Ice-cream

'So how do you know which ice-cream is your favourite if you don't try them all?'

I was just left staring at her face, while she winked and said that!

Yea, true that, how do you figure?

Maybe you don't need to try them all. Stand back and watch someone try an exotic flavour. See how quickly their expression changes, take it ahead from there.

For some others, you don't need to buy an entire scoop. Just smile and ask the vendor for a sample. Check how you feel when you touch a little to your lip.

And then there are a few, where you just look and know that you'll never be ok with something like that.

Lastly, some of them are like instant love. With one look, you know how it’s going to taste and feel and that you'd want seconds. And that no other flavour would even come close to this one. And that it doesn't matter if you don't ever taste another, all your life.

Labels

My notebook labels, right up till my tenth standard, were written out by her.

Neat, clean cursive writing.

I knew the teacher in class was going through my notebook, just by the writing on the label.

Every year, she would cover my books, text and note, with smooth brown paper.  

She would cover them all, and patiently write my name, full name, standard, division, roll number, school name and subject, extremely methodically. Never a squiggle or a scratch!

She knew I held my notebooks with pride. Hell ya, she knew I held any book with pride.

Later I graduated to covering my own notebooks, but she was still in charge of the labels.

One year, she wanted to sleep a little early.

I tossed and turned all night, “Carry books to class without labels? On my first day? 

Oh no!”

I woke up a little earlier than usual (yes, there was a time when I did do such things), armed with my new blue pen for the new year in school, I walked in half my sleep towards the dining room.

She was there already, with another blue pen.

Labelled books in that lovely cursive, again!

Some things never change. I smiled, knowing I was worrying uselessly.

Once in college this ritual came to an abrupt halt! We carried books if we wanted to.

We borrowed them, more often than not.  

And we mostly survived on photocopies.

Recently, she wrote out a list of groceries on a little square of paper for me.

Neat, clean, cursive writing, with just a hint of shaky.

Brought back so many memories!

Some things should never change.  

Thanks Maa.

Junior MasterChef

As I sit and watch one of the episodes of this gastronomic craziness by children, I am totally awed. Each child creates a wonderful, mouth-watering dish. Not simple stuff like omelettes and all, but some really god-awesome looking stuff and by the judges reactions, awesome in taste too.

A few things that I totaaaaallllly (Yes, I write like that sometimes) adore about the show are:
The judges are so lovely. Never a harsh word! Criticism is also done so politely, you just never feel the jab.
'I reckon this needs a little more salt.'

There is always a word of encouragement. No, it’s not an unnecessary ego boost! It is genuine love and concern for the piece of art on the plate.

The children have so much innocence in them. You can see pink cheeks, a twitchy nose, restless fingers and nervous eyes. Something we miss in the competition, these days, with the older people.

They are children, still almost no tears and drama!

Another thing I love is, as they take the names of the children who have qualified, they cut to an image of their dish.

Thank God! I can never remember who made what in all the yum-ness.

Two instances that almost got me to tears was when one of the girls used plastic ramekins to bake her cake, and the moulds melted in the oven. I think it was Gary, if I am not mistaken, who smelt the burning plastic. Not only did he help her get the plastic moulds out, he also helped her get her cake out of them — without it crumbling! And yes, she served that to the judges.

Another instance when one of the boys set his oven on the grill mode, and his meringue got burnt. He was crestfallen, but Gary to the rescue again. He helped the little boy change the mode and instructed him to wait till it cooked entirely.

Yes, this one was served too, with Gary saying, ‘I love my meringue a little burnt.’

Am just waaaaaaaiiiiiiting (you were warned) to watch more. He show has a magical spirit about it. J

PS: How does Anna look so great with a job that has her eating such yum stuff all day? Life can be so unfair!

The image is from their site. 

Facebook

“Rooooosh...”

“Haaaa...” takes super-human effort to get out of the incredibly comfortable spot on the sofa while watching the nth re-run of FRIENDS. “Ya Maa, what is it?”

“I’ve got a Facebook friend request. What do I do? Teach me na...”

Visions of my mad online world came crashing down. If The Parents ever see the rubbish I post or am tagged in, oh baap re!

Images of The Mother’s ‘likes’ or ‘comments’ under my pictures and statuses freaked me out!

So how do I neatly get out of this one?

“Ya Maa, I’ll teach you. We’ll make an account and all that. Just watching something on TV; will do it in the next hour.”

“Ok...”

