Twist in the Tail

Happy new year then

2011-12-28T17:45:00.000-08:00

Oh well. Today's the first day of Mia's potty training. Or non-training. So far all we have achieved is a sudden, definite preference for being nappy-less, announcing pee-pee-pee very loudly while pointing to nether regions and when I run to her, all excited, she scuttles away cackling gleefully. She doesn't get it that poo-ing is serious business.

However there is small comfort in the fact that she has instantly taken to her potty. She has so far put coins in it, made Charlie Bear sit in it and has even put -- and eaten -- her avocado sandwich from it. She has even given it two kisses. It's a start.

The new year will hopefully bring pottying in the right place. For Mia that is. For me, I'm hoping to start and stick to an exercise regime WHILE I try to look and feel positive. Even if the world would have ended by this time next year, I am hoping to do heaps of cooking, reams of writing, much sewing and knitting and finally conquering growing the perfect tomatoes -- the current plants look perfect now but till I don't see healthy, red fruit that I have picked and used in a salad, they don't count. I also wish to successfully control ants in the house and fricking white flies in the garden.

I hope to eat less sugar and more cake and somehow make both those things work together. I wish to lose at least 8 kgs by this time in 2012. Perhaps the end-of-the-world will prove enough of a stress factor and induce me to shed. Or it might make me eat more.

What else? Heaps of other things, which I can't think of right now. I only wanted to write about Mia's potty training. And to ask for any tips that you might have. Oh yes, wish you all a very happy new year. Thank-you for reading, thank-you for being around. See you in 2012.

Write no wrong

2011-12-21T15:26:00.000-08:00

I cannot write. Not here, not in my journal, not on napkins as I once used to. Not anywhere. At least I had a small break from nonwritingness and managed to finish The Book and submit it. It's been a month since the publisher sent me an email -- "starting primary edits" it said -- and I haven't heard anything since. Perhaps it's take really long for primary edits. Perhaps it takes longer when the MS sucks. Perhaps publisher is looking for a (gentle) way to tell me it cannot be published.

I cannot seem to be able to do anything. Partner gifted me a new sewing machine as a finish-the-bloody-book present. I've made some stuff -- couple of dresses for me and some pants for Mia. But now again I am in unmotivated land.

I've made a Christmas cake -- same recipe as last year except it didn't fall on the floor this time...or hasn't so far. I'm going to make some mocha cookies soon. And that's it. Last year I made chocochip cookies and truffles and packed them in hand-made boxes. This year - unmotivationalism.

I got a single opportunity to write an article for a magazine -- Indian one -- and I refused it. Can't write, no time and other stuff.

Speaking of no time -- my house looks like a pig sty. Only pigs like their homes. I cannot keep it clean. And anything I do -- bake, cook, sew -- only dirties it further.

Now I cannot finish this post. I've started so many posts over the last couple of months but somewhere around the second paragraph, it's delete. Or save for later. And the later never comes.

I don't know what's happening.

Oi, oi

2011-10-03T12:04:00.000-07:00

Heaps to tell. But still got to hold off for a very little bit longer. Action, reaction, interaction soon to resume. Thanks for your patience.
So much to discuss. Parents first trip to Australia. Four months without cigarettes. Walking with 5 extra fucking kilos. Ginormous boobs. Wondering about fat men... Drinking skinny milk and why it's an insult and tastes like shit.
But. A very little bit longer.

Bloody easy cupcakes

2011-07-19T21:19:00.000-07:00

This is Missy's butterfly birthday cake. Why butterfly? Simply because we have butterfly decals in her room that she loves and points to the first thing every morning.

I had enormous amounts of fun baking for her birthday. It also helped heaps that my mother-in-law did most of the house cleaning and every other possible work around the house to make the party happen. I simply couldn't have done without her. Mum helping out gave me the time to bake the butterfly cake along with some vanilla cupcakes, red velvet cupcakes and biscuits.

I hadn't considered putting up any recipes here -- not till after submitting the manuscript! -- but for a very dear friend who asked to "recommend a decadent cupcake recipe". I knew just the recipe for her and for you if you like decadence and cupcakes.

The fairy cake recipe I used for Missy's birthday is so tasty and so easy that it made me cry. Not really but it did make my job easier. With swirls of buttercream icing and some sprinkles, they also looked quite pretty. I also used the cupcake recipe to form the 'body' of the butterfly for Missy's birthday cake. You might want to use a whipped-cream icing instead of the buttercream for even more decadence. However, if you want the cupcakes to last longer -- especially if baking in hot weather -- I would recommend the buttercream since it stays for really long (two days without fridge at 20°C or below)

Since I baked the main cake the day before the party, I've used buttercream icing both inside and on top of the cake. The 'smile' is with some gel-based writing icing straight out of a tube and the chocolate spots are pressed in choco-chips. For the wings I baked two chocolate madeira cakes and cut each in half. The three cakes that form the butterfly's abdomen and the two little ones for the tail are all fairy cakes.

And now for the bloody easy, very delicious fairy cake (vanilla cupcake) recipe. I used the recipe from Quick & Easy Kids' Cakes by Sara Lewis (ISBN 978-0-7537-1892-6) that I bought for AUD $ 10 at a book sale. It's been one of the best bargains ever!

FAIRY CAKES

Prep time: 10 minutes, baking time: 12-15 minutes, icing: 30 minutes

INGREDIENTS

MAKES 12

125 g self-raising/self-rising flour*

125 butter/ margarine

125 g caster sugar

2 eggs

NOTES: *If you don’t have self-raising flour, please use the following substitute: 125 g plain flour (maida) sifted with 1 ½ tsp baking powder and ¼ tsp salt.

METHOD

1. Preheat oven to 180°C (170°C for fan-forced ovens) and place rack in the centre.

2. Line 12-hole muffin/cupcake tray with patti/paper cases. Alternately, I used silicon mini cupcake pans and lined them with paper. This recipe makes 12 regular-sized cupcakes and about 25 mini cupcakes.

3. Put all the ingredients into a bowl and beat together until incorporated. Please do not overbeat else your cupcakes will be hard.

4. Divide the mixture evenly between the patti case and level the surface using the back of a spoon.

5. Bake for 12-15 minutes till toothpick inserted in the centre of a cupcake comes out clean. The cupcakes should spring back when touched. Leave the cupcakes in the tray for 5 minutes then remove from tray leave on wire rack to cool completely.

6. Once completely cooled, frost/ice with your choice of icing.

Happy eating!

Hallow how are you?

2011-07-18T17:14:00.000-07:00

WARNING: MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS
I was watching True Blood season 4 (episode 3, 4) last night and I realised that the short-haired, memory-loss Eric Northman (extreme left) is just not doing it for me. He reminds me too much of Meekus from Zoolander (in green) to take him seriously. While Eric Northman with short hair was still quite the (delicious) devil -- please see that look in that poster, sigh -- I am not liking this lost-boy act. Yet. Overall I do like Eric oh-so-much, read this if you didn't know that already!

However, I think I much prefer my bad boys with long hair. That said I am totally enjoying the way Alan Ball has changed Charlaine Harris's original story. Some of the plot and character changes are heaps better than they were in the book. Looking forward to the rest of the season.

On another front if July has been a quite month blog-wise, it's been pretty much go on every other count. I've found I cannot write at home. So I pack Mia and various baby-belongings and go and sit in this cafe called Pampered Mummies. It's brilliant! There's a play pen and separate play area for kids, there are other kids to play with and most importantly, the staff more than often look after Mia (and other babies) as I write. I've done more writing at Pampered Mummies in two weeks than I've done in the last year.

