What’s not to love about Chinese food, right? The heat, the spice, that divine fragrance of fried garlic and ginger, the chopsticks (which I still frequently stumble and fail to use with any sort of finesse or elegance), those adorable little white cardboard take-away containers; love at first bite, I tell you! But there’s bad news, babies…we’ve all been duped.
Now why on earth would I say such a horrible thing?
Well, because Chinese food, at least as most of us know it, is so far from the real deal, it’s hard not to feel a little disillusioned.
See, believe it or not, trying to order off a typical (read: traditional) menu in China means you’ll probably be hard-pressed to find familiar favorites like Chicken Manchurian, Sweet & Sour Prawns, or even a simple American Chop Suey. That’s because most of these dishes didn’t originate in China at all. Instead, they’re the love-children of local culinary influences on the global Chinese diaspora.
So what should you know about eating authentic Chinese cuisine?
Well, first and foremost, it’s all about location, location, location. The kind of food you’ll find varies vastly from region to region in China and it can leave the uninitiated’s head spinning. Sichuan, Hunan, Cantonese; the list goes on and the options are incredible and endless, but they do have one thing in common — while the locavore movement might have only recently started regaining traction in the western world, in China “eating local” is centuries old tradition and plain common sense. That means everything from the climate, to the availability of ingredients, and of course, local preferences determines what could end up on your plate.
Take Zhejiang cuisine, for example, which is native to sea-facing eastern China, and you’ll find it heavily features both fresh-water and salt-water fish, prawns, crabs, lobster, squid, octopus, and all sorts of other underwater delicacies, often live and on display in large tanks at many restaurants. That’s right! You can pick your prey and request the chef to cook it to order, guaranteeing fabulous custom culinary delights at their absolute freshest and finest.
By the way, while a lot of Chinese food is simple fare — think soft steamed dumplings and plenty of fuss-free stir-fried vegetables and meats — don’t underestimate the amount of care and deftness that goes into prepping and cooking ingredients using authentic Chinese cooking techniques. Seriously, have you ever tried creating those curious little creases that seal wontons shut? How about having a hand at trying to recreate the devastatingly delicate beauty of Dai fruit carvings?
Didn’t think so.
The point is, don’t be fooled into believing that Chinese food comes without its fair share of flair and drama. In fact, in some cases, the crazy-quotient can be so high, it is definitely not recommended for the squeamish or faint-of-heart. Hairy crabs, anyone? How about some deep-fried duck heads? No? Perhaps some snake soup or a sniff and taste of stinky tofu will do the trick? Jokes aside, though, what’s important to remember before wrinkling your nose or making a beeline in the opposite direction, is that the untrained palate could (and probably would) have the same reaction to a number of our own local delicacies such as brain masala, or curried goat testicles, or barbecued chicken hearts, so it’s mostly a matter of being an acquired taste for the adventurous eater.
Finally, what’s most important to remember when eating your way around China is this: though the food culture of the country is as wide and varied as it’s regions and it’s people, and what lands on your plate might leave you in shock and awe, no matter where you go, it always entails giant and equal doses of warmth, generosity, and camaraderie, especially if you happen to be a guest of one of the locals.
Much like in Pakistan, a hosts hospitality is directly proportional to their propensity to force feed you and meals tend to be long, loud affairs where everything from the conversation to the food and the drinks flow freely for what seems like forever. No complaints here, though. Only happy campers. A wee word of warning: you’d be wise not expect a stingy sandwich-and-soda scenario at a traditional Chinese table. Portions are likely to be large, plates are usually shared, and yes, double-dipping is absolutely acceptable, so unless you’re a genuine germo-phobe, just keep calm and keep eating ‘cause it’s not common for people to cringe and complain about cooties in China.
There’s something about the fall that is absolutely fabulous; that slight chill, those snug socks, and the endless cups of chai and coffee paired served with something sweet to warm your soul. Honestly, all that coziness and comfort food makes a killer combination.
On an average day, I’m far from a die-hard dessert fan, but the second that heater is even close to switched on, my hankering for some sweet seduction starts to sneak up on me.
