“The cucumber is the only vegetable that has zero anything—calories, sugar, vitamins, whatever,” proclaimed Radha, my ex boss and my partner in crime at Dr. Vijaya Venkat’s health awareness centre (she doesn’t like calling it a dabba). “It’s just water. You can have as much as you want, nothing will ever add up,” he (yes!) assured. I later found out that it did have Vitamin C and was high on fibre, so it wasn’t that it was a mascot for the unbearable lightness of being.
As a chief contender for the daily salad, that sure is a point in its favour, although unlike say carrots or spinach, what will you tell your child when you have to feed him/her cucumber? May be you can try this, “Eat this and you will stay cool,” and see if it cuts any ice. I still remember, when the doctor put my mother on a strict diabetic-cum-pro thrombin control diet, the only item that had a tick against it was the cucumber. My mother was aghast. “What is the use of living if this is the only vegetable I can eat?” he demanded to know.
Its high water content is adequate reason the phrase ‘as cool as a cucumber’ came up. And even though it is relegated to nothingness in its contribution to nutrients, I must still add that it is hugely underestimated. Like its power to soothe a parched throat on a highway in the peak of summer. Or its absolute conduciveness to eye packs. Or its magical chemistry with dill. Or even yoghurt. Or its enormous power to yield to carving (at those gauche buffet tables, but what the heck).
Some like it pickled, and I must admit I have a weakness for brine. Have it indigenously pickled in vinegar (those ceramic bowls laden with the stuff at Indian-Chinese or Chinese-Chinese restaurants, or pay a premium for the miniature pickled gherkins, the choice is yours.
A lesser ventured into, but more wholesome option is a refreshing cold gazpacho soup that takes five minutes or less to make: all you have to do is simply purée cucumbers, tomatoes, green peppers and onions, then add salt and pepper to taste. Voila! I had a really nice one years ago at Mezzo Mezzo.
For me the cucumber is a staple in my daily salad, where I allow it to freely date red and yellow peppers, sprouts, carrots, spring onions, grapefruit, pomegranates (I just have a thing for colour) and just about anything that will yield. On my not-so-lazy days, I grate them to make my mother’s trademark pachadi which is simply, out of this world.
Cucumber and dill salad
One small head of lettuce, shredded
Two cucumbers, cut into chunks
Dill, one small bunch
Olive oil
Lemon juice
Salt to taste
Method:
Shred the lettuce, add the cucumber chunks, dill, and mix well.
Add one tbsp olive oil, juice of one lemon and salt to taste.
Mix well. Serve chilled.
Cucumber pachadi
One or two cucumbers, grated
One green chilli
A small piece of ginger, julienned
Oil, mustard, hing for tempering
Salt to taste
Method:
Grate one large or two small cucumbers, drain the juice and set aside.
Add 200 gm of yoghurt to the cucumber, salt to taste, and mix well.
Heat oil in a kadai and add mustard seeds. When they splutter, add hing, chopped green chilli, and ginger and sautee well.
When cool, por the tempering over the cucumber in dahi.
Serve cold with rotis or rice based dish as a raita, or even eat by itself
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Paper chase
I don't know what it is about paperwork that intimidates some men. Like the husband, who allegedly has taken on groups of skinheads during his growing up years in Europe (when he had an even punier frame), but the minute a letter from the society arrives, he starts quaking. Not that it’s an eviction notice or anything, just a note saying we have to apply for an NOC (just for security's sake, post the terror attacks), get car stickers, stuff like that. But I notice that he is aflutter getting these papers in order.
I ask him to chill, as this is what societies do for a living, but he isn't convinced. "Have your given your form for the car-sticker? Do we have two references to add in the society form? We shouldn't give them any room to reject us," he mumbles every morning, and will continue to do so till the due date. I usually smile or look away lackadaisically—it is too small a thing for me to worry about.
"Reject us? Why would they reject us?"
