Okay, we all know this. Men suck at directions. And if they do read maps, like Allan Pease would like to claim, it’s probably because it gives them a prop, something to clutch onto, look busy, so we don’t load them with more things to do. It’s never about getting us to a certain place in the most optimum way. Why, then, are we still reading the book Why men don’t listen and women can’t read maps?. It just doesn’t make sense. We are the map, we are the directions, we are everything.
Last week was a first of sorts. The first time, in my three years of working for this newspaper that four women got together to chat about their men. It surprised me no end how our stories were similar. We had the same peeves:
Our men had too much stuff they weren’t willing to give away.
Our men were lousy at directions. Mine knew the way to things from Phoenix mills, or at best, Zenzi and another colleague’s, from Basilico.
Our men loved drivers, because it absolved them from the task of finding anything. Anywhere.
Our men had to get to somewhere familiar to head to somewhere unfamiliar. Never mind if it was a geographical absurdity. Like say, going to Croma to go to Del Italia.
Our men hadn’t read a map in years.
The husband has a deep inertia towards relocation, and I know by now that it has nothing to do with getting adjusted to a new place, the fact that he is Cancerian, or is it about moving from South Bombay (or wherever Lower Parel fits) to North Bombay. Yes, it is partly about finding a shop that can deliver beer, bread, and cigarettes, without batting an eyelid or pointing out that he was asking for too much. But it’s more about how he would have to find new nuclei to cling to.
He finally has. He can find his way to Croma and Landmark, and everything else stems from there. But every once in a while, I throw him a googly and take a road quiz. “Okay, we have to go to Four bungalows market and straight down from there.”
Blank face.
“Remember Indigo Cafe?”
Happy face.
Last weekend, we were invited to a dinner at Yari Road, a place that, for some reason intimidates the husband, almost giving him the feeling of being extradited. To top it all, I said I wanted to head on my own with the infant, since I didn’t want to wait indefinitely for him till he returned from work.
“I can draw you a map,” I said.
He winced.
There we go again, I thought. I waited. He swung by home with amazing precision of timing, simply because he was petrified of doing the trudge on his own.
But then, nothing has changed for me, really.Visions of my dad leaving us stranded at a railway station while he went to buy smokes and the train was ready for departure at another platform flash by. So do that of my brother driving us into the Canadian border, while showing me the Niagara falls, just as I landed in the United States, 10 years ago. During the ensuing one-hour interrogation by customs authorities as to how I could lose my way into another country, I stayed mum.
Allan Pease should be sued, I thought to myself.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Sex, Lies and Videotape
It takes an incredibly stupid woman for a husband to have an affair outside of marriage. It takes an even more stupid woman for a husband to have nine of them. But it takes an ‘other woman’ of outstanding stupidity to think that such an affair is about love.
As Tiger Woods’ mistresses emerge from the woodworks (nine and counting), it makes me wonder, “What was the wife thinking?”
The only multi-tasking men can manage with some panache is watching television while eating their dinners. That too, because they don’t necessarily think the two tasks are inseparable. So for a woman not to know what her husband is up to when he is not with her, it takes an amazing lack of talent and intelligence, to say the least.
Woods’ recent car crash has inadvertently opened a can of mistresses, text messages, photos, video footage, voicemails, the works! How he managed his affairs, that too, with nine different women while being married, is a page many men are dying to rip off from his book — the way it’s been discussed, it’s keeping him more in the news than his golf ever did.
One married male friend turned a Facebook fan of Woods post his recent expose, and states in his status message, “All married men should be fans of Tiger Woods. The alleged mistress is super hot.”
“Come on Tiger!” said another status message.
A third one said, “Three down. How many more mistresses to go?”
It’s like the men are living vicariously through Woods and making mental notes about, “I should ask him how he did it..”
Apparently what kept the mistresses quiet was confessions of love, the media reports. Duh?