Frankly, I don’t consider fruit a confection, but if you place an apple crumble in the picture, I’m sold. Seriously, that heady scent of cinnamon-spiced sugar is heaven sent. The crumble is crisp, buttery and studded with walnuts and tucked beneath the topping, beautiful autumn apples bathed in sticky syrup.
It’s that time of the year again! Party people are beginning to prep for the wave of winter holiday hoopla - a time-honored tradition amongst the trendy. The food and drink flows, conversation comes easy and the meet-and-greet lasts for months. And while it’s all incredibly exciting, it does leave you a little drained! That means if you’re in mood to make the most of the upcoming months of madness, upping the energy is essential. Frittatas are a fabulous way to fight both post-party headaches and hunger; rich, filling and positively packed with good-for-you ingredients. This frittata turns average breakfast eggs into something exceptional with sautéed spinach, fragrant garlic, and the chewy tang of sundried tomatoes. Baked until fluffy, the frittata is beautifully light and festively flecked with green and red. The best part: it’s delicious served warm or cold.
Ingredients 2 tablespoons olive oil ½ medium onion, chopped 1 large garlic clove, finely minced 1 cup fresh spinach, chopped 4 whole eggs 4 eggs whites 8 sundried tomato halves, softened in hot water and chopped 1/3 cup up grated parmesan (optional) ¼ teaspoon salt 1/8 teaspoon black pepper, coarsely ground
Heat your oven to 220 degrees Celsius/ 425 degrees Fahrenheit.
Thinly coat a 9 inch pie pan with some olive oil and set aside. Glass pie pans are ideal because they heat slowly and evenly, resulting in a perfectly cooked frittata.
Over a medium flame, heat the oil in a large frying pan. Add the chopped onion and garlic, cooking until the onions are soft, but not brown, and the garlic is fragrant, about 2-3 minutes.. Add the chopped spinach to the same pan and cook for another 2-3 minutes or until the spinach has wilted.
Remove from the heat.
In a bowl, lightly whisk the whole eggs and egg whites together. You could use 8 whole eggs, but the use of egg whites results in a lighter, airier frittata.
Gently stir the chopped sundried tomatoes, parmesan and the spinach mixture into the eggs and season with salt and pepper.
Pour the mixture into the pie pan and bake for 20-25 minutes or until firm in the center. Serve warm or cold.
What do you do when a sighing, swooning eleven year-old girl dramatically declares that she can’t wait to get married so she may finally have the freedom to do what she wants, whenever she wants?
Well, if you’re me, mum’s the word.
I know, I know, complete cop-out, but, come on, having that particular conversation with an adolescent would’ve been kind of weird and awkward and probably age-inappropriate, and I didn’t want to sound cynical, and laughing like a lunatic wasn’t an option. #isuck
Plus, pissing on a little girl’s parade is not a part of my life-plan.
Yes, I have a life-plan and I happen to be pretty passionate about it.
Probably because I’m a pro at planning. #justsaying
Honestly, assign me any activity and watch me work OCD wonders, because fun knows no boundaries when you’re faultlessly organized, right?
Spontaneity is for suckers, yo! #imbringingboringback
So what if the survey says the actual success rate of my magic-making is kind of murky, and sad, and really can’t be confirmed. Daring to dream is half the battle, right?
The point is, planning might not make it perfect, but, it definitely downs the probability of f***ing up and freaking out, dramatically.
That being said, even though hurdles and hassles are inevitable, some curveballs are so insane beyond your imagination, it’s impossible to account for the craziness coming your way, so crashing and burning is somewhat of a standard reaction.
Like, before T and I got hitched, I had painstakingly planned a two-part fairytale life in which neither of us would burp or fart and we sure as shit would never share a bathroom. We were going to “talk” through tough times because tempers were for tools, and he was going wake up at the butt-crack of dawn to whip up a gorgeous gourmet breakfast and serve it to a still-sleepy me in bed, and we were going to be beautifully balanced and blended beings, just like Jayoncé, but better. #crazyinlove
Part two of Project Perfection was equally exciting and glamorous; we were going to grow up and embrace adulthood and become unquestionable commanders of our combined destiny, goddammit! #roseandjack #kingoftheworld #sharethedamnboardyouselfishb*tch
I felt a wise woman and completely in control as I readied to sign some paperwork, put on my big boy pants, and roll out Plan Potty-Free Future. #whatafeeling
Five years later, flatulence isn't funny, it's a fact of life, and the annexation of my bathroom has been brutal. Bonus: I’m a regular bathroom-barista attending to requests for mineral-water-bottle refills when traveling to countries where the muslim shower hasn’t caught on.