"You never know…"
I feel like telling him, “I wish you would be as hyper getting your passport renewed so we can go for that holiday to Sri Lanka.” But I don’t, as the timing is not good.
It is perhaps the first time in his life that he has had to go through the passport renewal grind, which, right now, looks more complicated than getting our marriage certificate. After giving him a checklist of documents to be submitted (which is enough to drive anyone nuts), I retreat. Sure, being a diplomat's son had its benefits—passports being renewed in four hours, no matter where in the world you were being one of them.
Now that he is on his own, things do look gloomy on the paperwork front. In that sense, I am grateful for adversity. For never having a father or mother in high places. For never being able to pick up a phone, or send an email, ‘just to get things done’. For having had to stand in queues, fill everything in triplicate, sign in multiple places, get attestations from notaries in shady looking offices, speak in Marathi whenever required, but ‘getting the job done.’
The husband is still struggling with ‘operation passport’, six months after we discussed it in detail, and a month before we are slated to go for a foreign vacation to celebrate our anniversary. I wondered what would trigger him to take action, and told him that I would go, with or without him. Sure, I saw a hint of panic in his eyes, but it's been a month and nothing has happened. Yesterday, I finally dragged him to 'the society' for procurement of the all-important society letter stating that we are bonafide residents of the said building. The secretary (who again, seemed to be a triplicate kinda bloke) spent a good half hour explaining to us why they couldn't give us the said letter, and how, they would try and make it easy for us by giving an alternate letter which stated that they have no objection with our landlord subletting his flat to us.
I am quite sure I am doing the trip alone.
I ask him to chill, as this is what societies do for a living, but he isn't convinced. "Have your given your form for the car-sticker? Do we have two references to add in the society form? We shouldn't give them any room to reject us," he mumbles every morning, and will continue to do so till the due date. I usually smile or look away lackadaisically—it is too small a thing for me to worry about.
"Reject us? Why would they reject us?"
"You never know…"
I feel like telling him, “I wish you would be as hyper getting your passport renewed so we can go for that holiday to Sri Lanka.” But I don’t, as the timing is not good.
It is perhaps the first time in his life that he has had to go through the passport renewal grind, which, right now, looks more complicated than getting our marriage certificate. After giving him a checklist of documents to be submitted (which is enough to drive anyone nuts), I retreat. Sure, being a diplomat's son had its benefits—passports being renewed in four hours, no matter where in the world you were being one of them.
Now that he is on his own, things do look gloomy on the paperwork front. In that sense, I am grateful for adversity. For never having a father or mother in high places. For never being able to pick up a phone, or send an email, ‘just to get things done’. For having had to stand in queues, fill everything in triplicate, sign in multiple places, get attestations from notaries in shady looking offices, speak in Marathi whenever required, but ‘getting the job done.’
The husband is still struggling with ‘operation passport’, six months after we discussed it in detail, and a month before we are slated to go for a foreign vacation to celebrate our anniversary. I wondered what would trigger him to take action, and told him that I would go, with or without him. Sure, I saw a hint of panic in his eyes, but it's been a month and nothing has happened. Yesterday, I finally dragged him to 'the society' for procurement of the all-important society letter stating that we are bonafide residents of the said building. The secretary (who again, seemed to be a triplicate kinda bloke) spent a good half hour explaining to us why they couldn't give us the said letter, and how, they would try and make it easy for us by giving an alternate letter which stated that they have no objection with our landlord subletting his flat to us.
I am quite sure I am doing the trip alone.
Flower power
To be born a cauliflower is an elegant thing in itself—it’s like what can possibly go wrong with a Brad Pitt-Angelina Jolie offspring? It will have the looks, the body, and of course the bite to go with it.