When Bollywood was abuzz with Hrithik Roshan’s alleged affair with Barbara Mori, it evoked similar reactions from men in my universe. “Hmm… she is hot…” (The statement was accompanied by a faraway look on their faces)
Yes, but you are not, moron.
We all know women who are at the giving or receiving end of such affairs. Someone I know had an affair with a married sugar daddy for eight years, and at the end of it was left with the realization that ‘he wasn’t really into marriage and kids’ and ‘we wanted different things’. Of course, you dodo!
Her professional life, on the other hand, was catapulted by the sugar-daddy connection, which is perhaps what will happen to the Woods line-up.
But there are enough gorgeous women out there entangled with talent-less, spineless, charisma-less men in so-called ‘love-less’ marriages, only hoping that they would leave their wives. Unfortunately there is no reward for ratting them out, like the waitress who was offered $ one million to stay mum. Or the wife who was offered $18 million to the wife to stay.
Methinks Woods’ wife would have the millions in her account, whatever happened with her marriage. So it’s not about ‘rolling in the dough,’ as some men would point out as her reason for staying in the marriage.
But it made me realise one thing. Marriage, even to tigers, is a big deal.
As Tiger Woods’ mistresses emerge from the woodworks (nine and counting), it makes me wonder, “What was the wife thinking?”
The only multi-tasking men can manage with some panache is watching television while eating their dinners. That too, because they don’t necessarily think the two tasks are inseparable. So for a woman not to know what her husband is up to when he is not with her, it takes an amazing lack of talent and intelligence, to say the least.
Woods’ recent car crash has inadvertently opened a can of mistresses, text messages, photos, video footage, voicemails, the works! How he managed his affairs, that too, with nine different women while being married, is a page many men are dying to rip off from his book — the way it’s been discussed, it’s keeping him more in the news than his golf ever did.
One married male friend turned a Facebook fan of Woods post his recent expose, and states in his status message, “All married men should be fans of Tiger Woods. The alleged mistress is super hot.”
“Come on Tiger!” said another status message.
A third one said, “Three down. How many more mistresses to go?”
It’s like the men are living vicariously through Woods and making mental notes about, “I should ask him how he did it..”
Apparently what kept the mistresses quiet was confessions of love, the media reports. Duh?
When Bollywood was abuzz with Hrithik Roshan’s alleged affair with Barbara Mori, it evoked similar reactions from men in my universe. “Hmm… she is hot…” (The statement was accompanied by a faraway look on their faces)
Yes, but you are not, moron.
We all know women who are at the giving or receiving end of such affairs. Someone I know had an affair with a married sugar daddy for eight years, and at the end of it was left with the realization that ‘he wasn’t really into marriage and kids’ and ‘we wanted different things’. Of course, you dodo!
Her professional life, on the other hand, was catapulted by the sugar-daddy connection, which is perhaps what will happen to the Woods line-up.
But there are enough gorgeous women out there entangled with talent-less, spineless, charisma-less men in so-called ‘love-less’ marriages, only hoping that they would leave their wives. Unfortunately there is no reward for ratting them out, like the waitress who was offered $ one million to stay mum. Or the wife who was offered $18 million to the wife to stay.
Methinks Woods’ wife would have the millions in her account, whatever happened with her marriage. So it’s not about ‘rolling in the dough,’ as some men would point out as her reason for staying in the marriage.
But it made me realise one thing. Marriage, even to tigers, is a big deal.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Pretty Woman
The husband’s sister (I have decided that I find the in-law word a bit regressive) was in town last week. She is successful, attractive, mother of two and very ‘in control’ for the most part. When she stepped out of the airport, in the true spirit of the NRI who usually pays an arm for beauty treatments back home, she began fixing salon appointments to spruce up for her upcoming company retreat.
“You know how these young 20-something associates give you the ‘lookover’. They are forever checking you out and whispering — how you shouldn’t really be wearing something so tight or so short, how you have flesh where you shouldn’t have — you really can’t afford to take chances. You really got to keep up.”