Speaking of bathroom behavior, how many couples other out there feel compelled to announce an oncoming bathroom break to their counterpart? Why? What is that? A word of warning? A goodbye? An invitation?
“Talking” turned out to be a cute concept, but mastering maturity is still a struggle. Confession: when the gloves come off and it’s go time, it’s almost like I’m allergic to logic.
Oh, also, the only dude dishing up my breakfast is the baira and his expertise extend as far as the fanciness of fryeeandaa and aamlette. #masterchef
So, yeah, for future reference, I really need to shut my loud face and listen to my Mom more, because that particular scenario didn’t pan out according to plan…at all.
But I blame myself for the monumental bust. Those doe-eyed delusions were destined to doom. Fortunately, f*cking up and freaking out didn’t follow.
Because big girls don’t cry. #FergiethePhilosopher
Unless, of course, the cruelty and injustice of an act is so OTT it straight up kills your mojo, which was exactly the case when Part Two of my plan for a fabulous future — being all out badass adults, and redefining the rules, and laying down the law, and doing some serious decisions — fell apart.
Consequences? A catastrophic collapse of composure followed by some serious flipping and spazzing.
Going from girl to a grown up is crazy complicated in this country, okay!
Again, must lace up lips and listen to Mom.
To tell you the truth, I’m still sort of hazy about how unfettered adultness is achieved, but what I can confirm is — and pay close attention ‘cause this pretty important — for us lady-folk, living in a prehistorically patriarchal society can be a super pain in the butt, but nothing and no one in the world has the ability to undermine and interfere with the process and progress of your evolution like an aunty. #couturecurveball
Lahore Grammar School’s legendary “Defence branch,” has it’s 35th year celebrations coming up soon and even though it’s been over a decade since I graduated, there’s no denying high school was hard! The crews, the cliques, the competition to be cool. Fans and followers aren’t just a Facebook phenomena, friends.
Almost everyone wanted to be a part of the wolf-pack, but the commandments of cool were constantly evolving and consistently cruel. I commend the kids who had the capacity to cope and keep up.
For the rest of us, foolish feats were the fast and fool-proof way to fit in.
Back in the day, it was all about being aboard the band-wagon back in the day and because peer pressure was is powerful and persuasive than any parent on the planet, I pulled some seriously stupid stunts.
Who hasn’t, right?
Of course, said dim-wittedness had to be precise degrees of dumb and dangerous to dignify any kind of acknowledgement from the upper crust, but I missed that part of the memo and totally botched my bad-assery.
Some of my most mortifying moments include insanely embarrassing experiences like crank-calling a crush after the invention of caller ID and getting caught, feeling fabulously fashionable only to come home to the horror of finding out my fly had been open the whole time, or my personal hallmark of humiliation, being pulled over by a pissed off uncle amidst an enthralling egging expedition.
Oh, the trials of being a teenager!
In a time when image was everything, it was all unbearably awkward and terribly tragic.
Fortunately, fifteen years is plenty of time to put things into perspective and forget these faux pas as a painful, but passing phase.
Or was it?
See, one of the confounding assumptions of adulthood is that it’s easier to keep the buffoonery at bay because, obviously, we’ve grown up, gotten over the high school hunger games and are completely capable of putting the past to bed.
But I had a weird winter and it made me wonder, does the drama ever end?
Here’w what happened: thanks to the time-honored tradition of dumb december decisions I made the mistake of designating “Do More, Dammit!” as my mantra for the twelve months of 2013 and, damn, did it bite me in the butt!
P.S. The sting was still sore so this year I played it safe by praying for the power to poop Paulo-Cohelo-esque profundity because, clearly, that’s more of a spiritual request than a resolution, right?
Really, who knew resolutions were woeful regrets waiting to happen, huh? More on that in a minute.