Along with the writing, this month has also been about Missy's first birthday and the last of the Harry Potter movies.
Both really momentous for me. In all my years in Delhi, in moments of despair and discovery, rebellion and recovery and other feelings/occassions I cannot think of rhyming words for, JK Rowling's books were with me. I have really, really enjoyed reading her books. They've been -- and remain -- a great story for me that's even better told. I hadn't even thought of a daughter when I first started reading the Potter books. Somewhere along the line -- and around the sixth book -- I had given up hope of ever having a child of my own. Now she's there, my precious munchkin, and I hope someday to read the books to her and then eventually see her reading them. On her first day as a one-year-old, Missy got three injections, cried for half a second when she got them and came back home and ate cat food when mum wasn't watching. She liked it.

Since Partner was out of town last evening and I wasn't feeling in top form -- read as coughing too much and didn't want to write -- Missy and I sat down to watch more Harry Potter. She sat very quietly on my lap, leaned into me and we watched Deathly Hallows 1. For 15 minutes. Then she was off attacking all her new books and the toys and the cat and the wires and... But it was a precious time. Somehow she seems to know that we are doing things together. I am absolutely in love with her and cannot imagine what I'd been doing with my life and time so far! (reading Harry Potter, wink)

Back to Deahtly Hallows 2: I really liked the movie. Really. While I do have some grouches, the film was pretty good as a finale. The complaints I have about DH2 are more from a fan's point of view rather than any movie criticism. There were things I felt the makers could have done without and other stuff I felt they could have added.

While the books did lead up to Harry's final stand-off against Voldemort, somehow the final movie made it only about Harry vs Voldy. As in I felt that the books were also about a concentrated effort and the need for the wizarding world to come together to fight Voldemort. Harry was the final piece and the main struggle but he couldn't have done it without support. Both the Battle of Hogwarts (in book 6 and 7) could not have happened if others hadn't done their bit. When I read the final book it always gives me the feeling that the entire wizarding world was united against Voldemort -- even the truculent centaurs and the house elves join in -- a feeling that I found lacking in DH2. I felt the movie underplayed the contribution of a host of characters. Or may be it's just me because I wanted each and every one of my favourite characters to be farewelled!

Here are some of my good and not-so-good bits about Deathly Hallows 2:

LOVE opening sequence with Hogwarts surrounded by Dementors.
Love the negotiation scene between Harry and Griphook: Totally felt I couldn't trust the goblin and Harry seemed very mature, very tired and very determined.
A whole lot of people are raving about the Dragon-escape-Gringotts' scene, it was all right.
Felt more needed to be shown about the resistance at Hogwarts. There was hardly anything about the rest of the students standing up. Also, why didn't they show the Dumbledore's Army badges? What's this about "lightning has struck"? Didn't like that change from the book.
Neville Longbottom's finally becoming a hero was done well. Being a nit-picky fan though I would have loved to see him take on the Carrows. Also the Nagini slaying scene, I thought it looked/read far more heroic when Neville pulls out Godric's sword from a burning Sorting Hat that's on his head instead of the way they did it in the movie.
I was let down by Bellatrix Lestrange's execution and felt the Molly Weasley-Lestrange scene could have been heaps better. One reviewer wrote how if you'd *just* seen DH1 you would remember Lestrange's torture of Hermione and her murdering Dobby. However, Bellatrix taunting Ginny about another Weasley kid dying was SO important for the whole not-my-daughter-bitch line. It was a bit flat in the movie. It could also perhaps do with the fact that I've never liked Julie Walters as Molly Weasley.
Loved, loved McGonagall, she's always been one of my favouritest professors and she's such a good actress.
Tonks and Lupin death could perhaps have been given two more minutes of screen time. Their son, much like Harry, is left orphaned, a little more of them couldn't have hurt.
Loved the Ron-Hermione kiss. Couldn't stand the Ginny-Harry kiss. WHY is Bonny Wright so bloody wooden?
LOVED the Snape death scene. There were times through all the movies when I felt Alan Rickman's really s.l.o.w speech got a bit too much. However in DH2 he totally, completely brought Snape's whole life to er, life. I cried when he says, "Take them" and his tears flow.
Hagrid gets like three seconds on screen? Nooooo.
The last scene. Hmm. I loved it in the book but not so sure about it in the movie simply because 40-year-olds do not look that frumpy and tired. They don't, right?

Very different people

2011-07-04T16:39:00.000-07:00

L-R: Cuffs, J Gillard, Collingwood and KP2

Snort. There was a time when I'd sit in my fourth-floor apartment, smoking, hurting and wondering if I'd ever meet my soulmate. My idea then was this, in short someone who'd be my mirror image and would like and enjoy all the things I did. In hindsight I think I was looking more for a real friend who I had great sex with.

Well now I have a baby. With the man I love. One of my Criterion For Soulmate was that the man should most definitely dance. I love dancing and I had these visions (very Mills & Boon!) of us breaking out into impromptu dance routines when our favourite salsa number played on the radio (yes, yes, very filmi) or doing a mean tango at some party. Yes. I know it's all very dramatic but then if you've been reading this blog you should have noticed that I do have a certain propensity for drama, no? I love drama, Partner hates it. And as far as his dancing is concerned... I've been expressedly told that 1. I should not write about our personal life here and 2. I definitely cannot write bad things about him. So I cannot write about his dancing.

We don't read the same books. Rather I might sometimes read the books he reads (Grapes of Wrath, Tomorrow When the War Began, White Mughals, Bourne Identity; I will never read Commodities and Futures) but he will never even touch the books I read (Harry Potter, Obernewtyn, Terry Pratchett, Jasper Fforde, or even The Help and definitely not How to Train Your Dragon). We are like two different ends of the spectrum: I am vivacious, imaginative, ebullient, passionate and every other nice, interesting thing possible and he is I-am-not-allowed-to-write-about-it. :D No, no, I am not perfect but I tell you that I have to try real hard to not be perfect. I mean for the sake of our relationship and all that!

We sometimes listen to the same kind of music but mostly it's Johnny Cash versus Prodigy. Food we mostly agree on though our cravings are very different. He'll say things like, "I need a steak" and I of course will then throw a fit about wanting "a goat curry. NOW". We have a similar taste in good movies but sometimes, just sometimes a war breaks out. Because the compromising soul that I am, I will still see the 475th movie on the Holocaust but he will simply not agree to watch lighter movies that I suggest. So while Paul is acceptable (do see it, bloody funny) I really have to fight to make him see Morning Glory even though later he grudingly accepted that "it was okay". I mean we have negotiations: Like me watching five war movies against him watching one chick-flick. He constantly wonders why I need him to watch those movies with me. Because I lurve you?

I have given up on TV though because there's no way he's going to let me watch Offspring (an Aussie show) if there's some documentary/sport/animal show on. Except even there when I've sort of made him watch True Blood he's liked it BUT he will never ever accept that in public. If I was still believing in that stringent list I had, I'd be seriously doubting Partner's soulmate status. Thankfully though I am convinced he is.

Partner constantly and vehemently insists I am unnecessarily melodramatic. And yet it was he who said the following when I suggested we watch a certain movie. You decide who's more melodramatic.

Me: Wanna watch xx movie?
Partner. (stony silence)
Me: What?
Partner: There are four things I would really not be doing right now:
1. Go to jail
2. Have sex with Julia Gillard
3. Barrack for (support) Collingwood
4. Watch Kung Fu Panda 2.