I couldn’t imagine someone like her being threatened by a 20-something or even giving a fig about what they think. But she was, and she did.
I felt like telling her she should peep into the mind of the 20-something, may be then she would never want to trade places with one — size zero, great mane, hot boy friend notwithstanding. Because her mind would be a cesspool of burgeoning insecurities, such as, ‘Is he really into me?’, or ‘Is that a frown line?’ or ‘Should I eat dinner or skip it?’
I grew up thinking that my little sister was the one with the looks. Chiseled features, great cheekbones, dark, curly cascading hair, clear skin, gorgeous dimples and perhaps one of the few noses I have seen that can do justice to a nose-pin. But tell her she is looking good on any given day and she’ll go, “May be because I’ve just washed my hair,” or, “May be it’s the colour of my kurta,” or some such statement that reeks of modesty.
When I posted a “Your hair looks great!” on a friend’s Facebook album, she immediately replied, “It only looks good in pictures!”
A few weeks ago, I ran into a 30-something who was plotting to wangle a proposal from her 20-something boyfriend. Apparently she said to him, “The more you make me wait, the more plastic surgery you will have to pay for.” I figured her self-esteem totally depended on her manufactured looks. But how secure can a relationship that functioned on such a gradient be?
It made me wonder why women are so insecure about the way they look, however perfect they might seem to the eye of the beholder.
Over to me. It took me half my (expected) lifetime to come to terms with my looks. Till that happened, it was always about, “My hair is too thick/too curly, my arms are too thin, my nose is too wide or my skin has too many blemishes or my boobs are too small.”
Till one day, when I finally realised I was gorgeous (although nothing had really changed) and then there was no stopping me. Now I get by, completely unthreatened by the 20-somethings, totally celebrating the ‘me’ I found. And then it struck me. The day you think you are hot, you truly are.
“You know how these young 20-something associates give you the ‘lookover’. They are forever checking you out and whispering — how you shouldn’t really be wearing something so tight or so short, how you have flesh where you shouldn’t have — you really can’t afford to take chances. You really got to keep up.”
I couldn’t imagine someone like her being threatened by a 20-something or even giving a fig about what they think. But she was, and she did.
I felt like telling her she should peep into the mind of the 20-something, may be then she would never want to trade places with one — size zero, great mane, hot boy friend notwithstanding. Because her mind would be a cesspool of burgeoning insecurities, such as, ‘Is he really into me?’, or ‘Is that a frown line?’ or ‘Should I eat dinner or skip it?’
I grew up thinking that my little sister was the one with the looks. Chiseled features, great cheekbones, dark, curly cascading hair, clear skin, gorgeous dimples and perhaps one of the few noses I have seen that can do justice to a nose-pin. But tell her she is looking good on any given day and she’ll go, “May be because I’ve just washed my hair,” or, “May be it’s the colour of my kurta,” or some such statement that reeks of modesty.
When I posted a “Your hair looks great!” on a friend’s Facebook album, she immediately replied, “It only looks good in pictures!”
A few weeks ago, I ran into a 30-something who was plotting to wangle a proposal from her 20-something boyfriend. Apparently she said to him, “The more you make me wait, the more plastic surgery you will have to pay for.” I figured her self-esteem totally depended on her manufactured looks. But how secure can a relationship that functioned on such a gradient be?
It made me wonder why women are so insecure about the way they look, however perfect they might seem to the eye of the beholder.
Over to me. It took me half my (expected) lifetime to come to terms with my looks. Till that happened, it was always about, “My hair is too thick/too curly, my arms are too thin, my nose is too wide or my skin has too many blemishes or my boobs are too small.”
