A life with cooking (and cakes)

Back in highschool, we used to run a little bakery business. My roommates and I (for it was a boarding school), would take orders from students, and bake cakes specific to their requests. Each cake sold for Rs. 30 (or 35 if there were fancy nuts and stuff involved) - in either case, less than a dollar. This is the entire cake, mind you, not just a slice. So you can imagine the dirty glares I give the bakers here in New York, when a small piece of brownie or slice of cake burns a hole in the pocket.

Maybe it was the fact that in those rustic days, we used to bake our cakes in a toaster oven (there was no real oven). Or maybe it was the memory of how our the toaster oven tray had sloped, so all our cakes had turned out lopsided. Most likely, I think it was the fact that baking requires a precision of measurement which is just incompatible with my 'ballpark' approach to life.

In either case, I'm not sure when it was exactly, but somewhere during my transformation from caterpillar to butterfly, I transitioned from baking to cooking.

Cooking is salubrious. Cooking is fun. And most importantly, cooking doesn't have strict guidelines. A dash of herbs, a sprinkling of seasoning, and a spot of salt is plenty specific enough for me.

Don't I miss baking, you might ask? Mostly, I just miss the cakes. Or, more accurately, I would miss the cakes. It certainly helps that there's people out there in the world (like for example my cos Dr. Livingston), who enjoy the science of baking. And have real ovens. And make cakes which are not lop-sided. And always bring some over for us.

Living life on the edge

For two days now, I'd been staring at the Reese's square lying on my desk, enticingly calling my name. I'd been trying to reason with myself. After all, did I really need a piece of chocolate to tide me through the afternoon slump? Of course not. I could - for instance - choose to eat a piece of fruit instead.

And then the devil on my shoulder replied, or you could eat both, heh heh heh.
And, let's face it, someone has to bear the mantle of holding up the Reese's company through these economic hard times.

I tried to hold off for two days. But it just sat there on my desk, beckoning louder and louder, until all I could do was focus on the chocolate. Everything else, work included, was starting to fade into the background.

So, feigning a frustrated little grunt, I picked up the choclate and started unwrapping it greedily. Slowly, delicately, savouring every moment, envisioning the chocolate-enriched moments of my life ahead. And just then one of my colleagues passed by the door.
"Hey. You know Reese's has peanut butter in it, right?"

I stopped, the chocolate held right by my mouth. The magic was broken.

"Yeah, I know, but I'm not allergic."
"No, I mean about the peanut butter recall. Didn't you see the news about the salmonella outbreak? They're recalling all this peanut butter."
My eyes almost popped out of my head. Here I was, absolutely dying to take a bite, why would anyone do this to me?! My mouth was open, only millimetres away from the chocolate. Maybe I was even drooling, I wouldnt' have known.

I looked at the chocolate. Looked at my colleage. Back at the chocolate.

"I'm going to take my chances," I said, and popped it in my mouth.

Obituary, incase that Reese's cup really is my demise:
She led a full life. There was happiness, there was love, there was chocolate.

Why eating solves everything (except when it doesn't)

We can't put me on Delta's travel privileges until I 0fficially change my name in my passport.
I can't change my name in my passport until I update my name on my green card.
Can't apply for a green card update until we've moved to the new home.
We can't move into the new home until we pass our board interview.
Need to figure out what to wear to pass this interview.
Can't think of what to wear until I eat lunch.

See - food solves everything.

Except...

Crap. Ate lunch. Very full. Now must sleep. Can't work when full.

Lupine behaviour

This weekend, Delta, Davis and I went to one of the nicest little Cuban restaurants I've ever been to. Your typical family-run establishment, just barely six tables squeezed into a tiny room, grandmum cooking in the kitchen, daughter waiting on the customers up front. When the food came, it just smelled so darn good, I dove into my plate with gusto, and left the conversation to the boys.

I hadn't even noticed how assiduously I had been ploughing through my food, until suddenly I heard a clink, and realised that my fork had made contact with empty plate. I pushed the plate away from me, and glanced up at the boys. They were barely half way through their meals.


Delta raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Boy, that was a serious plateful of rice. You just wolfed it all down."

As usual, I missed the point and got entirely sidetracked by the wrong detail. "I wonder why they say 'wolfed' it down," I mused. "I mean, there must be animals that eat much more and much faster than wolves!"

"Hmm, not sure," Delta conceded, thrown off course by my sidebar.
"Wolf it down?!" Davis interjected, "isn't the correct phrase to woof it down, I mean like a dog barking?"
"Eh?" I grunted (Delta, ever the more polite one, said "oh, really?").


I was fairly sure I was right, but inasmuch as there'd been debate, I decided to come home and do some nifty googling. And confirmed my original belief: Incase you had any doubt, dear reader, (other than this designer dog boutique), the world still seems to have consensus around using the old lupine analogy for such displays of gustatory haste.

The Belly Club

Yesterday, we had a mini-reunion of sorts. Milo, Dub, Doobie, Ilajna, Bobbs and me.

This is how it all started. I logged into my email the other day, and had a little reminder pop up - 'Dubs Bday today!' it told me. I'm mortified to say, I hadn't spoken to Dub in more than a year, in fact I didn't even know if I still had his uptodate contact information. How do we let ourselves do this to our good friends?

I took a chance anyway and dropped him an email - "happy birthday, dub" I said, knowing it would come out of the blue for him. I had a response from him less than thirty seconds later: "thanks! it's been too long, let's meet!!". I was ecstatic. Maybe we let ourselves do this to our good friends precisely because we know our relationships can weather this.

So I sent out a note to the gang - guys, want to meet up, where else could it be but Keats. It took less than a minute to get a whole bunch of replies. Yes! Absolutely! Brilliant! Can't wait! It's been so long!

And so it came to be that yesterday, we all met each other again, some of us after more than a year. I couldn't stop hugging Dub when I saw him. And I couldn't stop asking him questions - they tumbled out of me in disorderly fashion, interrupting Dub's answers as he grappled to keep pace.

Milo and Doobie looked each other up and down, having met each other after months.
"You've put on weight."
"Oh, yeah? Well on a scale of 1-10 I'd rate you a 5."
And less than 30 seconds into their reunion, they slipped right back into the feisty balance they've always taken comfort in.

There's something so touching about meeting old friends again, and I could feel my heart brimming with happiness that spilled out through the goofy smile plastered across my face.

"We have to do this more often!" someone announced.
"Let's form a club!"
I looked over at Doobs and Milo. They were still arguing over who had undergone more physical change since they last saw each other.
"I know," I stepped in, trying to mitigate their argument. "Let's call ourselves the belly club. We're a belly friendly place."
Milo made a face. "I am NOT friendly with my belly. There is going to be no belly here."

But Doobie and Mrs. Pooks were already laughing, and the name was just going to stick. And so here we are, the Belly Club, all set up with monthly catch ups and all.