Cooking up a (pudhina-omelette) storm

I have come to realise that the nicest things I whip up in my little kitchen are impulsive improvisations. This morning I made myself a phudina falvoured omelette and I am feeling quite proud about the way it tasted. It took me all of 10 minutes to put together and left me with that feeling of goodness after a nice meal. Here's how I made it. Let me know if any of you actually try it out!

What you need: (serves 1 hungry girl)
1 egg
Fresh pudhina (mint)
Half an onion, chopped
One tamato, chopped
One red chilli
Three pods of garlic
Salt and Pepper

How you make it:
The first step is to make the pudhina chutney: Lightly saute the chopped onion, tomato, chilli and garlic pods. Add in the cleaned pudhina leaves right at the end and saute that for not more than 10 seconds. You leave it any longer, it'll turn bitter. Run the mix through a blender so you have a smooth paste.

Tip: You can make the chutney and store it in your fridge for upto a week. The fresh mint tastes divine with almost anything: bread, rice, chapathi...

The second step is the omelette itself. Beat up the egg with salt and pepper. When you have a nice frothy consistency, throw in a teaspoon of the pudhina. Cook the egg in a sausepan as you would normally do to make an omelette. I like to fold in the omlet when its still runny, so the ends get stuck. This way the omelette's crispy on the outside and soft and fluffy inside.

Serve the omelette with lightly toasted bread and a cup of hot chocolate.

Bon appetit!

Reality Check?

Like most children of the 90s, I grew up on a healthy diet of Bolywood cinema. When it comes to melodrama, nobody does it quite like us. Estranged sons dying in mothers’ laps, long distance lovers united after 30 years, fish mongers turning into bomb disposal experts so they can play with fate, pet animals coming to the rescue of damsels in distress because heroes turn villains by cheating on their wives...really, few things amaze me these days as far as Indian television goes. But last evening was different.

It was a regular weekday evening. My roommate (let’s call her T) and I were having a cold meal as we mindlessly switched between the evening news and Junior Master Chef. As to why we faithfully watch a cookery show involving 10 year olds each evening is anyone’s guess. I suppose we are fascinated by these children who talk texture and flavour, while we barely get past making a somewhat passable meal of rice, poriyal and curds. But I digress. At some point T switches to Colors which broadcasts Bigg Boss on prime time. We laugh over the concept of the reality show, while graciously acknowledging that it takes a fair amount of resilience to be holed up in a house that looks more like a high end furniture store, with a bunch of conniving roommates who have all day to plot your exit from the show. That house is nothing short of a devil’s workshop.

I don’t follow the show, so I am not sure as to why the scene changed from the house-that-looks-like-a-furniture-store to this little hut with only three people in it. But let’s cut them some slack and move on with what happens next. There is a knock on the door and the three inmates-one lady and two men get ready to welcome a new person into their ‘home’.  Standing at door is this small woman very obviously a victim of dwarfism.  But somehow, what was obvious to me despite my drifting attention span was not clear to the three inmates. They greet her with much enthusiasm, except that it’s the kind of excitement that most of us show when a little child enters the room. The lady proceeds to give the new inmate a hug, pecks her on the cheek and chatters away in baby-talk, all the while believing that it is indeed a child. The group soon finds out that the ‘child’ is in fact 19 years old and holds a record in the Guinness Book for being the smallest 19-year-old in the world. After understanding that the lady has a health condition which has resulted in her short stature, one would expect that the three inmates would treat her as an adult must be treated. Not on this show! The lady picks up the ‘child’, continues to baby-talk as she shows her around the house. Mid-way through this drama, the lady breaks down in a wave of sympathy for the ‘child’.

By this time I am very uncomfortable. But for some strange reason, we continue watching, flabbergasted. Perhaps this is exactly what Aristotle referred to as the cathartic effect of drama. But that was Greek tragedy. This is trash that goes under the garb of reality TV. 