Gratitude before gripes, babies.
So, on the upside, it was a year full of firsts.
I broke a vow to never get behind the wheel and dared to drive. Granted, it was a golf-cart, but still gutsy by my standards. I finally caved into fashion and conceded to rock red lipstick and, really, it was revolutionary. I made more desserts than I have in the last three decades without any fiascos or the feeling of impending doom. I also managed not to miss a single second of MasterChef and finally ditched delusion and denial and dropped those pesky pounds that made my pants fit funny.
However, if you ask the husband, the real highlight of this hallowed year had to be my willingness to head out on a (semi)regular basis without being a perpetual pain in the a** about it.
That’s right! Contrary to custom and as a nod to my complete commitment to that nagging new year’s resolution, I skipped my annual hibernation and had a seriously hedonistic holiday season instead.
My only comment on the craziness: fun times, but I’m not fit for the fabulous life.
The reality is, any activity that has me end up the Just-Took-Four-Finals-After-Popping-Fistfuls-Of-Pills-And-I’m-A-Crazed-Maniac-Who’s-Slept-Sixty four-Minutes-In-Five-Days-And-I’ll-Be-Crashing-On-My-Couch-For-The-Rest-Of-The-Forseeable-Future edition of exhausted is against my religion.
BUT, and the husband will probably experience genuine joy when he hears this, partying really isn’t the problem. Who doesn’t love to dance?
And for the most part, people aren’t the perps either. Frankly, there are some fantastically captivating characters milling around in the mix.
The soul-sappers are those sneaky little suckers known as social standards. I’m not implying that all edicts are evil or equal. Seriously, ’don’t pee in public,’ is a splendid societal precedent. Clearly, it hasn’t caught in our country, but that’s a separate story. No, I’m speaking specifically about those snarky pillars of preposterous pretensions stipulated by the snotty set, presumably for the purpose and pleasure of seeing “outsiders” squirm.
Listen, lovelies, all I’m saying is I suspect Lahore is a parallel universe and the legendary laundry list of dos and donts lives on and lives large.
Whining & Dining was the first rant I ever wrote for
Hunger & Haw Hai and, really, the pressure to perform was ridiculous. I was
pumped, I was petrified and you have no idea how long I put off pushing that “publish”
button. Back then, I never thought my nitpicking would make national news!
Last year, my list was limited to the top 10 food scenarios
that make my skin crawl. This year, thanks to my incredible editor, the list is
bigger and badder than ever before and I’ve collected eleven more absolutely absurd
food related faux pas that completely creep me out.
Now, I’ve said it before that if there's one quirk all food
enthusiasts share, it's this: peeves usually come before praise. And I'm no
different. In fact, when it comes to the complaints-before compliments policy,
I have a complainer gene no man, woman, or wild beast can compete with. The
thing is, even though I’m not fussy about my food, I’m easily irked.
So, time for a flashback, my friends!
By the by, the photos featured in this piece are my personal favorites from the past years posts.
Whining & Dining Part Deux: Hunger & Haw Hai’s Top 21 Food Peeves
Restaurant reviews: Free food in exchange for
writing a review? Sure. Because there’s no pressure to pen praise about an
establishment that’s just paid for my meal, right? Take my advice: if you
really can’t live without writing reviews, be all Bond about it i.e. operate
Fishy fish: This one is guaranteed to trigger my gag reflex. It should smell of the
sea, not stink of it.
Waiters who won’t
wait: Have you ever been watched like a hawk when you’re trying to chill
out and chow down? Sure, waiters are trained to turn tables, but it’s bad
manners trying to terrorize me into eating a mile-a-minute meal.
Baking: That kind of precision is too
authoritarian for my taste. What happened to the right to life, liberty, and
the pursuit of adapting recipes with reckless abandon?!?
Complicated garnish: Save the curling, twirling,
and swirling skills for the origami class.
Dodgy delicacies: Extreme
dining doesn’t do much for me. Care for a mouthful of Casu Marzu? FYI, it’s
rotten cheese riddled with a writhing mass of maggots. How about a bowl of
bird’s nest soup, made mainly from bird saliva and spit? Insects, anyone? Let’s
leave that kind of bravery to Anthony Bourdain.