So not soulmate. Hrmph.

PICS: Cuffs, Julia Gillard, Collingwood, Kung Fu Panda 2

Quick note

2011-06-27T15:09:00.000-07:00

Thank-you to everyone for the wishes on the Hello Beautiful post. For those who might not know, Indian blogger network IndiBlogger alongwith Dove and Yahoo! held a blogging contest called "What is real beauty?" The post I submitted (surprisingly) ended up winning the first prize. I'm pretty excited because it was absolutely unexpected. And welcome. :)

I might be somewhat infrequent here for a very short bit -- unless I can manage my time better and post something -- as I have a deadline pending. My publisher's finally had enough. I better get my butt moving.

PS: There are some really well-written posts on the beauty issue here, check them out.

Past Imperfect

2011-06-21T18:45:00.000-07:00

Mia will be ONE year old next month and frankly it's making me feel quite strange. There's the bit about where-did-the-year go. Then the bit where I go, "Oh my god, my baby is not a baby anymore!" Then I start thinking that it's been three years since I had a proper job, i.e. as a journalist. And I wonder if this is the end of my media career. But then I think I really don't want to put her in childcare unless we really need the money. Amidst all that thinking/wondering, I realise that soon it will be five years that I have been writing this blog. Well, this is more or less the same as Emancipation of Eve; I just gave the old blog a new name.

So much has changed over the last five years. It amazes me at some times and totally scares me at others. There are so many amazing bits. Mia, Partner, living here, a terrific rapport with my parents, a new family I love... In five years I've gone from smoking 10 (and more) joints a day, spitting mad at the world to not having had a cigarette in the last five days. I am wearing nicotine patches, but it's a start. The scary bit is that none of it was planned, everything just happened. So it could also un-happen right? That's what scares me but I'm not going to be chicken shit. Jo hoga dekha jayega. :)

Here's what was happening with me this day, on this blog in the (five) years passed:

2010 June 23, Anti-nesting feelings: There's state of mind and then there's a state your mind's in. Or moments when I am so cranky it irritates me. Or I am so irritated I really want to cry. My belly is HUGE. Correction: The thing under my boobs with red streaks and spider veins running all over -- that can sometimes change shape on its own -- is HUGE. I also projectile puked yesterday because the body felt like it. READ MORE

Hinsdight: I was hugely pregnant and waiting for Mia to be born. And majorly grouchy. The official due date was July 28th; I didn't know it then that Mia would be two weeks early.

2009 June 20, Doklet-Nha Trang, Vietnam: Just look at the place... need I write more? We stayed at the White Sand Resort, Doklet (pronounced 'jok-let', Vietnam). And just did not want to leave. I am grateful that someone invented the camera. Sunrise like this is hard to imagine. Or maybe because my imagination sucks. Is there a name for the colour of the sky?! READ MORE

Hindsight: We were travelling through Thailand-Laos-Vietnam-Cambodia to India and back. We didn't know it on the holiday that we would be pregnant three months later.

2008 June 27, Delhi decade, so long : I've lived 10 years in Delhi and changed umpteen houses, even worked just 15 minutes from it but I've NEVER been to Chandni Chowk. Thankfully as part of my job, I saw some bits of Delhi that I otherwise wouldn't. Like the autorickshaw colony near Karkardooma airport at 1.30 am, sitting in an auto and trying to 'buy' ganja/marijuana so I could then do a bust-up, a crime story. READ MORE

Hindsight: I was waiting for my study visa, Partner had left for Melbourne the day before. Everything I knew I was leavhing behind in one country, everything I wanted was in another country. I didn't know it then but the visa came through the next day.

2007 June 21, I want to write night: I hate reading medical sites. They always convince me that I have ALL symptoms for the worst kind of diseases. What bothers me more than the illness itself is: who will look after me and how will I pay? Because I need to work to pay and if I am ill and not working, where's the money going to come from? READ MORE

Hindsight: So lonely then. Four-five months before Partner walked into my life. So lonely. I had no idea life would change for the beautiful and I woulnd't have believed if you'd told me.

2006, June: I'd recently been beaten up. I'd bled, cried wanted to die. Instead I got angry. I didn't know then I'd be starting a blog that would help channelise my anger, help me survive.

How (a)typical

2011-06-20T23:56:00.000-07:00

So it's just another regular evening at our house. We all -- Partner, his bff-since-school DocPal and me -- are in the lounge ('drawing') room except for Mia, who is asleep in her cot. We hope the baby would continue sleeping while the men watch footy and I read Tina Fey's biography Bossypants.

The men do the usual man-thing of discussing some stat (they are not so sure about) and abusing some umpire (they are very sure about). Sometimes though they look away from the TV screen long enough to stare at me. There are many points in the book that make me laugh out loud. I am stared at during those points. "You are a freak," they declare, Partner loudly and DocPal tacitly because he does not deny it either. Sometimes I read out bits from the book while laughing out loud, they stare at me harder.

At one point I have to stop reading. Tina has just written about some of her male colleagues pissing in various cups and keeping these cups randomly sitting about the office. Some of her other male colleagues -- another department, lower hierarchy perhaps since they didn't get their own cup -- have been communally pissing in a jar. Having worked in the media, I was quite struck by this. I tried to think of any time I might have seen any of my male editor's, various techie or other colleagues ever sitting around suspicious-looking styrofoam cups. The only cups I had noticed were the once that were supposed to be coffee but were actually rum-and-coke-during-night-shift.

Anyway. So I interrupt the boys and ask, "Have you ever pissed in a cup because you didn't want to go to the toilet?" Boys look at each other.

Partner says, "Geez, not in a cupppp, more like a Gatorade bottle."

I am disgusted and turn to DocPal -- who is a doctor afterall -- looking for some support, some signs that he too is similarly disgusted.

DocPal to Partner, "Did you fill the bottle?"

So why am I the freak?

PS: Bossypants, totally read it. I loved the bits about her childhood and starting out in television. The bits about her at Saturday Night Live were somewhat boring. And then I really fell for her when she spoke about motherhood etc. Sometimes it feels like she is really honest, at other times there's a bit of that's-bullshit-Tina but overall worth a read.

Personal arse licker?

2011-06-16T21:46:00.000-07:00

I’ve just put Mia down for her afternoon sleep. I left her with her eyes closed, a little smile playing on her lips and her favourite tee shirt sleeve stuffed in her mouth. She loves sucking herself to sleep…on good days. On not-so-good days she likes to be rocked and patted in my arms. Except that now she has decided she needs to pat me back while I am patting her. Basically it’s a lot of patting and no sleep. I’ve been doing the patting-rocking since she was born and even though it can get tough sometimes – there’s my favourite show on TV, or guests waiting, or dinner getting cold, or I’m just too tired – I love it when she falls asleep in my arms. The way she snuggles under my chin, the way her mouth stays slightly open (even with the recently developed bad breath), the way her breathing deepens along with her sleep. I feel an immense sense of peace each time I rock her to sleep. Sometimes, I also feel an immense sense of gratitude that she was born in Australia and not in India.