Having said that, the cauliflower’s natural beauty is perhaps one thing that gets in the way while trying to cook it. Mutilating it like the South Indians do in their poduthuvals is close to criminal, dousing it with coconut, chilli and garlic gravy like the Maharashtrians do is sacrilege. I for one always have issues about ‘deflowering’ this thing of beauty, rendering it leafless, almost bald. With such reservations, transforming it into an out-of-world experience is a daunting task. As Aamir Khan said in Dil Chahta hai, “Perfection ko kaun improve kar sakta hai?” (how can you improve perfection?)
I must say the north Indians have cracked this. Like they have totally figured out that only-ginger-no-garlic is the way to go for this flower. Or that less is more (so roasted and crushed jeera and a whole chilli are perhaps the only things that pass muster). They have also figured out the slow cooking is the only way to get your gobi right, even if takes close to an hour. And that there is a colour palette while frying onions that moves from white to pink to green to brown and that green is the shade we want. As someone with limited patience, exaggerated by the inability to stand over a flame and watch something cook for more than five minutes, I am definitely not the candidate.
I have had the most simple, yet most amazing aloo-gobis at my childhood friend Tina’s house, where her mother, Mrs Sahni, served them up for us with hot rotis wrapped in a towel, and released just before they reached your plate.
Recently, at a dinner table conversation with a Punjab-da-puttar, my interest in this species of vegetable was rekindled all over again. It’s been a while since I ate a good aloo-gobi and Tina has moved to San Francisco and evolved into a shockingly bad cook, while her mother is nestled somewhere in Greater Kailash II in Delhi. So right now, Navraj Lehl is my only hope and I do hope he reads this and invites me for a Punjabi meal soon.
I attempted doing it the Punjabi way, but my patience wore out, so now, I do the occasional cauliflower soup (which I am good at), throw it into a vegetable stew (it works) or make a quickie pulao with chunky pieces of it in a tomato and ginger-garlic gravy. But I still yearn for a good gobi-matter or aloo-gobi or just plain gobi-ki-sabzi.
And then, one fine day, I learnt this recipe from my buddy Deepa (an amazing cook and equally fun to be with) in which she just buttered a whole cauliflower, dunked it into an oven and garnished it with pepper. It was the most divine one-pot meal I had ever eaten.
Baked cauliflower with thyme and pepper
1 medium sized cauliflower
Salted butter
Crushed pepper
Dried thyme
Method:
1.Wash and clean cauliflower if necessary and wipe dry (avoid buying the slightly mottled ones)
2. Take a dollop of butter (as much as you are permitted to have or dare to) and slater it all over the cauliflower, making sure you smear enough in the grooves and hidden parts.
3. Now sprinkle some thyme and pepper (just pepper will also do if you don’t particularly fancy thyme) all over (don’t forget the parts between the florets) and dunk it into a microwave for 4-6 minutes (850W) or bake in a regular oven for 20 min at 180 degrees.
4. Mop up the excess butter in the dish with a baguette, and dig into the whole cauliflower with a fork and knife. Or just tear it to shreds if you give two hoots about elegance.
Having said that, the cauliflower’s natural beauty is perhaps one thing that gets in the way while trying to cook it. Mutilating it like the South Indians do in their poduthuvals is close to criminal, dousing it with coconut, chilli and garlic gravy like the Maharashtrians do is sacrilege. I for one always have issues about ‘deflowering’ this thing of beauty, rendering it leafless, almost bald. With such reservations, transforming it into an out-of-world experience is a daunting task. As Aamir Khan said in Dil Chahta hai, “Perfection ko kaun improve kar sakta hai?” (how can you improve perfection?)
I must say the north Indians have cracked this. Like they have totally figured out that only-ginger-no-garlic is the way to go for this flower. Or that less is more (so roasted and crushed jeera and a whole chilli are perhaps the only things that pass muster). They have also figured out the slow cooking is the only way to get your gobi right, even if takes close to an hour. And that there is a colour palette while frying onions that moves from white to pink to green to brown and that green is the shade we want. As someone with limited patience, exaggerated by the inability to stand over a flame and watch something cook for more than five minutes, I am definitely not the candidate.