Many years ago I had the chance to work on a video about differently-abled people. I was an undergraduate student at that point and it was something of a coming-of-age experience for me to interact with people who live with pride and dignity despite their disability and fight each day to be included in every aspect of life. During the assignment I spoke to an inspiring young man who was suffering from cerebral palsy. He was studying to be lawyer and dreamt of eventually impacting India’s disability legislation. Over a casual chat, he spoke to me about why he did not approve of Mani Rathnam’s Anjali, which was quite a land mark movie in its time. He found the movie unacceptable because the protagonist, who suffers from a mental disability, is portrayed as a rather good looking child, like any other ‘normal’ baby, whereas in reality a child with Anjali’s condition would indeed look very different. “It made me feel like we are ugly...so ugly that we cannot be accepted for what we are, the way we look.” His statement bothers me till today. I wonder what he would have to say about Bigg Boss. Is this real enough? Perhaps so real as to strip off of all sense and sensibility that one exercises while dealing with people, disabled or otherwise. Actually, I hope he didn’t get to see this episode of Bigg Boss. He would have realised that amidst TRP ratings, starlets who want their 15 minutes and the janatha that watches on, his dream of being included and accepted is a distant one.

Thankfully the commercials come on, breaking the spell. “Change the channel T, this is weirding me out.” After a moment’s pause, she changes back to Junior Master Chef. We watch on, quietly letting Bigg Boss and its star cast slip out of our minds.

 

Live a little...or as much as you can!

This evening I walked into the friendly neighbourhood hair salon for a what is called a hair spa. I have terrible hair. The kind that's always inviting polite enquiries such as "you're hair is difficult to manage no?" or "why don't you straighten it?". My hair has a mind of its own. And yet, I stubbornly refuse to take more extreme or permanent measures to tame it. I think in the twisted scheme of things I actually feel challenged each morning. Most often my messy hair wins the battle by staying messy. Ocassionally I score a point and manage to get to work with hair that's (somewhat) neatly pulled back into a pony tail...a thing that most other women seem to manage with effortless ease. Sometimes, I decide to cheat and get a hair spa. I feel almost gleeful when I step out of the salon with hair that cascades down to my shoulders.

But I digress. This post is not about my hair. It's really about what happened at the salon today. I am mildly scandalised that a male hair stylist has been assigned to do my hair. A hair spa involves some degree of massaging the head, neck and shoulders. In keeping with the Indian taboo against physical contact with the opposite sex, this is normally done by women for other women and presumably by men for other men. (aside: I would be very surprised to know that men indulge in hair spas.) But I decide not to be a prude and don't protest as the young hair stylist (very professionally, I may add) begins to wash and condition my hair.

We are mid way through the procedure and there's a bit of delightful chatter in the background from a small group of women who seem to be getting dressed for a wedding reception. I listen in to their conversation about red nail polish and tan coloured compact. I slyly sneak a peek as one of them deftly creates the smoky look with a a bit of blue liner and mascara. Suddenly one of them chimes in about how women need to spend so much more time to get dressed and look good. Men on the other hand only need to shave and dab on a bit of cologne to be all set for the evening.

I try getting my thoughts together on that observation, as I watch for a reaction from my stylist, who seems unfazed. In the meanwhile a senior lady stylist in the room suggests that God made women with much more care and hence the need for additional effort to look good. Men on the other hand were made in a hurry and therefore need only a shave and colgne. She also politely adds that the lady must not grudge the additional time she spends on herself. I am amused and stumped all at once by the stylist's quick repartee which captured her thoughts and threw in a bit of advice for her customer.

The lady however seems a little offended. She launches into a long story about how her six-year old son is alone at the wedding hall. She is hassled about being away from him for a few hours.

I am not going to pretend like I know what it is to be married and a mother. I am aware that I carry with me the arrogance of being single and footlose. But the disclaimer apart, I think the ocassional guilt-free indulgence on yourself is perfectly acceptable, perhaps even healthy. Do it for yourself; not because you need to look good for a wedding reception. And seriously, your kid is probably happier running about by himself.

I tune out the chatter and my stylist works his fingers into my scalp. My face pulls into a content smile as I think about my hair cascading down my shoulders. Today I win.