Over-saucing: Say it with me: less is more. Drown my food in a river of sauce
and prepare to drown in a flood of my wrath. Seriously, Hell hath no fury...
Pretentious menus: So let me get this straight: the harder
it is to pronounce the higher the price?
Mysterious mounds of curly-fried something or the other, tired trios of boring
blanched veggies, retro tomato rosettes, bread so stale it’ll stab you in the
mouth before you can swallow it, forgotten-in-the-fryer fries. We’re all victims here.
Limp lettuce and soggy salads: Come on, I think
we can all agree that limp anything is rarely
attractive. And a soggy salad is just sad.
Faux fine dining:
White plates can work wonders, but it’s not nearly enough to make a memorable
evening. Britney and The Backstreet Boys blaring in the background are a
imagery: Dear Pakistani food channels, I have it on good authority that the
appeal of edibles is directly proportional to the awesomeness of its
appearance. Translation: humans eat with their eyes. Stop assaulting them with
sloppy serving suggestions and appetite-killing close-ups of ancient
Innards, Offal, Guts and Gizzards: I'm not a
vegetarian, but there's something very Hannibal Lecter about gorging on animal
Obscure ingredients: No, my local supermarket
does not carry salt made from fairy tears or fine cuts of unicorn meat.
Okay, I’ll admit I secretly enjoy some of these slip-ups, but a) I’m a
stickler for spelling and b)I don’t enjoy Da Vinci Code style explanations of
what I’m about to eat . “Beef tornadoes”, “profit rolls”, “absolutely adorable
yellow, yummy, scrumptious sauce”. What? WHAT?
Tiny portions: If
you're going to be a Scrooge about my food, I'll remember to be a Grinch about
Up-sized portions: I'm not a beast. I don’t want
to eat like one
Self-proclaimed foodies and food snobs: “Foodie”
is just hipster for "food nerd." And no, I don’t get the fuss over
foie gras, I’m not crazy about caviar and I’ve never eaten eel or emu.
Fast food that costs
a small fortune: Really, Rs. 800 for a B-grade burger and fries? Close to a
thousand rupees for a thin crust pepperoni pizza? All I can say is show me the
The frozen yogurt
frenzy: First, unless you’re fifteen, refrain from referring to it as
“fro-yo”, forever. Second, I’d applaud your whole-hearted attempt at making
healthy diet decisions if you’d stop acting so smug and superior about it.
Going gaga over
gluten-free: Up until thirty seconds ago you weren’t even aware of gluten’s
existence and suddenly you’re convinced you’re going to die a slow and painful
death if you continue to consume it? Quick, name three foods that contain
gluten! Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Wow. Fifty two weeks since we first started this conversation. Wow.
Back in the day when Hunger & Haw Hai was a wee baby I made a mental note that if the blog made it to the one year mark I’d knock your socks off with a Sally-Field’s-at-the-Oscars style speech. My other options were a sappy song or poem that seemed like it’d been slapped together by a pre-schooler. But thirty posts, half a dozen published features, and over twenty five thousand hits later and, seriously, I’m sort of speechless.
All I can say is the whole experience has been incredibly humbling.
Piecing the first post together, one of my deepest, darkest fears was that no one would be interested in reading my ramblings. It’s something that still gives me sleepless nights - really, you never know when you’re going to piss people off, right - but I’ve been ludicrously lucky so far.
Believe me, this blog would’ve been a total bust without an amazingly awesome audience and you all are absolutely unbelievable! Bravo, boys and girls! You are beyond brave and seven kinds of super cool. I salute your senses of humor and I’m proud of your patience! Big bear hugs to each and every one of you for stopping by, sassing it up, luring me into letting go of my lazies and making me feel far less misunderstood.
I’m all over the entire moon and my therapist will be thrilled! Two birds…BOO-YAH!!!
So from the bottom of my babbling heart, I love you much, my lovelies. And as always, nothing great goes down at Hunger & Haw Hai without a helping of my *HAPPY DANCE*!