I have had the most simple, yet most amazing aloo-gobis at my childhood friend Tina’s house, where her mother, Mrs Sahni, served them up for us with hot rotis wrapped in a towel, and released just before they reached your plate.
Recently, at a dinner table conversation with a Punjab-da-puttar, my interest in this species of vegetable was rekindled all over again. It’s been a while since I ate a good aloo-gobi and Tina has moved to San Francisco and evolved into a shockingly bad cook, while her mother is nestled somewhere in Greater Kailash II in Delhi. So right now, Navraj Lehl is my only hope and I do hope he reads this and invites me for a Punjabi meal soon.
I attempted doing it the Punjabi way, but my patience wore out, so now, I do the occasional cauliflower soup (which I am good at), throw it into a vegetable stew (it works) or make a quickie pulao with chunky pieces of it in a tomato and ginger-garlic gravy. But I still yearn for a good gobi-matter or aloo-gobi or just plain gobi-ki-sabzi.
And then, one fine day, I learnt this recipe from my buddy Deepa (an amazing cook and equally fun to be with) in which she just buttered a whole cauliflower, dunked it into an oven and garnished it with pepper. It was the most divine one-pot meal I had ever eaten.
Baked cauliflower with thyme and pepper
1 medium sized cauliflower
Salted butter
Crushed pepper
Dried thyme
Method:
1.Wash and clean cauliflower if necessary and wipe dry (avoid buying the slightly mottled ones)
2. Take a dollop of butter (as much as you are permitted to have or dare to) and slater it all over the cauliflower, making sure you smear enough in the grooves and hidden parts.
3. Now sprinkle some thyme and pepper (just pepper will also do if you don’t particularly fancy thyme) all over (don’t forget the parts between the florets) and dunk it into a microwave for 4-6 minutes (850W) or bake in a regular oven for 20 min at 180 degrees.
4. Mop up the excess butter in the dish with a baguette, and dig into the whole cauliflower with a fork and knife. Or just tear it to shreds if you give two hoots about elegance.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Name game
(This was written as a response to Sanjay Dutt lashing out against women (his sister included) who chose to keep their maiden surnames)
Dear Sanju baba,
I am sure I have offended you, as have several other women, including your sister who retained their surnames after marriage. When I was getting married (after most people gave up on the fact that I would ever marry), I was asked by all and sundry, 'So, will you change your name after marriage?' I looked in askance, as I thought it was a non sequitur.
I find it amazing that some of my seemingly cool friends automatically switched to their husband's names after marriage. So quick, that it appeared as though they were waiting all their lives to do just that. It just made me look at them differently. Even the husband thought I would take the middle path and go the Iyer-Agarwal way, though we had never really discussed it before marriage.
Post marriage, when he saw my byline unaltered, he got the message. I obviously didn’t believe in middle-paths, and I am sorry to announce this to the Agarwals, but I honestly think Lalita Iyer has more gravitas than Lalita Agarwal. And Lalita Iyer-Agarwal just sounds apologetic and silly to me.
But I'm sure, Mr Dutt, that if my husband ever contests an election (which god forbid, I don't think he ever will), I would campaign for him, to perform my duty as a wife. But I would still be me.
Besides, I have enough paperwork to deal with and am not looking forward to adding to it with the whole name change thing. And frankly, I don’t have the muscle power or the connections to speed it up like you do.
But I do find it difficult to fill forms these days, as there are these three boxes staring at me: personal name, father’s/husband’s name and surname. I have no dilemmas on the first and the last, I do those on autopilot, but when it comes to the second, I flinch. Who should it be? The father, who contributed to my DNA, or the new man in my life, my husband, who married me?
Think about it. Half my life has gone by. I am an Iyer by habit, conditioning, food, rituals and upbringing. I was an Iyer when I got my first job, my first passport, my first visa, my first raise, my first car, my first piece of real-estate. I was an Iyer when I first started writing and when you first started reading me.