Till one day, when I finally realised I was gorgeous (although nothing had really changed) and then there was no stopping me. Now I get by, completely unthreatened by the 20-somethings, totally celebrating the ‘me’ I found. And then it struck me. The day you think you are hot, you truly are.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Three colours: Red, Yellow, Green
Back in the days when I was sleepwalking through my career in an advertising agency, my visualiser friend drew a caricature of me post my Fido Dido haircut. I looked at it and shrieked! “Ouch.. my nose looks like a capsicum!” I cried. “Didn’t you know that?” said Paddu, my only buddy in that maze. That was it. My big fat capsicum nose—my great inheritance from my dad, apart from the tropical forest of a mane, was immortalized.
Since then, capsicum and me always had a special relationship. As I grew older, may be I grew into my nose, so life was more about the capsicum and less about the nose.
Well cooked, grilled or raw, peppers (as they are more stylishly known) work well any which way, unlike most salad-based vegetables— that’s what sets them apart. A friend of mine who incidentally hates cooking taught me this delectable red and yellow pepper infused dip that makes the most ordinary slice of bread transform into a thing of exotica. The fact that she could make it made me realise that it’s not easy to screw up a capsicum, unless you are deplorable. And if you go wrong with good old aloo simla, you may as well kill yourself— the natural chemistry between the two will always come in the way of your bad cooking.
Simla mirchi (in desi lingo) is also one that ups the sexiness quotient of almost any subzi, or tandoor platter (yes, the vegetarians have a humble paneer-capsicum equivalent). While its red and yellow brethren come quick to the rescue to jazz up a salad, tomato-based pasta or just a stir-fry.
I have never understood why the red and yellow ones come gift-wrapped and cost a bomb compared to the green ones (is it possible they have more flavonoids or anti-oxidants? Must check). Personally, they work the same, although the green ones are more piquant and the red and yellow ones make it look like you truly are bringing out your best veggies for your guest.
Whatever your colour, any time is a good time for peppers. Enjoy!
Pepper dip
An ode to the lazy and fabulous.. lasts a week and all you need is anything to mop it up—bread works well.
Ingredients:
One red pepper
One yellow pepper
4-5 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
one teaspoon roasted sesame seeds
olive oil
balsamic vinegar (or soya sauce)
salt to taste
method:
On an open flame, grill the red and yellow peppers till the skin turns charcoal black and can be peeled off easily. Cool and set aside.
Peel the peppers, and slit them vertically, scooping out the seeds. Slice into thin strips.
Put the pepper strips into a glass or ceramic bowl, and add the roasted sesame and roasted chopped garlic. Douse liberally with olive oil, and then round off with a drop of balsamic vinegar (you can also use soya sauce) and mix well, adding salt to taste.
Use this as a dip for bread or layer it on a baguette or toast, or lavash, adding olives, lettuce or whatever you fancy.
Since then, capsicum and me always had a special relationship. As I grew older, may be I grew into my nose, so life was more about the capsicum and less about the nose.
Well cooked, grilled or raw, peppers (as they are more stylishly known) work well any which way, unlike most salad-based vegetables— that’s what sets them apart. A friend of mine who incidentally hates cooking taught me this delectable red and yellow pepper infused dip that makes the most ordinary slice of bread transform into a thing of exotica. The fact that she could make it made me realise that it’s not easy to screw up a capsicum, unless you are deplorable. And if you go wrong with good old aloo simla, you may as well kill yourself— the natural chemistry between the two will always come in the way of your bad cooking.
Simla mirchi (in desi lingo) is also one that ups the sexiness quotient of almost any subzi, or tandoor platter (yes, the vegetarians have a humble paneer-capsicum equivalent). While its red and yellow brethren come quick to the rescue to jazz up a salad, tomato-based pasta or just a stir-fry.
I have never understood why the red and yellow ones come gift-wrapped and cost a bomb compared to the green ones (is it possible they have more flavonoids or anti-oxidants? Must check). Personally, they work the same, although the green ones are more piquant and the red and yellow ones make it look like you truly are bringing out your best veggies for your guest.
