For a G(J)em

He started off in my life as the elder brother who was too small for the role and who just could not understand why this thing that they insisted on calling his baby sister, had these bright beady eyes. “If I could only poke them a bit…” he thought, but was caught several times with a finger poised to stab at those optical illusions. Responsible adults, who reveled in the girl child, successfully thwarted each blinding attempt and I survived the need for glass eyes like the Nawab of Pataudi. Vision is still 20-20 (despite the age), even though I say so myself.

Not only was he the first born among all the grandchildren, he was born the commander in chief - where he led, we followed. Sometimes that meant scaling the rooftops of our granddad’s ancestral home. Sometimes it meant climbing the trees to rescue his priceless manja-coated kite string. It meant the breaking up of a Ludo game in case he was losing. It meant wielding the bat to face his fast bowling practice – and mind you, not with a tennis ball. It also meant being sidekicks in the shadow of the ideal eldest grandson. You could not resent him though, because he always had your back.

You needed that extra pen; he was there with it. You needed that math homework done he would do it. You wanted that extra chocolate flake on the ice-cream cone, even though you’ve eaten yours, he would give his to you. He would never hesitate to give away the matchbox cars he had collected to little cousins. He would save his pocket money and buy you that dancing doll you wanted from the toy store in the corner. So what if his idea of encouraging you to ride the bicycle was to take off the handbrakes - sending you skidding on the gravel, flying off the seat, and splashing into the garden pond? And to add insult to injury, he actually guffawed and called out for mom saying, “We got a spouting whale in the tub!” I was fished out by the gardener and got my own back by using the fighting techniques he taught me, on him with much satisfaction.

It was like growing up with Jem Finch – never a dull moment. There was always an adventure to tackle or a drama to stage, or a fight to win, or a loss to convert into a victory. In between, I learned from him about cricket, computers and carrying on all the values that everyone in our family stood for and still do. Diwali was always a blast thanks to his idea of collecting Granny taxes separately (for that matter uncle tax, aunt tax etc etc). Holi was a riot too and even now every family gathering he arranges for is a feast no one wants to miss. And I think of him always:

For toughening me up.
For getting me through math in school.
For teaching me to drive.
For the laughs.
For the sights of Washington DC.
For the microwaved ice-cream.
For the kick in the back.
For the endless support.
For so much more…

Jem grew up and destiny had him make his home in the Land of Liberty – but he’s never too far to be there when it matters the most. And he continues to touch our lives and make a difference in all the roles he lives out with aplomb, so here goes: Happy Birthday… to a father who will be unmatched always, to a husband who is a rock you can build your faith on, to an uncle who is always the best friend, to a brother like no other, and to a son who is a gem. Happy Birthday, Jem – we will send out the rockets in the Diwali night sky and have kababs on the table – from all of us who love you, and you know who we are.

Frenchly Nailed

Most of us have a “List Of Things to do Before I Die”: Scale the Everest (drat, it’s too high, will settle for base camp), own a Hummer ( hmm, at least the little hatchback fits into the smallest of parking spots), build a log cabin (wood still catches fire doesn’t it?) et cetera, et cetera…

Some LOT to do BID are fairly down to earth, and am glad to say can been ticked off the list:
· Trek in the Himalayan mountains: Check
· Act in a play: Check
· Visit niece in USA before she turns 10: Check
· Plan a euro-rail trip: Under active consideration
· French manicure: err…here’s the story:

My nails have a brain of their own. It is possible. My daughter has proved this at a very very young age in Class 1, when she told her teacher that she really really wanted to write and complete the rest of the work but her hand and fingers did not want to. “See, Mimi”, she said, “Do you think I don’t want to write? I do, but my hand doesn’t let me. My fingers say they are tired.” To explore the possibility that her fingers were tipped with gray matter were beyond us adults…but it is possible. Then I saw a colleague wave her hands nonchalantly, and stared in awe at the perfect white tips on her fingers. If not gray matter, then white!

“What is that?” I asked pointing at the white edges. “Duh, a French Manicure.” So ever since then, I have tried to grow my nails, but they seem to have had a mind of their own. Sometimes the nails actually made the effort and grew themselves out, only to be guillotined by the kitchen knife along with the bhindi. Once, they got grated along with the ginger. On yet other occasions, they were soaked to the point of withering away in my bout to clean and scrub everything from my kid to the walls of the house. Sometimes, I consoled myself that nails would interfere with the keyboard, so I stunted the effort and snipped them away. After all, one doesn’t need to be either a size zero, or have french-manicured hands to create usuable content for the software industry.

Besides, at least I knew what it was, and that gave me occasion to be gleefully one-up on my sister-in-law who said, “You, know, these days, girls dip the edges of their nails in white…” “Duh! That’s a French manicure!” Then I have people around me who are more than a consolation. They form a motley group who would, I imagine, have the following responses to the question “Ever had a French manicure?”:
· Nah, too plain – purple nails would be more like it!
· Didn’t you know, I bite off more than I can chew/grow.
· MIL due (and it’s a mildew of an in-law variety), so might be forced to use nails as weapons.
· God will love us with or without french-manicured nails – God will love us without fingers as well.
· I am forced to wonder about the hygiene factor- are such nails a healthy option?
· Kya Boli?