So why should I assume a new surname now, just to ‘fulfill the responsibilities that come with marriage’ as you pointed out? I am fulfilling more than my share of them anyway. And the husband does consider me a good and responsible wife, in fact too responsible for his own good!
I have struck a deal with him that the babies will have both our surnames, so there is a balance. Of course, at a recent visit to the doctor’s when the husband was referred to as Mr Iyer, there was a moment. My point is, how different is it when I get referred to as Mrs Agarwal? Isn’t it the same thing?
Dear Sanju baba,
I am sure I have offended you, as have several other women, including your sister who retained their surnames after marriage. When I was getting married (after most people gave up on the fact that I would ever marry), I was asked by all and sundry, 'So, will you change your name after marriage?' I looked in askance, as I thought it was a non sequitur.
I find it amazing that some of my seemingly cool friends automatically switched to their husband's names after marriage. So quick, that it appeared as though they were waiting all their lives to do just that. It just made me look at them differently. Even the husband thought I would take the middle path and go the Iyer-Agarwal way, though we had never really discussed it before marriage.
Post marriage, when he saw my byline unaltered, he got the message. I obviously didn’t believe in middle-paths, and I am sorry to announce this to the Agarwals, but I honestly think Lalita Iyer has more gravitas than Lalita Agarwal. And Lalita Iyer-Agarwal just sounds apologetic and silly to me.
But I'm sure, Mr Dutt, that if my husband ever contests an election (which god forbid, I don't think he ever will), I would campaign for him, to perform my duty as a wife. But I would still be me.
Besides, I have enough paperwork to deal with and am not looking forward to adding to it with the whole name change thing. And frankly, I don’t have the muscle power or the connections to speed it up like you do.
But I do find it difficult to fill forms these days, as there are these three boxes staring at me: personal name, father’s/husband’s name and surname. I have no dilemmas on the first and the last, I do those on autopilot, but when it comes to the second, I flinch. Who should it be? The father, who contributed to my DNA, or the new man in my life, my husband, who married me?
Think about it. Half my life has gone by. I am an Iyer by habit, conditioning, food, rituals and upbringing. I was an Iyer when I got my first job, my first passport, my first visa, my first raise, my first car, my first piece of real-estate. I was an Iyer when I first started writing and when you first started reading me.
So why should I assume a new surname now, just to ‘fulfill the responsibilities that come with marriage’ as you pointed out? I am fulfilling more than my share of them anyway. And the husband does consider me a good and responsible wife, in fact too responsible for his own good!
I have struck a deal with him that the babies will have both our surnames, so there is a balance. Of course, at a recent visit to the doctor’s when the husband was referred to as Mr Iyer, there was a moment. My point is, how different is it when I get referred to as Mrs Agarwal? Isn’t it the same thing?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Love me do
The husband recently pointed out that according to Linda Goodman, I was the bad guy and he was the good guy in our relationship. Hmmm.. Geminis have always been presented as bright, creative and communicative, but also fickle, breezy, too easily distracted and flighty, in the era when I used to read these books. Intrigued, I googled (is it a verb?) the Gemini woman-Cancer man compatibility and this what I found:
A Cancerian man needs lots of love, care and attention, which is definitely not her cup of tea. She has too many interests and distractions to do this.
Gemini will bring light-heartedness and banter in the life of the emotional Cancer. The Crab is much more emotional than the Gemini and tends to be more deeply attached. Gemini, on the other hand, likes to keep everything superficial and on the outer surface.
I was going to give up when I found something positive.
He is the most loving of the sun signs and she, the most driven by her mind. If it works, it’s the ideal heart-mind combination.
It's funny how one goes through an entire phase of dating well researched, well-documented men, and finally, when you meet ‘the one’, all theory goes out of the window. Prior to the husband, most men I dated were Linda Goodman-proofed. So much so, that one dismissed the lack of enterprise of someone by attributing it to ‘being more attuned to things that were spiritual and mind-driven’, another’s phone clinginess was discounted to ‘excellent communicative skills’, a third’s self-obsession was camouflaged as ‘confidence and zest’, someone’s lack of commitment was merely ‘the-boy-who-never-grows-up’, and so on.
