city rocks! Our sneaky side door entrance goes unnoticed and we claim our car with panache, sans payment. Such lovely people, these Dutch....
Ladies who lunch
The ladies who lunch do their last farewell lunch together in style at the Gokart Gallery on Andrassy Ut. It's sentimental, but fitting as we are ushered to our table overlooked by the piano and framed canvases on the walls. An elegant lunch later, we can but only pander ourselves with a sampling of delicious pastries. Yet, another thing that I will miss... Hungarians do make the best pastries... notwithstanding the French or Viennese (the Swiss still have my vote on the bread, but that's just nostalgia talking). Much deliberation and consultation leads us to a tonka bean tart and a chocolate mousse pastry to be indulged in mutually. What arrives are two superb little creations, delicately pastry sized, light as air, dark as sin and as shuddering as an orgasm. Each bite drawn out to savour the experience to the fullest, all senses engaged as we diligently demolish the pastries between soft little moans. The tonka bean tart has a fragrance that is so familiar but eludes me just the same, like a teasing scent left behind by a lover. I have a lingering memory of the same scent in a Viennese concoction involving chocolate at a coffee house... . My Hungarian won't touch the berry topping the tart because it's hairy - luckily, I have no qualms about gnawing on things hairy, and it's the perfect counterpoint to the delicate flavour of the tart. We demand to know what a tonka bean is, and the maitre d' tries his best to explain that it's South American in origin, a cross between caffeine and chocolate. Clearly, our dubious glances affront his professional demeanour and he returns with a small plate of samples. They look like large sunflower seeds with a wrinkly skin, almond shaped and black. Snapping one open yields a lighter shade of mocha and that waft... of vanilla. Apparently, this innocuous little bean is used in making perfumes but it's greater claim to fame seems to be that it is banned by the erstwhile FDA as consumption in large doses destroys ones liver, and Americans are urged not to buy Vanilla extracts from Mexico as they have the rather rude habit of using tonka beans instead of vanilla to sell the same effect.
Tch tch. What could they have been thinking?! Death by chocolate?
Tch tch. What could they have been thinking?! Death by chocolate?
To the Monster Ball
She might written off as a bright yellow haired, bare assed, weird plastic outfit wearing freak, but to me, she is one talented musician, with an amazing voice and incredible energy and charisma that sweeps across the venue who makes freaky music videos. The woman rocks. I'm taken aback by the number of young girls with no more than single digits to their credit. My mother never took to me to see a cutting edge concert....au contraire,I got taken to the ENT the day before to check if the blaring sounds of the band would cause any further harm to my struggling ears and was advised by the doddering old codger in the white coat to carry cotton wool in the pockets of my "frock" to stick in my ears if the cacophony got too much!!
She's been pulverized by the press for her disturbing images of bondage, blood and gore, but I have to admit, one's feral side is strongly aroused by the gleaming wetness of blood. Not sure what the 7-12 year olds sharing the space with yours truly will grow up into, but its not the devil of rock and roll, but the sight of sight of wetly gleaming blood that spikes my libido.... Cause for concern? Or should I be more worried that it's the sight of human blood that's making me feral?! The crowd swoons over the opening bars of Angelo (her most pathetic offereing and reminds me of a similar reaction brought on by Elton's pathetic Sacarifiiiice.. - honestly, what is wrong with people?!?!), and I wonder how the sound of ripping throats might enliven the performance. I'm charmed by her funky double bass and Jerry Lee Lewis eat your heart our performance on the flaming piano. Blondies got cojones and is totally weird with the blood smeared on her throat and chest, but the encore completes the night with a heart thumping Bad Romance.
I'm pretty sure that its the combination of wetly glistening blood and thumpa thumpa music (or could it be the evocative imagery?) that leaves me ravenous.... Hmmm. Methinks Dracula was just very misunderstood....