Lemon Panna Cotta & Mulled Strawberry Trifle (6 individual servings) Adapted from Lemon Panna Cotta with Raspberry Coulis, by Danny Boome
Ingredients Lemon Panna Cotta & Mulled Strawberry Trifle
¼ kg strawberries, hulled and sliced
¾ cup fresh orange juice
2 tablespoons caster sugar
1 tablespoon lemon juice
Lemon Panna Cotta
4 cups cream
1 cup sugar
1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon powdered gelatin
2 tablespoons grated lemon zest
2 small lemons, juiced
1 loaf Pound Cake, sliced
TIP: If you’re planning on making a multi-tier trifle just remember that the first layer of the trifle needs to set before the second layer can be assembled so, it’s best to prepare this dessert a day before you plan to serve. Simply prepare the Panna Cotta in two batches by dividing the ingredients in half and only cooking the second batch once the first layer is set.
In a medium bowl, combine the strawberries, orange juice, sugar and lemon juice. Cover and chill in the fridge.
In a medium saucepan, over a medium heat, gently heat the cream.
Sprinkle the gelatin and sugar into the cream and stir gently until the sugar and gelatin have dissolved.
Add the lemon juice and grated zest and simmer the cream gently for 10 minutes. This allows the lemon to infuse the cream with a bright citrus flavor.
Once the cream has thickened slightly, remove from the heat.
In a glass tumbler, spoon in an inch of sliced strawberries, pressing down to flatten them slightly. Top with a slice of Pound cake. Finally, pour in 1 inch of the Panna Cotta cream. Place in the fridge for 4-6 hours, until set.
How do you handle hate? Personally, I start to panic and suffocate simultaneously and then proceed to pass out. Intolerance and ignorance cut me to the core and, really, I’m shocked at the prejudiced shit-show we’ve been running lately in the Land of the Pure. Equally appalling; the participation of otherwise intelligent and educated people in propagating the problem. Anthony Permal steps in to set the record straight.
Anthony Permal is a Pakistani Christian theologian writing and blogging about Christianity, Pakistan and other cool stuff like marketing, comics and pancakes. A self-proclaimed Jesus-freak, his pieces on minority issues and intolerance have been published in The Friday Times and The Express Tribune. You can catch more of Anthony’s awesomeness at http://digitaljesus.wordpress.com and on Twitter @anthonypermal.
Kill them all.
Hang them ‘til death.
Do whatever it takes to succeed.
The Muslims hate us.
Never be friends with Christians.
The Ahmadis are liable to be killed.
It costs Rs. 5,000 to get a passport. Add 5,000 more to get it on the same day.
Those poor Shias.
Those poor Hindus.
Those poor chaprasis.
Those poor atheists.
Gays deserve death.
Terrorists are reacting to drones.
Drones are because of America, which is the enemy.
It isn’t our war.
This isn’t our religion.
This isn’t Constitutional.
This IS Constitutional.
Pakistan ka Allah Hafiz.
Pakistan ka matlab kia? La Illaha Il Allah.
Pakistan ko kia ho gaya hai?
Jinnah ka Pakistan kahan gaya?
Ye Hum Naheen!
Liberal Fascists/Pseudo Liberals/Fake Liberals
Balochistan humara hai.
Kashmir humara hai.
Palestinian Muslim brothers.
Burmese Muslim brothers.
Kaafir kaafir Shia kaafir.
Qadiani haraam khor.
Red light hai toh kia hua? Doosri tarf se gaarri arahi hai? Naheen? Nikaal gaarri!
Rainbow Center se li teray bhai ne!
Sold out journalists.
Sold out activists.
Sold out NGOs.
Sold out soldiers.
Chorr na yaar, kaun poochay ga!
Teri maa ch*** doonga bhan***.
Yaar atay waqt apnay bhai ke liye gutthka to laitayway aana.
Quaid-e-Azam ne farmaya, tu chal mai aya.
Rape to hona hi tha, kis ne bola tha wahan jaanay ko?
Rape to hona hi tha, kapray daikhay thay uss kay?
Rape to hona hi tha, barri liberal bani rehti thi.
I know, I know; I’ve been MIA for months! And I
obviously owe you an explanation.
Already on it.