Life was all about making boyfriends look good on paper. Interestingly, some of these men were, according to Ms Goodman, perfect soul mates for me. I think she recommended Librans, Sagittarians and Arians for me and asked me to stay away from Cancerian, Virgo and Scorpio men.
But here I am, with my so-called ‘moody crab’, enjoying every bit of my marriage.
Especially the fact that we are as different as chalk and cheese. He likes order, I like flinging stuff around. I look at a cow and think of the mechanics of rumination. He looks at a cow and thinks of dinner. I am spontaneous, he likes planning. I dig paperwork, he runs a mile from it. I am a backpacker, he is an armchair traveller. I like fruit at room temperature, he likes it chilled. I like the corner shop, he likes malls. I am a yes and no person, he finds it hard to say no. I am organic, he is processed.
I guess what works is that we both love what we become when we are with each other. And we both love a good scrabble game. And we are still learning how to be good losers.
A Cancerian man needs lots of love, care and attention, which is definitely not her cup of tea. She has too many interests and distractions to do this.
Gemini will bring light-heartedness and banter in the life of the emotional Cancer. The Crab is much more emotional than the Gemini and tends to be more deeply attached. Gemini, on the other hand, likes to keep everything superficial and on the outer surface.
I was going to give up when I found something positive.
He is the most loving of the sun signs and she, the most driven by her mind. If it works, it’s the ideal heart-mind combination.
It's funny how one goes through an entire phase of dating well researched, well-documented men, and finally, when you meet ‘the one’, all theory goes out of the window. Prior to the husband, most men I dated were Linda Goodman-proofed. So much so, that one dismissed the lack of enterprise of someone by attributing it to ‘being more attuned to things that were spiritual and mind-driven’, another’s phone clinginess was discounted to ‘excellent communicative skills’, a third’s self-obsession was camouflaged as ‘confidence and zest’, someone’s lack of commitment was merely ‘the-boy-who-never-grows-up’, and so on.
Life was all about making boyfriends look good on paper. Interestingly, some of these men were, according to Ms Goodman, perfect soul mates for me. I think she recommended Librans, Sagittarians and Arians for me and asked me to stay away from Cancerian, Virgo and Scorpio men.
But here I am, with my so-called ‘moody crab’, enjoying every bit of my marriage.
Especially the fact that we are as different as chalk and cheese. He likes order, I like flinging stuff around. I look at a cow and think of the mechanics of rumination. He looks at a cow and thinks of dinner. I am spontaneous, he likes planning. I dig paperwork, he runs a mile from it. I am a backpacker, he is an armchair traveller. I like fruit at room temperature, he likes it chilled. I like the corner shop, he likes malls. I am a yes and no person, he finds it hard to say no. I am organic, he is processed.
I guess what works is that we both love what we become when we are with each other. And we both love a good scrabble game. And we are still learning how to be good losers.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Art of not giving
It's funny when friends get married and then you have the typical wedding post-mortem conversations. A friend of mine recently got back from his honeymoon, and we got chatting. Since both of us had fun weddings with zero politics, the big thing to discuss was the presents. One thing we had in common was the utter apathy of some present givers towards the present recipients.
Since he had four times the number of invitees, he was stuck with more presents (read more ugly presents). I have already macro-analysed mine many columns ago—what took the cake were two exceedingly ugly vases (one of which the cat thankfully broke and the other has been sent to the mother’s) and some random photo-frames, toilet kits, make-up, lamp shades, crockery and tea-sets (one of which was a toy set I’m quite sure, and gifted by mistake). I really think the time for the gift registry has arrived in India, and if someone doesn’t do something about it soon, I am going to turn entrepreneur for sure.