She's been pulverized by the press for her disturbing images of bondage, blood and gore, but I have to admit, one's feral side is strongly aroused by the gleaming wetness of blood. Not sure what the 7-12 year olds sharing the space with yours truly will grow up into, but its not the devil of rock and roll, but the sight of sight of wetly gleaming blood that spikes my libido.... Cause for concern? Or should I be more worried that it's the sight of human blood that's making me feral?! The crowd swoons over the opening bars of Angelo (her most pathetic offereing and reminds me of a similar reaction brought on by Elton's pathetic Sacarifiiiice.. - honestly, what is wrong with people?!?!), and I wonder how the sound of ripping throats might enliven the performance. I'm charmed by her funky double bass and Jerry Lee Lewis eat your heart our performance on the flaming piano. Blondies got cojones and is totally weird with the blood smeared on her throat and chest, but the encore completes the night with a heart thumping Bad Romance.
I'm pretty sure that its the combination of wetly glistening blood and thumpa thumpa music (or could it be the evocative imagery?) that leaves me ravenous.... Hmmm. Methinks Dracula was just very misunderstood....
Village life Magyar style
Finally, the day of my visit to the Hungarian countryside dawns and we set off for Fertoszintmiklos to lunch with Ishtvans parents, his dogs, cats and rabbits. I'm given a quick snapshot of the community: 3,500 residents, 1 church, 1 school, 1 pub and 2 whorehouses. Hmmmm. Interesting?! I arrive to a warm welcome from Maria and Ishtvan senior and am captivated by their Puli (a Hungarian breed, much reminiscent of a Rastafarian rug put in the wash one time too many!), a white one, who has the best dreadlocks I've ever seen and I can't resist rummaging through his coat, tugging wily nily at the matted strands. A walking, unravelled rug! My raucous bonding with the carpet is interrupted as I'm taken around the backyard and introduced to the other cats and then to the rabbits, Susan & George (in Hungarian naturally, but my keyboard won't cooperate). Susan and George look like small dogs and are definitely not the sort of bunnies you'd like to meet after dark. Timid they might be, but their size is so formidable, I'm not even thinking lunch!
There's time for a quick tour of the village before lunch, and I check out the vineyards, the graveyard (a tad disconcerting to come across tombstones with a date of birth and no date of death!! Talk about early reservations..) and awww at the quaint little chapel across the whorehouse. Naturally, I think it's a fitness club, catchily called X-Itness and can't understand Ishtvan's rather rude description of the lady going in as 'whore'! I look at him wonderingly and he explains she's probably from Ukraine. Yeah so? My confusion gets through to him and he informs me that X-itness is the other whorehouse in the village. I gasp like a giddy schoolgirl. No way!! I thought that was a fitness club! Apparently, so did he when he went to get membership the first time...! Once I'm drying my tears at that conversation, I notice a sign on the building next door for 'exercise'. Apparently, that's the legitimate exercise studio, very handily situated right next to the building with 'Wellness' and 'Xitness' painted all over the front. These village Hungarians I tell you! Lots of Austrians moving here and the border being 10 km away doesn't divert suspicion....
We go home so I can gush over and smush Oxford Circus the newest addition to the household who is allowed indoors for the express purpose of our amusement. Lunch is served, and I'm beginning to think they might be Bengali's in disguise. I ask if this is customary or if it's been laid on to impress the Indian... Nope, just Sunday lunch it seems. Right.... the soup starts us off, and then the dishes keep coming. Schnitzel, fried chicken, uborka salad, creamed mushrooms, fried potatoes, chicken baked with bacon, cheese, fennel and carrots and rice. I'm urged to eat everything but leave room for dessert. I can tell this is going to be an exhausting afternoon. The uborka salad is yummy and simple enough for me to make (incidentally, that is one of the politer words I acquired on day 1. Uborka = cucumber) and goes astonishingly well with all the meats. I dutifully sample everything and gorge on the schnitzel, and then we adjourn for dessert. Marie has outdone her self with a humongous dish of tiramisu, homemade ischlers and a hazelnut Swiss roll type thingy. There's enough for twenty, but an hour and several albums of Ishtvan as a strange child with a chicken fetish later, we've managed to empty half the dish.