Whatever your colour, any time is a good time for peppers. Enjoy!
Pepper dip
An ode to the lazy and fabulous.. lasts a week and all you need is anything to mop it up—bread works well.
Ingredients:
One red pepper
One yellow pepper
4-5 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
one teaspoon roasted sesame seeds
olive oil
balsamic vinegar (or soya sauce)
salt to taste
method:
On an open flame, grill the red and yellow peppers till the skin turns charcoal black and can be peeled off easily. Cool and set aside.
Peel the peppers, and slit them vertically, scooping out the seeds. Slice into thin strips.
Put the pepper strips into a glass or ceramic bowl, and add the roasted sesame and roasted chopped garlic. Douse liberally with olive oil, and then round off with a drop of balsamic vinegar (you can also use soya sauce) and mix well, adding salt to taste.
Use this as a dip for bread or layer it on a baguette or toast, or lavash, adding olives, lettuce or whatever you fancy.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Big deal
A dear friend has declared she is out in the market. She is attractive, successful, well-travelled, articulate, funny, reads poetry, has great taste, has a great cook, and is a great human being.
Now, why would anyone want to ruin a perfectly good life like that, I wonder. She reasons that she doesn’t want to feel like she didn’t try. So she is on a dotcom hunt for a suitable man. She reasons she deserves a good shot at finding Mr Big, after having been with a few not-so-good insignificants. She recently met a Not-so-big in this scenario, but something’s telling her to hang on. There just might be a Mr Big lurking around somewhere, she thinks. As for the candidate in question, she was his Big, a scenario though flattering, isn’t exactly the optimum one.
We all want to be with men who will sweep us off our feet, know jazz and wine, fill a room, cook us a great meal occasionally, have out-of-the-box travel ideas, are capable of being angry and sad, kill us with their voice, and be just the right level of romantic (more about levels in another column). And of course be successful, suave and desirable. In short, we are looking for the great Indian oxymoron.
I don’t know anyone who has found their Big. Yes, they might have been in trying relationships with him, or they are yet to meet him, but most of the women I know have ended up with Not-so-big, and are still in a good place. This is not to say that my friend should settle for less, but may be just continue with the greatest love affair of her life — the one with herself. When that happens (and it often takes a while), the Bigs get drawn to you like magnets.
But if I take a quick roll call of the singletons in my life, the number of interesting women far outweighs the number of interesting men. And yes, men might feel that’s unfair, but take a piece of paper and list five interesting single men and women you know, and write to me. We’ll do the math.
My paradigm for an interesting woman is—if I were a man, would I date her? If the answer is yes, she goes into the list.
The basic difference between men and women, or at least the men and women I know, is that women make the most of waiting for Big. They get makeovers, they work on their look, they straighten or curl their hair (depending on what they have), they travel, they trek, they go on spiritual journeys or look for inner peace, they change careers, go wine tasting, they learn salsa and belly dance and capoeira.
Men whine. They whine that they have no interesting women to take spiritual journeys or salsa or capoeira with. They whine that there are no muses to dress up for. Basically what they want is to be rehabilitated, and they hope that they can be their slouchy selves and someone will just come and whisk them away.
In the meanwhile, they can continue their torrid affairs with their large-screen televisions.
Now, why would anyone want to ruin a perfectly good life like that, I wonder. She reasons that she doesn’t want to feel like she didn’t try. So she is on a dotcom hunt for a suitable man. She reasons she deserves a good shot at finding Mr Big, after having been with a few not-so-good insignificants. She recently met a Not-so-big in this scenario, but something’s telling her to hang on. There just might be a Mr Big lurking around somewhere, she thinks. As for the candidate in question, she was his Big, a scenario though flattering, isn’t exactly the optimum one.
We all want to be with men who will sweep us off our feet, know jazz and wine, fill a room, cook us a great meal occasionally, have out-of-the-box travel ideas, are capable of being angry and sad, kill us with their voice, and be just the right level of romantic (more about levels in another column). And of course be successful, suave and desirable. In short, we are looking for the great Indian oxymoron.