See, at the start of every summer, I ready myself
for an annual ritual; a couple of quiet months of meditation. Sneaking off to a
secret destination, I settle down for some deep soul-searching. The idea is
intense introspection; some down-time to deal with demons and drama. I chant and
chart my chakras, I learn to live on
lettuce, and water becomes my wine. And
as I step in my sanctuary of solitude and serenity, I surrender to silence.
That’s right; on the path to inner peace and purification,
I vow not to verbalize any venom. Talk about a tough time on tricky terrain, huh?
But it’s cool. Call it a cathartic spiritual cleanse.
All in all, it’s a rough retreat, but a girl’s
gotta recharge the ol’ batteries, right?
I imagine you’re insanely impressed with my
discipline and determination. Allow me to bask and bathe in the glorious glow
of your adoration! Ahhhhh! Dare I take a moment to dance like a delirious deer
in a meadow? Indeed, I shall! *prance* *prance* *shake-dance*
As much as I’d love to live the lie, you and I
both know I’m not cut out for yoga!
Summer is supposed to be about endless afternoons
spent lazing and lounging and soaking up the sun. So, from May through the
monsoons, it’s customary that I commit myself completely to being footloose and
fancy-free; my days dedicated solely to sun-kissed leisure and loosening up.
This year, because I’m a fatally flawed being,
maker of monumental mistakes and debilitating-ly dumb decisions, I flipped this
philosophy on its head. The consequences of turning turbo were brutal; crash
Honestly, it was unintentional and unexpected. I
suppose I should also add that it un-exciting and uneventful, but I have a
feeling you frown upon fibs.
Rest assured, though, there was no relaxation
involved; only rude awakenings.
Frankly, I don’t have a flowery excuse for
disappearing; I do, however, have unstoppable 1 year old and a husband who’s
home all day, every day.
On the bright side, the beauty of being around my
boys is that accounting for age is absolutely unnecessary. Almost everything
works across the board. Fresh food, clean clothes, periodic play-time;
But then there’s the terrible truth.
Take it from me: toddlers are tireless! They’re
jacked up on some juice adults just aren’t equipped to compete with.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
In the process of trying to poop my puppy out,
I’ve become a master multi-tasker with an incredibly impressive repertoire of
rhymes and riddles. Also, I’m fairly fluent in six sorts of gibberish and I can
eat a meal in under a minute.
I am still, however, incapable of exhausting an
Oh, did I mention the husband’s hiatus?
He’s got grad school on his mind so, he’s taken
time off to tackle the green-eyed monster of all entrance exams; the GMAT.
It’s been interesting so far. A real revelation.
Okay, it’s like an alien invasion. It’s unnerving
having him hanging around the house so much.
I create my own complications, though.
Call me crazy, but despite the fact that T is far
from conventional, I feel compelled to cater to him when he’s home. I swear
there’s no slavery or servitude. I’m just oddly old-fashioned…and a sucker for
Anyways, the bottom line is, I blame my boys for
my absence. If it weren’t for men, there wouldn’t have been any need for this mea culpa!
There also wouldn’t have been such an amazeballs
opportunity to observe the opposite sex.
Listen up, ladies and gentlepeople; there are
lessons to be learned.
Now, not to be nostalgic, but I like to believe the husband and I are a heady love story, riddled with
romance, happiness and humor. He makes all the marks on my checklist - chilled
out, charming, champion of cheesy –picking up extra points for being polite,
passionate and progressive. He also happens to be hilarious.
What can I say? We have a winner!
FYI, though; letting love light the way is one
thing, but being in each other’s face 24/7 can breed a sort of fury that, I’m
certain, is fueled by the fires of hell. It’s in these heated moments of too
much togetherness that the husband morphs from man to maniac
Repeat after me; distance is divine!
Between you and me, I’ve never been aboard the
bad-boy bandwagon. I’m not shy about admitting that chivalry gives me the
shivers and when it comes to boy vs. beast, there’s no denying I dig dorks. Aggression
doesn’t amuse me. Trivia, however, is a total turn on. In other words, I’d pick
“periodically funny” over “perpetual fire-breather” any day of the week.
But I feel a little lonely in my battle against
badly behaved brutes.
Of course, because I don’t like to base my
complaints on conjecture, I took to Twitter to get a general opinion about the