There, I’ve said it aloud now. You can hate me, or judge me, or label me an anglophile, or as someone commented on an earlier post “a PAL – personal ass licker”. Technically, the last bit should be ‘arse’ and not ‘ass’ since I suppose that commenter meant to call me a bottom-licker as against a donkey-licker. Neither label bothers me really, though I daresay some donkeys are cleaner than some bottoms. Perhaps a whole lot of things would not have been much different even if she had been born in India. Financially, we could have afforded the best of everything: education in any of the top private schools, a university degree, access to quality health care, availability of a full-time nanny, whatever hobby she wanted to pursue, an unlimited choice of food, exotic holidays, high-paying jobs, etc. I have friends who live that life; and so did I to a certain extent. Yes, Mia would definitely have all of that even if she were in India.

And yet I prefer she was born here. There is a fundamental freedom in this country that I find lacking in India; the freedom from certain expectations, limitations and restrictions that come with being a woman in India. A freedom from helplessness. Don’t tell me that if you have the money you can have everything in India. I know that. I’ve seen that. But if that privilege belongs to only two per cent in a country of a billion; it’s not a norm, it’s an anomaly.
I want Mia to be able to move freely without 100 men leering at her, without neighbouring aunties disproving of her or without someone else labeling her because she wears shorts. Ah, so you say you can wear whatever in India, is it? How many times then have you covered up with a dupatta or a scarf? Or worn a salwar-kameez and then changed into a skirt? Or held a notebook against your chest to stop men staring at your breasts? How many times have you carried a safety pin on a crowded bus to prevent a man rubbing his penis against you? How many times have you walked through a market and have someone grab at your breasts? Even though you have three maids at home, a driver waiting for you and are probably shopping to go back to LSE?

My first time was at Newmarket, Calcutta in 1994-1995. I was wearing a loose-fitting blue shirt, an ankle-length skirt and was shopping with my mother. We walked down the market, me carrying shopping bags, trailing behind Ma when we crossed this balloon-seller. I remember looking him in the eye, perhaps because he was on my right and he had suddenly stepped onto my path. I remember looking him in the eye right before he grinned – he had gutkha-stained teeth – and with his right index finger, he poked my right nipple. It wasn’t surreptitious, he didn’t try to run or pretend it was an accident. He looked me in the eye and poked me hard; it hurt, it humiliated me because the other vendors started laughing then. I pushed him and started shouting at him. A huge crowd gathered, some sniggered, some said really dirty stuff in Bengali, others waited to see what unfolded, none helped. My mother had walked a bit further by then; she hurried back and tried pulling me away, “Ki korcho beta, cholo ebar, pore kotha bolbo.” (What are you doing child, let’s go now, shall discuss it later). My mother was practical. She knew it would only create a scene that would not be resolved.

There is hardly any resolution in India. You’d be told you’re creating a scene, drawing unnecessary attention to yourself; you’d be labeled a trouble-maker. If the media gets hold of it and makes a heroine out of you, you’d probably find it really hard getting a job after that. No, it hardly ever gets resolved in India.

Like this lady I knew who worked for a big-time Hollywood movie distributing company. The office used to be in Connaught Place and she was part of a three-member team. There was her boss – the distribution head – she handled marketing and there was the errand boy. Every day for the one-year or so she worked there, her boss would come to work and start watching hardcore XXX pornography. He would turn the monitor to face her, put his legs up on the table and watch for hours at an end. She complained to the CEO of the company. His response? “So what if he watches porn, he’s not asking you to watch it.” She left the company and had to change her profession because that industry black-listed her. She was labeled a trouble-maker.

Then there was this girl who was a junior reporter. Her boss tried to rape her after one office party. She didn’t say anything about it because her colleagues advised her not to. “He’s too big and famous, nothing will happen to him. You’ll lose your job; why spoil your career?” I don’t know if she was raped or if the attempt was thwarted. I do know she did not say anything. In case any of you’re wondering, the girl was not me, but the incident happened at one of the media houses I worked for (I’ve worked for pretty much all of them).

I don’t want Mia to ever to feel violated like that or feel helpless she cannot do anything about it. And if at all it happens – sexual harassment does happen in Australia – I don’t ever want to be in a position where I cannot resolve it for my daughter. I don’t want to ask her to walk away. I want to be able to get that bastard arrested. To get him to jail. Personally I would prefer beating the life out of him, castrating him or cutting his arm off; but I’d settle for a more civilized solution. I want my daughter to know she will be safe or at least that she can do something about it. I don’t want my daughter to ever feel helpless…even if I am not there. I want her to know there are steps she can take, people she can approach, the police, the judiciary, a helpline, the local council member.

There is very little organized support system in India for women. Not if you’re sexually harassed, not if you’re physically abused and hardly any if you’re seeking a divorce or are caught in a marriage that’s slowly killing you. Everything pretty much conspires against you. Again, I am not talking about the two per cent who have the money, familial support or sheer balls to fight for themselves. Most women are not like that. And it’s not because people are uneducated.

Asti Shekhar, who committed suicide by hanging herself on June 2,, 2011 was not like that. She was educated. She came from an educated family. She was married to an educated man, from an educated family. She was in every way a good girl: She was obedient, she studied hard, she married the man her parents chose for her. Yet she felt trapped, she felt she could not ask anyone for help, or advice or a solution. So she killed herself.

In the biggest democracy in the world, the next alleged-superpower, the country with the richest, deepest cultural roots, the India that is shining: What was the level of helplessness a 21st century, modern, educated woman felt that led her to kill herself? Why? Who failed her?

PS: 1. The Indian Homemaker has a very good debate on the topic. Go read her.

2. (I just clicked on google.com.au and typed 'suicide', that's the screen shot, a suicide helpline comes first. Not so when you type the same on google.co.in)

Two sides to any story. On one hand, reports allege dowry deaths are rising. On the other hand, some groups claim it is to harass husbands. What do you think?

2011-06-09T21:19:00.000-07:00

I am pretty sure a whole lot of you saw Google's very cool doodle yesterday. I initially thought it was "invention of the guitar" or something but learnt later -- after Googling of course -- that it was to celebrate guitarist Les Paul's birthday. I hope you had much fun twanging away, I know I did. Apparently some people 'created' music pieces as well; though I've tried clicking on some of the links given in news stories, I haven't been able to hear anything. But anyway, it was an awesome surprise to discover the strings actually worked. I realised quite accidentally when I pointed the cursor over the doodle to read the mouse-over of whatever 'day' was being celebrated. Totally loved it Google, thanks.
Here's a cool photo essay in Times for a quick rundown of the noteworthy doodles. For those who want the entire doodlepedia, here's the link to all the doodle's ever on Google's website. It was good fun through the images and history, enjwoy.

Have a good weekend too; it's a long weekend -- Monday is the Queen's birthday therefore holiday as well -- here in Australia. Tomorrow I'm going to watch Dr Zhivago the musical, super excited. This will be my first, ever live musical. :D
PS: I hate Bing for searches, it's bloody useless.

Friday bookslutting

2011-06-08T22:12:00.000-07:00

It's amazing the number of times it has happened to me; logging on to write one post, starting to read some other stuff, then following links and ending up with a completely different post. 'Reflective analysis' was a course subject for my Masters; you were supposed to reflect on your practice and I just couldn't get my head around it. I scored dismally in it. I think I can explain it much better now -- where an idea originates, how it changes into something totally else and how it influences whatever it is you are 'creating' -- and I'd do it without a bloody bibliography or deep-breathing exercises. We were made to do both in class. Most of the yoga-time was spent twittering (the real thing as against wrongly used synonym for tweeting) with these two Italian boys I was really fond of*. One was on a study visa like me and another was an Australian-of-Italian-descent, both quite gorgeous. Sigh. Anyway, now one of them is part of a band and I'd really like to see them perform. (*Fond of = in a hey-you're-fun kind of way, I was attached to Partner then as I am now).