I don’t know anyone who has found their Big. Yes, they might have been in trying relationships with him, or they are yet to meet him, but most of the women I know have ended up with Not-so-big, and are still in a good place. This is not to say that my friend should settle for less, but may be just continue with the greatest love affair of her life — the one with herself. When that happens (and it often takes a while), the Bigs get drawn to you like magnets.
But if I take a quick roll call of the singletons in my life, the number of interesting women far outweighs the number of interesting men. And yes, men might feel that’s unfair, but take a piece of paper and list five interesting single men and women you know, and write to me. We’ll do the math.
My paradigm for an interesting woman is—if I were a man, would I date her? If the answer is yes, she goes into the list.
The basic difference between men and women, or at least the men and women I know, is that women make the most of waiting for Big. They get makeovers, they work on their look, they straighten or curl their hair (depending on what they have), they travel, they trek, they go on spiritual journeys or look for inner peace, they change careers, go wine tasting, they learn salsa and belly dance and capoeira.
Men whine. They whine that they have no interesting women to take spiritual journeys or salsa or capoeira with. They whine that there are no muses to dress up for. Basically what they want is to be rehabilitated, and they hope that they can be their slouchy selves and someone will just come and whisk them away.
In the meanwhile, they can continue their torrid affairs with their large-screen televisions.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Stubble trouble
I am allergic to press releases, or anything that shouts, “I am a press release”, which makes for 99.9 % of press releases. What also gets my capillaries bursting is calls from PR companies that start with, “I wanted to talk to you regarding my client XYZ ….who will be …..” Or this one: “We have sent you an invite for the launch of ___(random product or event) on ___ at ____which will be attended by ___ (list of random C-list celebrities). Will you be coming?”
Of course I won’t be coming. I have a life. I mean, give me a break. The least you can do is come up with a better opening line. But I guess lazy journalists will take anything that comes their way, which means PR companies will never go out of business — it’s a symbiotic relationship.
At the start of my career as an advertising copywriter, there was the era of the un-ad ad. There were a whole bunch of creative directors who constantly reminded us that the reader unfolds the paper to read news and features, not ads. Our competition therefore, was editorial content, not other ads. That was the honeymoon period for copywriters who dug body copy, like I did. Then the television boom happened and everything was about 30-second quickies. There was no room for print, and if at all, it was about, “We have to do a 100 cc ad. It has to include the client’s bio-data, his ex-wife’s photo, his dog’s name somewhere in the copy, his mission statement, his brother’s company’s logo and baseline and….”
I quit. I became a journalist.
Some days ago, I received this in my inbox. I would have blindly deleted it, just as I do every press release I routinely get, when the subject line made me stop for a second. It said ‘W.A.L.S: Women Against Lazy Stubble’, and I figured it could work as fodder for my column. (No prizes for guessing it was from a shaving products company). Now, forget the fact that I like my men with a bit of stubble and I am the one always asking the husband to go easy on the buzzing; it’s well, just more textural and if you may, alpha male. It briefly read:
For centuries women have spent hours grooming themselves to please men but that is changing. Women are now taking a strong stand against LAZY MEN AND THEIR LAZY STUBBLE. W.A.L.S is a movement that brings together all like-minded women who believe that it is about time men made a little effort to groom themselves and sport a cleaner and more confident look. Why should only the women make that effort? The founders of this movement are a group of young women who believe that EQUALITY should exist in all walks of life – including self-hygiene and grooming.
It went on..
“We would invite celebrities like Malaika Arora, Neha Dhupia and Mugdha Godse to be a part of an EXCLUSIVE story with your publication, where they can share their thoughts on topics such as….. and instances in their life where stubble proved to be trouble (with friends, husband, father, brother boyfriend, etc.)