A common phenomenon at every wedding is gift defaulters—the ones who eat, shoot and leave, and don’t bother to bring anything, because they think no one is keeping tabs. But they are wrong, because weddings are all about lists and even excel sheets (yes!), and one is taking notes. So I know what you didn’t do, cheapskate!
I decided to get into the mind of the gifter and was surprised by how many types there were:
1. There are those who play safe (I find that sensible), decide what is the amount of cash you are worth, put it in an envelope, seal it, give it, and forget about it.
2. There are those who either think cash is impersonal or are embarrassed to let you know how much they think you are worth, so they ask you what you want. Better still, they take you shopping soon after.
3. Some will ask you what you want beforehand and get you exactly the thing.. hurrah!
4. Some will angle for a house invite, so they can check out what you don’t have and give you that. Except that you have to do the work.
5. Some will ask you what you want and get something totally different and make you wonder.
6. Some compulsive gift shoppers will spend hours hunting for the one thing you might like, personally gift-wrap it, and bring it (this populace is shrinking)
7. There are those who, for months after your wedding still keep telling you, “I still have to get you your wedding present,” and not do anything about it. They will also keep throwing possibilities at you, and even if you bite, nothing happens.
8. There are those who keep blaming you for never telling them what you wanted, and hence depriving them of the privilege of giving you a present.
9. There are the cheap recyclers who recycle something old, something they got at their wedding, wrap it back, and gift it to you. The clue to this is big packages. Bigger the package, more the chances of it being recycled.
10. And finally there are those who don’t gift, and don’t care.
Since he had four times the number of invitees, he was stuck with more presents (read more ugly presents). I have already macro-analysed mine many columns ago—what took the cake were two exceedingly ugly vases (one of which the cat thankfully broke and the other has been sent to the mother’s) and some random photo-frames, toilet kits, make-up, lamp shades, crockery and tea-sets (one of which was a toy set I’m quite sure, and gifted by mistake). I really think the time for the gift registry has arrived in India, and if someone doesn’t do something about it soon, I am going to turn entrepreneur for sure.
A common phenomenon at every wedding is gift defaulters—the ones who eat, shoot and leave, and don’t bother to bring anything, because they think no one is keeping tabs. But they are wrong, because weddings are all about lists and even excel sheets (yes!), and one is taking notes. So I know what you didn’t do, cheapskate!
I decided to get into the mind of the gifter and was surprised by how many types there were:
1. There are those who play safe (I find that sensible), decide what is the amount of cash you are worth, put it in an envelope, seal it, give it, and forget about it.
2. There are those who either think cash is impersonal or are embarrassed to let you know how much they think you are worth, so they ask you what you want. Better still, they take you shopping soon after.
3. Some will ask you what you want beforehand and get you exactly the thing.. hurrah!
4. Some will angle for a house invite, so they can check out what you don’t have and give you that. Except that you have to do the work.
5. Some will ask you what you want and get something totally different and make you wonder.
6. Some compulsive gift shoppers will spend hours hunting for the one thing you might like, personally gift-wrap it, and bring it (this populace is shrinking)
7. There are those who, for months after your wedding still keep telling you, “I still have to get you your wedding present,” and not do anything about it. They will also keep throwing possibilities at you, and even if you bite, nothing happens.
8. There are those who keep blaming you for never telling them what you wanted, and hence depriving them of the privilege of giving you a present.
9. There are the cheap recyclers who recycle something old, something they got at their wedding, wrap it back, and gift it to you. The clue to this is big packages. Bigger the package, more the chances of it being recycled.
10. And finally there are those who don’t gift, and don’t care.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Yes, I can
I never make new year resolutions, as I am usually quite resolved anyway, so there’s not much to fix (how boring). But this year, I have noticed that the cat has been displaying a great sense of purpose since the turn of the year. So I wonder if it has indeed made some resolutions. When I probed her in catspeak, here is what she shared (of course some of it may be offensive to human consumption and I recommend animal guidance):
1. I will not waste precious feline time on menials like crows, pigeons and other insects that come visiting.. instead I will focus on higher forms on Discovery channel and National Geographic.