This post was going to be about family trees but is now instead about The Naughtiest Girl in School, sort of. I used to love that series by Enid Blyton. I so wanted to be at boarding school. I think one of the reasons I love the Harry Potter series so much is because it's set at a boarding school. I also read a lot of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys when growing up. Somehow I never really liked Nancy; firstly because I didn't understand "titian hair" -- till some of the cover art explained it -- and secondly because I found her very prissy. Very good girl. A little too good girl than I could handle. I'd always preferred the Hardy Boys as detectives; they broke many more rules than oh-so-perfect Drew and I often dreamt of going on adventures with them. My loyalty to the Boys was also helped by my huge crush on Joe Hardy.

Did you ever wish you were 'in' a book?

It's hard for me to pinpoint a single book that changed my life or influenced it majorly. There have been several that have played important roles throughout; and I continue to discover more. I can however say that more often than not I've found company, solace and fun in books when people have been disappointing. Fact is far more boring than fiction! I'm writing all this because of this post -- I once was Miss America -- on bookslut.com. I've never read Sweet Valley High, but I know what the author means when she says, "Some experiences are universal. A girl is a girl whether she lives in West Omaha or Sweet Valley. Books are often far more than just books." Much like the post on "real beauty" that so many of you girls, irrespective of being Indian, American or Australian responded to. Check out the bookslut.com post, it's quite good.

Project Why

2011-06-07T19:50:00.000-07:00

The girl on the extreme right is Tanjali. The picture was taken against the boundary wall of the Indian Institute of Technology, Ber Sarai, New Delhi. Tanjali and her family and a host of other beggar families lived (still live?) on the pavement next to IIT. That particular red light -- on the intersection of Ber Sarai and Outer Ring Road -- was where they earned their living. Tanjali -- and the other kid -- are both wearing tee shirts that I'd painted. It was part of a small project started through the Indian Shitizen, a blog that I stopped writing. That blog received extreme reactions from people.

Many young Indians like me responded positively to it. When you are not a true citizen, when you don't do your verylittlebit, you are a shitizen: that was the philosophy behind the monicker. The blog also angered many people. Surprisingly a large number of them lived abroad. They all felt that by labelling (most) Indians 'shitizens', the blog and by extension I, was pandering to what the rest of the world -- particularly the Western world -- already thought about India. That India and Indians are corrupt, that they don't give a damn about their many, many poor or anything else that's wrong with the country and can be fixed. Anyway, that blog is now sitting unpublished. Perhaps it will be revived some far off day in the future.

But unlike that blog's failed attempt at making a difference -- it didn't last more than three months! -- there are some people/organisations that are making a real difference. I don't know about you, but whenever I hear the phrase "non-profit organisation seeks donations", I instantly think of it as a money-making scam/scheme. So when I first heard about the Delhi-based Project Why and that it was being supported by the French embassy, I rolled my eyes and thought, "Another rich, page-3 woman and more white people with we-have-a-better-life-guilt." with nothing else to do." I don't know about the French embassy but I was absolutely, 100 per cent wrong about the woman.

The slum was in the Govindpuri area of Delhi and I was visiting because the dude I was dating back then (2000) was volunteering for Project Why. Govindpuri looked like a a slightly better-off slum area: There were more brick houses than shanties, the gutters were relatively clean and definitely not overflowing and the kids seemed to be wearing more clothes. And then the kids came out, a group of 10 or so, different age groups and in unison said, "Goodmorning didi, how are you today?." As in not namaste, but goodmorning and everything else in clear English. I smiled back, shook some hands and the cynic within thought, "So they speak few lines in English, even beggar kids can speak some." Then I entered the room the kids had come out of. There were a couple of computers there, with kids sitting before them... working. I was quite surprised. Outside the room, an argument was in full swing. I heard a woman's coarse voice, angry and bordering on abuse; and another gentler but firm voice insisting, "Par ussey school nahin bhejogi to woh ricksha bhi chalayega." (If you don't send him to school, he too will only ride a rickshaw)

The angry woman was another slum kid's mother who refused to understand or accept that her son needed to go to school or learn English. What was the need? "Sahib thode hi banega." (He won't become a sahib/ officer). Strangely and despite the distance and much more that separates India and Australia, many non-government workers/volunteers/organisations working with Aboriginal Australians face similar questions and attitudes. But I won't write about that yet...

The firm-but-gentle woman was Anouradha Bakshi, founder of Project Why. She eventually did manage to get that particular boy and many, many more to 'school'; that room I'd seen the kids come out of. A whole lot of these kids speak English, many use computers and as of June 3, 2011, "‎6 of our primary kids from the new Govindpuri Centre stood first in their exams, 8 second and 8 third!"

These kids are getting educated. Will they get jobs when they grow up or will they join the throngs of educated Indians who can't find a job? No one can answer that but at least and for sure, they have a better chance at finding a job. I wonder if someone will find Tanjali and give her such a chance.

Project Why has it's own website and blog. There are some really good, REAL stories on the blog...and shockingly few comments or reader participation. It would be very nice if you would go read. Don't take my word for it, check out what Project Why has done for yourself, see their website, Google them and if you're in Delhi, call and drop in on them. And if it's not asking too much of your time and/or your blog-space, promote them. Write about their work, send people to their website/blog. And no, they are not paying me to do this and neither have they asked me to.

Wintersmith

2011-06-06T17:25:00.000-07:00

Melbourne is getting colder by the day. The minimum for today is six degrees celcius with a max of 15. Mia is having her morning snooze – should be up any minute – and I am still sitting in my favourite flannel pyjamas and a huge, brown sweater that makes me look like a mini woolly mammoth. But it’s super comfortable. As I type this, I am looking out at the little space we call our backyard: There are browning willow leaves everywhere. The trees are nearly bare-limbed, quickly shedding the remnant of their leaves, preparing to go easy for the winter. If I look out of my kitchen window, it’s the same story. The kitchen window overlooks another neighbour’s backyard with its many fruit trees. There is not a single leaf to be seen on any of the trees and they look very cold.

When I walk down the village road here – don’t be fooled by this locality being called ‘village’, it’s more yuppy than yuppy thought it could be – winter is clearly here. The lack of colour announces it. Everywhere you look, everything is rugged up in shades of black and grey. There’s an occasional dash of red but for most folks here, winter colour usually means a dark green or a navy blue.

The girls are all in boots and the boys have their beanies out. Most people are wearing pants or tights or leggings to keep their legs warm. It’s only the very young girls who dare to still wear really short shorts with only translucent stockings keeping the cold off their legs. But they don’t look cold. As the wind cuts through, people seem to hurry through their chores, whatever it was that got them out of their homes, their electric heaters. The dogs aren’t happy as their masters hurry them through their morning walks, even though the dogs are also dressed up in various doggy-warmers, also in shades of grey and black. There’s an occasional terrier in a red coat looking a bit embarrassed for drawing attention to himself.

Melbourne winter could not be more different from the Delhi winter.

Deserted streets with nary a pedestrian, the street lamps valiantly but weakly trying to cut through the winter fog, stray dogs with their heads tucked under their paws sleeping under parked cars, no coats for them. Some of the more resourceful ones though have managed a discarded newspaper to lie on. The tail-lights on the early morning traffic disappearing into the horizon, rather over the flyover given horizons are a rarity in Delhi; their exhaust fumes mingling with the fog.