I do hope there is an era of the un-press release press release. Meanwhile I can offer my services to PR companies looking to write them.
Of course I won’t be coming. I have a life. I mean, give me a break. The least you can do is come up with a better opening line. But I guess lazy journalists will take anything that comes their way, which means PR companies will never go out of business — it’s a symbiotic relationship.
At the start of my career as an advertising copywriter, there was the era of the un-ad ad. There were a whole bunch of creative directors who constantly reminded us that the reader unfolds the paper to read news and features, not ads. Our competition therefore, was editorial content, not other ads. That was the honeymoon period for copywriters who dug body copy, like I did. Then the television boom happened and everything was about 30-second quickies. There was no room for print, and if at all, it was about, “We have to do a 100 cc ad. It has to include the client’s bio-data, his ex-wife’s photo, his dog’s name somewhere in the copy, his mission statement, his brother’s company’s logo and baseline and….”
I quit. I became a journalist.
Some days ago, I received this in my inbox. I would have blindly deleted it, just as I do every press release I routinely get, when the subject line made me stop for a second. It said ‘W.A.L.S: Women Against Lazy Stubble’, and I figured it could work as fodder for my column. (No prizes for guessing it was from a shaving products company). Now, forget the fact that I like my men with a bit of stubble and I am the one always asking the husband to go easy on the buzzing; it’s well, just more textural and if you may, alpha male. It briefly read:
For centuries women have spent hours grooming themselves to please men but that is changing. Women are now taking a strong stand against LAZY MEN AND THEIR LAZY STUBBLE. W.A.L.S is a movement that brings together all like-minded women who believe that it is about time men made a little effort to groom themselves and sport a cleaner and more confident look. Why should only the women make that effort? The founders of this movement are a group of young women who believe that EQUALITY should exist in all walks of life – including self-hygiene and grooming.
It went on..
“We would invite celebrities like Malaika Arora, Neha Dhupia and Mugdha Godse to be a part of an EXCLUSIVE story with your publication, where they can share their thoughts on topics such as….. and instances in their life where stubble proved to be trouble (with friends, husband, father, brother boyfriend, etc.)
I do hope there is an era of the un-press release press release. Meanwhile I can offer my services to PR companies looking to write them.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Lady killer
In the days of yore, one of the pre-tests to tell an instinctive cook from a laboured one was to see how one handled okras (lady fingers in common parlance, bhindi in more endearing ones). If you were the kind of person who chopped them and then washed them, out you went, scoring zero on ten. If you, on the other hand, rinsed the bhindis, laid them out on newspaper sheets, and gently dried then, nudging collective contact with the paper, you scored 7 on 10. And if you, like the more fastidious but rare breed, dried them one at a time with a kitchen roll, you scored a perfect ten.
Whatever the case, the mucilage is the bane of the bhindi’s existence…or its redemption, depending on how you look at it. For instance, while volunteering at WSD, boiled bhindi was commonly added to dog food and mashed, for those canines suffering from constipation—it always worked, even closer home for my cats.
One of the things I like about bhindi (apart from the fact that it is one of two vegetables that the husband likes) is the fact that they remind me of real people—they are thin, fat, tall, short, fair, dark, happy, grumpy, and seem to have faces… and their hexagonal contours seem to have an attitude of their own. Remember how in the craft class, the closest resemblance to people in a vegetable skit was Mr. Ladyfinger?
They always talk to me. Depending on their shape or size, they seem to say, okay, I have gotten a little corpulent here, so make sure you camouflage me well. Or, I am so tender and green, so please do as little as you can to me.
Personally, I like them thin and wiry, as I like my men. Also, like I hate disfiguring a perfectly good lady finger, I also like to eat them as whole as I can. So the traditional bhindi subzi doesn’t quite work for me, although being the seasoned Tam bram that I am, Vendakkai Pachadi is something I wish I had inherited from the parents. All my mother handed me down was a quickie yoghurt variant of it, which works pretty well, although the tamarind version is to be inhaled to be believed.