 As I run back to FRIENDS, Mum tinkers around the net for a little more time and then signs off. I log in. Change my account settings and make sure other than ‘Friends’ no can see anything of my profile.

Then I help Mum create an account, find friends, help her around people’s walls and all that.

“Ok nice. Now let me see your profile.”

Yikes!

“Arre why do you want to see all that... let it be na. Am hungry, make something yummy na, please.”

While having lunch one day, dad asked, “Who is this boy on your profile picture? And why is he holding you like that?”

Ohmygod!

I looked up from my plate. “Who? What?” *lame way of buying time*

“I saw on your Facebook profile picture.”

“How...”

“Yes, I made an account on Facebook.” And he grins in my face like he had climbed Everest.

“Ah, that... we all were just doing some masti.”

So mum and dad are on Facebook — but not my ‘friends’ yet. There is little peace in knowing that they can see only a limited profile. Not that my FB life is crazy, just that I wouldn’t like them watching over my online antics.

There are a few of my friends who also have their parents on Facebook AND on their Friend list. I see them commenting on their children’s statuses and photos and everyone living in peace.

Makes me think of adding my parents as ‘friends’. Still hesitant.

To do or not to do?

Gajalee

The best way to keep a Parsi quiet is by putting a plate of food in front of him.

Pin-drop silence, quite literally.

Though in my case if the plate is full of crabs you won't even hear the occasional 'hmmm...'

My relatives from the land of Apro Charles and Apri Diana were here.  And it’s customary to have one meal, at least, at our favourite crab joint — Gajalee. We were talking nineteen to a dozen about this, that the other and Paris politics. But the minute we had the golden yellow batter fried Bombay ducks in our plates our cacophony just came to a halt. That hot crumbly crust, the oh-so-soft fillet and the cold chutney, make for a lovely texture in my mouth.

I have lost count of how many of these I can eat at one go. Dad once counted to 12, I think he's fibbing.

We spoke next only to place the order for the crabs. We ordered the butter garlic gravy and the tandoori ones.

Even after going to Gajalee a number of times over the past decade, I still haven't been able to figure which one I like more. Every time we go, I feel that I will finally make my decision this time. Much to my dismay, I can never choose! I just devour both and feel fab!

I never miss eating their Pomfret curry with onion kulchas. Wow!

Don’t know how they get it right EVERY time.

Ah! I leave Gajalee only wishing I could come back for my next meal there.

PS: Non-stop chatter in the car on our way back. :P

Brrr...

Bombay winters — yes, we've almost never used these words together.

But here we are in the midst of the coldest days ever...

The dash from your cosy bed to the bathroom takes super human will power.

Don't remember the last time you broke into a sweat.

New Year resolutions be damned. The mornings are spent under quilts not on walks.

Lesser motorcycles on the road.

If you do see someone riding, you wonder if they are part of India's Got Talent or something.

New found love for rickshaw rides.

You pray that you don't get a window seat while travelling in a bus or a train.

You glare at the person who switches on the fan in the train. Sacrilege.

You contemplate investing in winter wear. Seriously.

Cold cream is too cold to apply.

You use lip balm not for the gloss.

Nange paau! No way! Same for thandu paani.

Precious warm water baths.

You switch on the geyser to randomly wash your hands.

AC in the car!! AC!! Thappad.

Socks.
Screw fashion. Walk around with a pair over your hands.

Can't figure if clothes on the clothesline are wet or cold.

You chill with the building watchmen. They have a tiny angeethi.

Sun! You lovely thing!

You know you are hopelessly jobless when...

Your first meal of the day is a late (very) lunch.

The previous evening's saans-bahu reruns are the only thing on TV.

There is a sunk-in shape in the sofa where u were sitting for 7 hours straight. Even jelly sets in 2!

The maid is shocked to see you at home. Again. Today also.

Evening chai is accompanied by biscuits, farsan, bhel and another cup of chai.

You know the precise time the milkman, dhobi, and eggwalla will ring the doorbell.

When mum gets irritated and asks you to do some house work. You just dust the area around a 2ft distance of you.

Plans to start meeting friends begin at 7 p.m.

You are out of the house at 7:30 p.m.

Your watchman makes eyes at you for leaving home at this time.

You start collecting and watching any American series - Lost, HIMYM, Lie to me, Bones...

Friends who have these series are kept on a pedestal.

You try out different places for dinner - rekdi chinis, roadside tandoori, the sigdiwalla, aanda pulao, pau bhajji, dosawalla and sandwichwalla.

You start a blog called Bawi Batasha.