There would be the milkman on this ratty scooter; his head and face wrapped in a warm scarf, the milk cans rattling on either side of his steed, vapour smoking out of his mouth each time he breathed. There would be more such wrapped men. The sweepers who clean the street, the local ‘colony’ watchman, the autorickshaw drivers: All of them with only their eyes visible, some waiting for a savari, another for the next guy on the shift. Most would be huddled around some sort of a makeshift fire. Usually whatever debris has been swept off the street; adding to Delhi’s winter smog.

There would be the brave aunties out for their morning walk, needed to justify the ghee-laden parantha they’ve had for breakfast. Salwar-kameez with sneakers, a baseball cap or a hand-knitted bonnet-scarf and a colourful shawl tightly pulled around them. There would be the school kids with their mothers outside colony gates, waiting for the school bus. The mums – some in jeans, some in salwars, would all look impatient; they want the bus to hurry-up so they can go back and finish the household chores. Or get started with them. All the kids would look smart in their school blazers but also look miserable because they’d rather stay home.

No such wishful thinking for the street kids. The older ones are already starting to line up at their designated red lights. The sight of a 10-year-old in dirty shorts and a threadbare shirt can momentarily melt hearts and open up wallets. The younger kids are huddled together in a tangle of limbs and torsos, like puppies. Each one will have a runny nose.

There are no beggar kids in Melbourne. I’ve read about homeless families and seen many homeless adults, but I’ve never seen a “street kid”. Of all the things that I miss about Delhi, I don’t miss that sight.

There used to be this little girl, a beggar girl, called Tanjali… I was very fond of her. I always carried toffees for her in my bag. She never asked me for money but she always asked for more toffees so she could give them to her other little friends. She was beautiful and smart and cheeky. I wish I could have done something for her. I wonder where she is now or what she’s doing. I perhaps could have done something for her, but I left.

Sometimes, when I look at the kids playing in the many, many parks here, or take Mia for swimming lessons or throw the baby food down the kitchen drain – and what variety of baby food! – she’s too fussy to eat; I think about Tanjali. Of how for a little while I’d thought some of us likeminded people could make a difference. It had started out with handing out painted tee shirts so that the street kids could have something more to wear. The tee shirts carried the slogan, The Indian Citizen…

And then I’d met Partner and I chose personal happiness. And I left.

Damn. Now I am all depressed; and to think I started writing about winter because I wanted to write about ginger-chai. I am drinking it and loving it. Nothing like the chai you get at the Delhi street stalls, but nonetheless it's chai. That’s got to be my favouritest winter memory, I can even smell it. No matter how rich, poor, bus driver, sweeper or beggar kid: The ubiquitous cup of sweet, steaming ginger chai was always there on a winter morning, momentarily making you forget everything else.

Like how perhaps I ran away from it all. And how I might be a coward.

PS: Can't upload pics, Blogger maintenance apparently.

Hello Beautiful

2011-05-31T18:59:00.000-07:00

The stretch marks on my belly are erase-proof, my sagging breasts defy any attempts at upliftment and the daily-emerging wrinkles on my face make me really, really consider botox. I don’t believe I just mentioned “sagging” and “my breasts” in the same sentence. But you see, that’s what has happened. I am mother to an 11-month-old baby girl and since having my daughter, my whole concept of ‘beautiful’ has done a volte-face. It’s not about me anymore, not about what I consider beautiful. What then will I teach her about beauty?

Rekha in and as Umrao Jaan

Beauty is fair skin?

My earliest awareness of ‘beautiful’ was that I wasn’t it. I was six-years-old, maybe younger, and I still remember the incident clearly. It was summer school holidays and we were at my grandmother’s. Bollywood actress Rekha was everybody’s favourite then; her movie Umrao Jaan, the talk of town. My aunties decided to play dress-up or rather decided to make my cousin sister and me play dress up. Their decision was unanimous: Since I was darker, I’d play the male while my cousin who was fairer – and prettier – would play Umrao Jaan. Quite ironic since the same Rekha – being toasted as the epitome of Indian beauty – had earlier been rejected by the Hindi film industry for her ‘dark’ skin.

“Rang ta koto kalo” (Her complexion is so dark) is something I’ve been told all my life. As I grew older, the list of Why She Is Not Beautiful included being short (I am five feet), generous puppy fat (which hasn’t been shed and since I’m older, is it now bitch-fat?) and lustrous pelt. Sorry, did I say pelt? I meant body hair and really bushy eyebrows. It covered my arms and legs. The hair that is, not the eyebrows.

And then there was my mother. She was (and remains) one of the most beautiful women I’ve known. She was everything I was not. She was taller, had maintained her figure despite two caesarians and she was very, very fair skinned. Like all little girls, I adored my mother (still do). I wanted to be like her – and despite the many tubes of Fair & Lovely – was constantly reminded I didn’t match up. “Maa-er kichchu paaye ni” was another common refrain. It’s Bengali for “Hasn’t got anything of her mother’s”.

It didn’t help matters that I was very non-girly. Not quite a tom-boy but very nearly there. I was precocious, talked a lot (a LOT) and had a very loud laugh. I used to copy my father; I’ve always loved his laugh. But a loud laugh in a girl was not considered feminine, not beautiful. “Don’t laugh like a rickshaw-wallah” was often the admonishment. Of course I failed miserably.

The teen years were worse. My father was in the army and we changed cities every two/three years. My teen years – from 12-17 years – were spent in the Lands of the Fair. We lived in Delhi, Kalimpong and Amritsar respectively, where despite the many cultural differences between the three cities, fair skin was considered premium in all.

It was also the age when most girls start acting grown up, you know, getting their eyebrows done, trying a different hair-style, deciding on the clothes they like to wear. My parents were protective, Papa more so than Mamma. Now that I am a mother, I totally empathise with why my parents didn’t want their little girl to be sexualized too early. In other words, why their little girl remained with un-waxed limbs, bushy eyebrows and a hairy upper lip till she was 17. It was very good strategy for maintaining little girl-ness but very bad for a teenage girl’s self-esteem in terms of the beauty index.

Beauty is brazen?

Much as I was aware that I wasn’t beautiful in the way the world (India) saw it, I did not lack in confidence. In fact I took it to other extremes. I did well at school, did better at extra-curricular activities – from dancing, debating to declamations – and was often made the class monitor, became the school Head Girl in grade 10 and the Prefect for Discipline in grade 11 (ha, ha). I wasn’t beautiful and you might not want to flirt with me but boy, you didn’t mess with me either.

The schoolgirl bossiness was replaced by sarcasm in (young) adult years. I was abrasive, aggressive, a go-getter and I behaved as if I didn’t give a damn about who/what was beautiful. In fact I actively fought against the prescribed definitions. I didn’t wear make-up, didn’t wear any jewellery (except ear rings) and refused to wear anything remotely frock-y (read girly). I had learned that the only way to stop people from noticing I was not beautiful was to make them notice something else. Like wearing only torn jeans and knotted shirts for two years. Taking up smoking. Getting a tattoo. Riding a motorcycle. Becoming irreverent towards everyone and everything. Rebelling, revelling.

It worked for a while, the war against beautiful. I was a journalist by then and caustic writing – perhaps sometimes good writing – got me jobs in quite a few places. I was being noticed, beautiful or not. The pen was mightier than the make-up brush.