Uborka Salad
Ingredients
Cucumber (thinly sliced) * water * vinegar * garlic (finely chopped) * salt * sugar
Method
Hungarian kids have the job of making Uborka, so it clearly has no method! Salt the cucumber and keep aside. Start with cold water and add little bits of vinegar to it along with bits of sugar, stirring and tasting till it gets to that point where you go, 'mhmmmmm'. Add the chopped garlic to this. Once the waterworks is done, squeeze the salt out of the cucumber and add. Refrigerate till you're ready to serve.
It's delicious, cool, perfect for the summer and a shockingly good accompaniment to hot meat dishes like the baked chicken, fried chicken and wiener schnitzel. This is what the Hungarians call, vegetable.
There's time for a quick tour of the village before lunch, and I check out the vineyards, the graveyard (a tad disconcerting to come across tombstones with a date of birth and no date of death!! Talk about early reservations..) and awww at the quaint little chapel across the whorehouse. Naturally, I think it's a fitness club, catchily called X-Itness and can't understand Ishtvan's rather rude description of the lady going in as 'whore'! I look at him wonderingly and he explains she's probably from Ukraine. Yeah so? My confusion gets through to him and he informs me that X-itness is the other whorehouse in the village. I gasp like a giddy schoolgirl. No way!! I thought that was a fitness club! Apparently, so did he when he went to get membership the first time...! Once I'm drying my tears at that conversation, I notice a sign on the building next door for 'exercise'. Apparently, that's the legitimate exercise studio, very handily situated right next to the building with 'Wellness' and 'Xitness' painted all over the front. These village Hungarians I tell you! Lots of Austrians moving here and the border being 10 km away doesn't divert suspicion....
We go home so I can gush over and smush Oxford Circus the newest addition to the household who is allowed indoors for the express purpose of our amusement. Lunch is served, and I'm beginning to think they might be Bengali's in disguise. I ask if this is customary or if it's been laid on to impress the Indian... Nope, just Sunday lunch it seems. Right.... the soup starts us off, and then the dishes keep coming. Schnitzel, fried chicken, uborka salad, creamed mushrooms, fried potatoes, chicken baked with bacon, cheese, fennel and carrots and rice. I'm urged to eat everything but leave room for dessert. I can tell this is going to be an exhausting afternoon. The uborka salad is yummy and simple enough for me to make (incidentally, that is one of the politer words I acquired on day 1. Uborka = cucumber) and goes astonishingly well with all the meats. I dutifully sample everything and gorge on the schnitzel, and then we adjourn for dessert. Marie has outdone her self with a humongous dish of tiramisu, homemade ischlers and a hazelnut Swiss roll type thingy. There's enough for twenty, but an hour and several albums of Ishtvan as a strange child with a chicken fetish later, we've managed to empty half the dish.
It's time to go, but not without leftovers! I try to be as ladylike as possible (helped by a 14 week pregnant belly) and confine myself to the baked chicken, uborka salad and a quarter of the tiramisu. We will be eating for days... (and little did I know the tiramisu would only get better day after day... would've taken the other quarter as well!). Since I am well versed with my limitations, I shall only tell you the tiramisu was a drool worthy masterpiece, and shall confine myself to an attempt at re-creating the uborka salad for warm days in Singapore.
Uborka Salad
Ingredients
Cucumber (thinly sliced) * water * vinegar * garlic (finely chopped) * salt * sugar
Method
Hungarian kids have the job of making Uborka, so it clearly has no method! Salt the cucumber and keep aside. Start with cold water and add little bits of vinegar to it along with bits of sugar, stirring and tasting till it gets to that point where you go, 'mhmmmmm'. Add the chopped garlic to this. Once the waterworks is done, squeeze the salt out of the cucumber and add. Refrigerate till you're ready to serve.
It's delicious, cool, perfect for the summer and a shockingly good accompaniment to hot meat dishes like the baked chicken, fried chicken and wiener schnitzel. This is what the Hungarians call, vegetable.
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