As time flew, and the nails were grown, chopped and grown again, only to be chopped again - the child who had brain matter in her fingertips, grew up into a teen interested in nail art, complete with a talented friend painting flowers on her nails. Needless to say she managed to convince me of the need of a manicure, right in the middle of a grocery trip. Buoyed by the fact that there was a salon right there, I allowed myself to be propelled in and hand over my nails. The girl in pink brought out her weapons of nail destruction and initiated the attack on my nails with a file. As she wielded it mercilessly, she took a look at my face, and said, “First time ever?” I nodded helplessly as my hands were soaked, scrubbed, kneaded, and then the dead skin on the cuticles were sawed away. I did not even flinch or make a fuss as a few drops of blood were shed – even though the thought of my little finger being amputated on the altar of the French, made me shudder from inside. I knew that if ever there was a moment to make a fuss and ask for an angry but perfectly justified refund it was then. However, there is something about the beauty industry that has me all timid and defeated (you should see me fighting for my rights in a police station – but that’s another story).

While my child was suitably impressed, and armed with information on the steps of a manicure to start her own nail spa for friends and family, I had no patience to sit and blow on the nails daintily. I left feeling the indignation right till the ends of my fingertips. From the French manicure to the Brazilian wax – I salute the fairer sex so ready to bear the brunt of these foreign beauty assaults. As for me, those white edges had me on the edge. From the moment we left the salon, the nails had way too many close brushes with the hauling of grocery, the making of tea, the washing and peeling of vegetables, (try making the Indian aloo paratha with the French manicure), and of course the old nemesis - the kitchen knife. When the poor fingers with their white French tips finally came to earn a living with their familiar tap dance on the keyboard, to complete some urgent document deliverables, they already looked frayed.

My only thought was much ado about nothing…and I actually had it on the list?

But as is often said, never underestimate a woman with a French manicure?!

French manicure: Check.

Photo Credits: Ayesha

Not Born to Bake

No, I am not blogging from inside of the Lobster. Obviously I survived the last post but it could be because the entire team got together to motivate my baking efforts and support me through the process. I might not be a sweet person but I am a sweet person (even though I say so myself) – cakes, cheesecakes, apple pies bring not a smile but a huge grin on my face. I have been known to demolish not just a quarter kg of the famed Bangalore Mysorepak but also half a German Chocolate cake. A jam doughnut in my stores makes me happy just thinking about it. I have been also known to buy myself an entire Decadence Cake from Cosentino's smothered with chocolate flakes just because I felt I deserved it. I beg for the icing on the birthday cakes and my heart breaks to see it scrapped off by others and left banished to the edge of the plates. I have had Tiramisu for breakfast and let me tell you what a perfect beginning it is to the day. Walking around a confectionery is one happy trip that involves physical exercise, a lot of salivating and a content soul.

But baking what I salivate over…that is another story. Soulful Slurper pings me links and more links of perfect pieces of cake served with perfect cups of tea in just about perfect houses. There are luscious fresh fruit with cream piled carelessly over moist mouthwatering slices of cake. There are layered wonders filed with chocolate and topped over with more chocolate. And then…here I am, can’t even bake a simple sponge cake, and some dame goes and uploads pictures of a chequered cake that has been color-coded into a delightfully looking eatable chessboard.

How hard can it be to bake? “It’s simple”, I am told by the company I keep. All you need is flour, butter, baking soda, eggs, vanilla essence, a baking mould, and of course an oven.

I have a very good oven…
“Ok, then, get yourself the rest of the ingredients.”

How much baking powder?
“A pinch and don’t add more thinking that it’s going to do the trick – you will end up with a funny taste in your mouth”.
“Remember exact measurements ARE important.”

“Don’t use butter straight from the fridge.”
“Try cooking butter.”
“I only use normal butter.”
“Cooking Butter is good”
“I only use normal butter.”

“Use fresh eggs.”
“Don’t tell her ‘fresh’ eggs! Before you know it she will be staring at the hen and waiting for it to lay a couple of eggs.”
“Mix the whites first, then the yellow.”
“I mix the eggs together – I throw it in the mixie along with the butter and sugar”
“I use a hand blender.”

“Make sure you fold in the flour gently”
“Make sure you blend it in one direction”
“Make sure you blend it so that it falls from the spoon in even undulating consistency.”
“Make sure it’s not too watery or that it lands in blobs.”

With all this information overload and a simple recipe for a simple sponge cake, I resolve to bake in the weekend. I am so nervous that I can cut the tension with a knife like you would a three-tiered wedding cake. I am so nervous while blending the ingredients, buttering the dish, preheating the oven, and so overwhelmed that the mixture fell from the spoon in even undulating waves of batter, that it is only after I put the mould inside the oven that my daughter hands me the butter that I had kept aside to thaw!

So went the first attempt-butterless…the cake looked good – I mean it was round and golden-brown and looked like a cake. Just that it tasted like sweetened bread and ahem…not as soft as bread.

“You forgot the BUTTER?”
“How can you forget the BUTTER?”

Never mind…lets try again. Once again the recipe was followed, this time with the BUTTER and all was perfect. Till I forgot the cake was in the oven and the oven got too hot. Well, CSI New York was on and Mac Taylor got car-napped. And before that was CSI-Miami and Horatio got shot. And before that was CSI and Laurence Fishbourne was making his first appearance…

After the many incredulous looks, and howls of laughter, and weeks of half-baked jokes at my expense, I bought a pressure cooker cake mix. It was perfect! Probably because the daughter mixed it with attentive patience and love.

All baking efforts have been relegated to the background and instead I have been re-instated as one of the recipe hunters for the one person in our team who has been born to bake – and so for hunting down links on baking a variety of goodies, I am given the first warm, wondrous pieces of croissants, breads, cakes etc. I am not complaining ;-)

Some people are born to be bakers,
Some are made to be paratha makers.
I can knead the dough, stuff it and roll it out,
But a simple cake mix throws me in doubt,
So I’ve simply given up baking doorstoppers.