There was the down side. The outer confidence was a façade for massive self-consciousness. I was still dark, short and plump. I had big breasts but then everyone knew that boys look at breasts without looking at the person. “My face is above my neck” was one of my favourite catch-phrases in my 20s. I loved my breasts for the feminity they finally accorded me; I hated them for creating more self-doubt: Only boob, no beauty?

I fell for the wrong men because somewhere I was grateful for any attention, anyone’s attention. I hardly made friends because I was too busy proving a point: There’s more to me than the breasts, or the beauty, or whatever you think I don’t have. I was at constant war with everything.

Beauty is banal

Till one day I was exactly how I’d visualized myself at 13.

Chitrangada Singh

Other than special appearances at Bollywood awards functions, Rekha had been forgotten. Instead a bevy of new beauties were being toasted to. The Indian concept of beautiful was undergoing a seismic shift – or so the magazines insisted – and dark/dusky was suddenly the it thing. Bollywood apparently was reflecting what was happening in society. The latest it girls? The sultry Chitrangada Singh, the hot Malaika Arora, the sumptuous Nandita Das, the lissome Bipasha Basu and the delectable (and talented) Konkona Sen Sharma. All of them dark complexioned. Rang ta koto kalo.

I weighed barely 37 kilos. I discovered my cheekbones, my waist, a nearly-flat stomach. And a whole lot of male attention. I was still not beautiful but I was considered really good looking. It came at a very dear price.

I had looked for love in the wrong place, again. There was mental and emotional abuse. I was constantly compared to the man’s former girlfriend, who was – you guessed it – fair-skinned and beautiful. Even the man’s mother told me, “Oh he loved X because she was beautiful you know”. I was told I wasn’t feminine enough. I believed it. I was told my loud laugh with the wink made me look “like a pirate” and that “I looked ugly”. I stopped laughing. And then I was physically abused. It didn’t look beautiful.

My heart was broken, my spirit shattered. It didn’t matter that I looked good. I didn’t give a damn. I lost any hope of being in love, of having anyone love me. Not the body, not the breasts, not the writing, not the face, me.

Beauty is...

I would perhaps have been lost forever… but for that someone who found me. He said he found me very beautiful, I rolled my eyes at him. He persisted. He said he wanted to love me, I tried pushing him away. He persisted. He said he wanted to be with me for who I was, I nearly died laughing. He persisted. Thank god for persistent men. I came away with him to Melbourne, Australia and now have a baby with him, my beautiful little girl.

She is considered dark by Australian standards but she is very fair by Indian ones. The nurse who records her growth has declared she will be “taller than her mother”. She is adored by all four of her grandparents. Her father lives and breathes for her. Strangers in the supermarket say she has “the most beautiful smile” and her Nanna insists she has “stunning good looks.” Even my mother is certain her skin is “softer than yours ever was”. One of my friends, a Kiwi with a similar-aged daughter says, “She’s so prutty”. In short, my daughter, even as a baby, is everything I never was.

What then will I teach her about beauty?

Is it in the skin colour? Is it about how tall you are? Or how fat? Or talented? Is it defined by what magazines sell you? Or what television tells you? Does it depend on who loves you or how many? Is it your actions? How many friends you have? How many Facebook likes or Twitter followers?

Very honestly – and even though this might be anti-climatic – I don’t know the exact definition I will give her. However, I am very sure of what I will not tell her. I will never compare her to another. Never tell her she needs to lose/gain weight or be someone she’s not. She can laugh as loudly as she wants to. I will never ask her to behave in a certain manner or wear her hair in a certain way. Or, hang on… Having said that last bit, she cannot colour her hair purple or wear mascara till she’s at least 20.

PS: Oh well. This post is an entry for an Indian blogging contest – the Yahoo Dove Real Beauty Contest – hosted by blogging platform Indiblogger. For practical tips on beauty, you might want to visit this page hosted by Yahoo: Real Beauty . And if at all you enjoyed reading this, perhaps you wouldn’t mind voting for me at this link.

Baby sense is tingling

2011-05-30T16:40:00.000-07:00

Batman needs the Bat Sign to be flashed and Spiderman's spider-sense sometimes fails. Both of them could take lessons from Miss Mia, her baby sense never fails. EVER. At this rate, we will never manage a second baby. Not that we want one right away, but you know, it's good to keep up the practice. Only Miss Mia doesn't think so. :|

Kiss and tell

2011-05-24T20:16:00.000-07:00

My first kiss was when I was 9. The boy was visiting one of our neighbours -- he was a 'Delhi boy' -- and he kissed me on my cheek. Before all the other kids who laughed. I promptly punched him and went and complained to his aunt that he had kissed me.

Then there was the dude in grade 8 -- who had a girlfriend and had failed twice in the same class and was supposed to be some sort of a Taekwondo champion -- who tried to kiss me after class. I turned my face at the last minute, the kiss landed on my cheek and I saw few other boys -- who'd been peeping in through the window -- run away. Despite the fact that I hadn't asked for the kiss, a HUGE scandal followed.

Many years and kisses-without-meaning later, Partner kissed me for the first time. Strangely that was the only time I have ever been asked if I wanted to be kissed.
My dog Golu was scratching at the door, a cool spring breeze was making my cheap Sarojini Nagar curtains flutter, there was some Ministry of Sound track playing in the background and I had just paused for breath while lecturing Partner on how the Commonwealth Games in India were a huge money-making scheme. This was October 2007, I was doing a special report for the website/tv channel I worked for and had stupidly hoped my reporting would make a difference. As I paused to launch on why Sheila Dikshit was the worst chief minister for Delhi, Partner, who had so far shown no inclination that he was interested in anything else other than discussing the state of corruption in India, asked, "So Miss Bose, may I kiss you?" I thought, oh like that and instead responded with, "Do you always ask?" He kissed me and we've been together since. Whoever said you should never kiss on the first date -- and more -- was talking out of her hat. ;)

And then there was yesterday. It was 6.15am, I was under the doona; Partner entered the bedroom and plonked Mia on the bed next to me. I groggily said "Goodmorning baby" to both. Mia pulled my hair, I managed a sleepy oww. And then she poked me in the eye while bending and putting her lips on my cheek. A baby kiss. I looked at her with my non-poked eye, she grinned, said "Kah" and did clap-clap. It's the best kiss ever... even though I wasn't asked.

Daddy's cool, yay baby

2011-05-22T17:32:00.000-07:00

I have to say that despite all the negative stuff that's written about the Internet -- vis-a-vis children and the dangers of unsupervised surfing -- this particular technology has brought about some welcome changes to the relationship with my parents.

I've always felt that in the Indian scenario at least, there's always a certain distance in the parent-child relationship.
A congenial formality that does not have room for completely open discussions. Perhaps it's different now, but when I was growing up, parents were not your friends. They were well-wishers, your best interests were their foremost concerns and they did their utmost to give you the best upbringing, but they were always your parents. You loved them, respected them and you never told them about your latest crush. Or shared a dirty joke. In my home, you did not discuss Bollywood, you did not swear and you most definitely did not answer back. Even if you had a valid point.

Big surprise then that I ended up reviewing Bollywood movies for a newspaper, still swear a lot and often answer-back even when I don't have a valid point. Oh well. My mother had cursed me long back that I'd have a daughter "just like me". And frankly, I am dreading Mia's teen years. Anyway, if I'm still blogging then, you'll hear about it. Of course if you're still reading then!