Bhindi raita (courtesy the mother)
Ingredients
Bhindi: 200 gm
Ginger, a medium sized piece, julienned
Jeera powder
Hing
Rai
Green chillies; 2, juliennned
METHOD:
Wash and dry bhindis. Chop them really thin and set aside.
In a non-stick pan, heat a tablespoon of oil, add rai, allow to splutter, and then a pinch of hing, and then the ginger and chilly juliennes and mix well.
Add the bhindi to this, salt to taste, and fry well on a low flame will crisp. Cool. Set aside.
In a bowl, whisk 250 gm of dahi to smoothen lumps, and add the fried bhindi mixture to it. Serve immediately as an accompaniment to rice or rotis.
Bhindi aloo with garlic (courtesy Manish, my sindhi foodie colleague)
2 large potatoes, sliced vertically
Bhindi : 200 gm, cut into 2inch pieces and then slit vertically
Garlic : 6-7 cloves
Green chillies: 2-3
Salt to taste
Method:
Peel the garlic cloves and slice the chillies and crush them with a bit of salt using a mortar pestle
Heat some oil in a pan and add the chilly garlic mixture, and then add the bhindis and aloo, salt to taste, mix well
Cook on a slow flame, stirring occasionally till well done.
Serve hot with chapatis or dal-chaval
Whatever the case, the mucilage is the bane of the bhindi’s existence…or its redemption, depending on how you look at it. For instance, while volunteering at WSD, boiled bhindi was commonly added to dog food and mashed, for those canines suffering from constipation—it always worked, even closer home for my cats.
One of the things I like about bhindi (apart from the fact that it is one of two vegetables that the husband likes) is the fact that they remind me of real people—they are thin, fat, tall, short, fair, dark, happy, grumpy, and seem to have faces… and their hexagonal contours seem to have an attitude of their own. Remember how in the craft class, the closest resemblance to people in a vegetable skit was Mr. Ladyfinger?
They always talk to me. Depending on their shape or size, they seem to say, okay, I have gotten a little corpulent here, so make sure you camouflage me well. Or, I am so tender and green, so please do as little as you can to me.
Personally, I like them thin and wiry, as I like my men. Also, like I hate disfiguring a perfectly good lady finger, I also like to eat them as whole as I can. So the traditional bhindi subzi doesn’t quite work for me, although being the seasoned Tam bram that I am, Vendakkai Pachadi is something I wish I had inherited from the parents. All my mother handed me down was a quickie yoghurt variant of it, which works pretty well, although the tamarind version is to be inhaled to be believed.
Bhindi raita (courtesy the mother)
Ingredients
Bhindi: 200 gm
Ginger, a medium sized piece, julienned
Jeera powder
Hing
Rai
Green chillies; 2, juliennned
METHOD:
Wash and dry bhindis. Chop them really thin and set aside.
In a non-stick pan, heat a tablespoon of oil, add rai, allow to splutter, and then a pinch of hing, and then the ginger and chilly juliennes and mix well.
Add the bhindi to this, salt to taste, and fry well on a low flame will crisp. Cool. Set aside.
In a bowl, whisk 250 gm of dahi to smoothen lumps, and add the fried bhindi mixture to it. Serve immediately as an accompaniment to rice or rotis.
Bhindi aloo with garlic (courtesy Manish, my sindhi foodie colleague)
2 large potatoes, sliced vertically
Bhindi : 200 gm, cut into 2inch pieces and then slit vertically
Garlic : 6-7 cloves
Green chillies: 2-3
Salt to taste
Method:
Peel the garlic cloves and slice the chillies and crush them with a bit of salt using a mortar pestle
Heat some oil in a pan and add the chilly garlic mixture, and then add the bhindis and aloo, salt to taste, mix well
Cook on a slow flame, stirring occasionally till well done.
Serve hot with chapatis or dal-chaval
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