2. I will hence, demand full viewing rights of the television when my flat-mates are at work, as I need something to recharge my batteries and can’t be bothered sleeping all day (much as they imagine I do)
3. I will practise my long jumps on the woman of the house instead of the man, as she has more resilience and notices the art in my sport. I will now jump lengthwise instead of breadthwise, as she’s not very long anyway.
4. I will fully express my sexuality by devouring all the men that stop by the house, especially the blue collared ones, as they smell so delectable, and are not usually scared of me.
5. I will make the most of every outing - random car rides, visits to the vet, to the lady’s mother (who is rather kind and huggable, but has two petrified cats who are too old for my taste) and the old man who I think fancies me.
6. As soon as I attain puberty, I will yank off this collar my flat-mates have bestowed upon me, and elope with the first able suitor.
7. I will insist upon fat-free chicken and organic fish, as I have to maintain my svelte form for such a suitor.
8. All alerts of human visitors’ have to be submitted 10 cat hours in advance, with a brief biography of said human, so that I can study its aesthetic quotient and ankle-delectability.
9. In case of animal visitors, I need a video shown to me at least one cat day in advance so I can gauge the stupidity quotient of said animal and tone down my brilliance accordingly, so that they don’t feel inferior.
10. I will demand full access to the fridge and the cupboard, where I need to retreat from time to time, just to collect my thoughts.
11. The man of the house will not treat electronic gadgets as his personal property. What is life without wires?
12. I will file a petition for animal abuse against the nincompoops who blast loud speakers every night and insist on singing (sometimes orating) in their ghastly voices.
13. I will not be asked again why I go for the lady’s nose. She is rather charming, but she needs a nose job, what can I say?
14. I will not have my flat-mates talk about me like I am not in the room.
Meooow! Time for my beauty nap.
1. I will not waste precious feline time on menials like crows, pigeons and other insects that come visiting.. instead I will focus on higher forms on Discovery channel and National Geographic.
2. I will hence, demand full viewing rights of the television when my flat-mates are at work, as I need something to recharge my batteries and can’t be bothered sleeping all day (much as they imagine I do)
3. I will practise my long jumps on the woman of the house instead of the man, as she has more resilience and notices the art in my sport. I will now jump lengthwise instead of breadthwise, as she’s not very long anyway.
4. I will fully express my sexuality by devouring all the men that stop by the house, especially the blue collared ones, as they smell so delectable, and are not usually scared of me.
5. I will make the most of every outing - random car rides, visits to the vet, to the lady’s mother (who is rather kind and huggable, but has two petrified cats who are too old for my taste) and the old man who I think fancies me.
6. As soon as I attain puberty, I will yank off this collar my flat-mates have bestowed upon me, and elope with the first able suitor.
7. I will insist upon fat-free chicken and organic fish, as I have to maintain my svelte form for such a suitor.
8. All alerts of human visitors’ have to be submitted 10 cat hours in advance, with a brief biography of said human, so that I can study its aesthetic quotient and ankle-delectability.
9. In case of animal visitors, I need a video shown to me at least one cat day in advance so I can gauge the stupidity quotient of said animal and tone down my brilliance accordingly, so that they don’t feel inferior.
10. I will demand full access to the fridge and the cupboard, where I need to retreat from time to time, just to collect my thoughts.
11. The man of the house will not treat electronic gadgets as his personal property. What is life without wires?
12. I will file a petition for animal abuse against the nincompoops who blast loud speakers every night and insist on singing (sometimes orating) in their ghastly voices.
13. I will not be asked again why I go for the lady’s nose. She is rather charming, but she needs a nose job, what can I say?
14. I will not have my flat-mates talk about me like I am not in the room.
Meooow! Time for my beauty nap.
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