Since moving to Australia, I find that I am talking heaps more with my folks. Sharing more, asking more and strange though I find myself saying it, I confess I actually look forward to advice from them. It started with my dad getting an email account. I find writing to him much easier than talking to him. Or with most people in general. If only I'd done that with some of my bosses, I'd have had a better working relationship.

The one facet that remains unchanged despite email conversations, are Dad Jokes. They're still groan-worthy. And now my dad has discovered the forward button on emails. And each time I read one of the forwarded jokes, I can see him laughing. He has a gorgeous laugh, spontaneous, loud, straight from the belly, head thrown back, often accompanied with a wink. And sometimes, particularly when he's narrated a joke, a laugh that needs to no companions, ie, he'll laugh the loudest at his own joke. I've found Partner's dad doing the same thing as well. And they all look so pleased after the telling of a particularly bad joke. I suppose it's a dad thing; I adore my dad.

This is the latest forward from dad, read at own risk:

A man enters a barber shop for a shave. While the barber is foaming him up, he mentions the problems he has getting a close shave around the cheeks.
"I have just the thing," says the barber, taking a small wooden ball from a nearby drawer. "Just place this between your cheek and gum."
The client places the ball in his mouth and the barber proceeds with the closest shave the man has ever
experienced.
After a few strokes, the client asks in garbled speech, "And what if I swallow it?"
"No problem," says the barber. "Just bring it back tomorrow like everyone else does."
Ewww.

Can we have some penis?

2011-05-19T17:19:00.000-07:00

The first time I’d really thought about it or noticed (the lack of) it was while watching a lingerie show on Fashion TV.

There were female models parading in next-to-nothings. Wispy laces, satin and silk and see-through garments that that were more see than through. You could see the nipples, the shading of the areola and even how one female models’ cleft was perhaps slightly longer than the other. I was watching and thinking how washing anything so delicate – and I mean the lingerie here – would be a bitch when this male model walked on to the catwalk.
He was black/of African descent/ coloured/ whatever’s fuckingpolitically correct, lean and chiseled in just the right way and wore really transparent boxer shorts. Only you could not see anything because FTV had thoughtfully pixellated the model’s privates. That’s when I noticed and felt quite cheated. If it was a lingerie show and women’s privates were on show, why was there a pixellated penis? Why wasn’t it shown?

Last night Partner and I were watching another episode of Boardwalk Empire; the latest politico-mafia show that’s aspiring for television greatness. Set in the 1920s when The US declared Prohibition and inspired by the life of Atlantic City’s (New Jersey, USA) corrupt politician Nucky Johnson, I find the story quite intriguing. I like the story more from a historical perspective rather than due to any interest in the central character, Nucky Thompson (based on Johnson portrayed by Steve Buscemi).

We’ve watched most of the first season – two episodes left – and so far I’ve not really warmed to any of the characters. Despite the power, charisma and cunning that Thompson is supposed to portray, I find Buscemi’s portrayal quite lukewarm and unconvincing. Thompson is nothing like Al Swearengen (Ian McShane in Deadwood) or Toni Soprano (James Gandolfini in The Sopranos). For one, both McShane and Gandolfini seemed to bring their characters to life; they made me believe they were Swearengen and Toni respectively. Buscemi on the other hand seems somewhat uncomfortable in his role. He neither conveys the menace of a man who controlled the entire political machinery nor does he convey the charm he is supposed to have had over women. Wondering what Boardwalk Empire has to do with penises?

One of the recurring characters on the show is of this chick called Lucy Danziger (played by Paz de la Huerta). Right from the first time she makes an appearance on the show to last night’s episode (Season one, episode 10), I am sick of seeing her vulva flashed on screen. if she’s not standing buck naked in front of the mirror in one episode, she’s flashing it while sitting on her chair and in last night’s episode, she’s grinding away to glory complete with a close up. It TOTALLY pissed me off.

Showing a bit of breast – or a lot of it – has become mundane now. The breasts are only somewhat lower than the eyes. Showing breasts has become so commonplace that sometimes entire tv shows are scripted around how many breasts you can show per episode. Like the Underbelly series which go something like this: Boob, boob, partly hidden boob, oh-my-god someone is killed, boob, boob, five boobs, boring narration while characters are in slow motion, squished boob, the rest of the story, more boob. Basically, showing breasts is boring now. It is expected. The next (apparently) logical step on television therefore is to turn it up the action, show frontal nudity.

Scene from French movie Grande école

Frontal nudity is when the male or female genitalia are shown on screen. Or simply put when the penis and/or the vulva are shown. In reality though, on-screen frontal nudity usually means a woman’s entire body will be shown while you will either not be shown the penis or it will be dutifully pixellated. It pisses me off because it smacks of hypocrisy. If we are so fucking accepting of nudity – we are cool, we don’t cringe at naked bodies – why is it STILL only the female body that is shown in totality? What about the penis then? I am sick of watching shows that flash a woman’s body and either don’t show anything of a man’s or at the most show a male butt. According to some, the penis is not shown because it’s not pretty. You don’t say! Frankly, no matter how many times it’s referred to as a flower, a fruit or an oyster, the vulva is not pretty. Neither are oysters by the way.

My problem with frontal nudity: It’s fucking sexist. Apparently women are now liberated. Apparently it’s “you go girl” where women earn as much as men, where a woman can become the prime minister of Australia (Ms Gillard), where a woman (apparently) is the most powerful person in India (Mrs Sonia Gandhi) and a world where women totally identify with a porn-watching Samantha Jones in Sex and the City. And yet we ONLY show female genitalia on screen. There has been much research and umpteen articles on how hardcore pornography degrades women. What about only female frontal nudity on television? Is it not doing the same? Why should only the female body be sexually objectified or commodified? Pretty or not, are we ever going to see some penis on screen?

How about starting with Alexander Skarsgård then?

FAAAAAAACK

2011-05-18T15:31:00.000-07:00

I HATE housework. I have no idea how countless women before me have spent their entire fucking lives doing it everyfuckingday. I am LOSING it. It's getting bad, so bad. I woke up this morning contemplating writing a comparative post on the best detergent to remove red wine stains. FUCK.
I SO want to pick a fight today. Punch someone. Something. I HATE housework.

Introducing: The Buboons

2011-05-11T18:52:00.000-07:00

click to see larger image

...because sometimes, words are not enough.

tried and tasted: Tomato, goat’s cheese and caramelized onion flan

2011-05-10T20:59:00.000-07:00

(Even as I upload this post it begins hailing in Melbourne. Hail the size of dragée. The recipe that follows the post is perfect for this weather. Served warm it gives a feeling of snuggling under warm blankets. I do love that feeling.)

What makes a good cookbook? Rather what do I think makes a good cookbook?
1.    Recipes that have been tried, tasted and that actually work when you follow the instructions.
2.    Instructions that are clear and give you an idea of what to expect. Eg. When making bread: Let the dough sit for 30 minutes is NOT as good as saying ‘let the dough sit for 30 minutes till it doubles in size’. Or when making a curry: ‘Fry the spices for 10 minutes till they give off a cooked aroma’ is BETTER than saying fry the spices for 10 minutes.
3.    Pictures that give me an idea of the finished product.
4.    Proper index that makes it easy to search for a particular recipe.
5.    But most importantly, a friendly cookbook. I don’t mind a cookbook with only 10 recipes, but those recipes need to work. They don’t have to be fancy recipes but rather recipes that make me come back and make them again. Eg. I haven’t read Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, but I have a feeling I’d hate it. While I understand what JC did for “cooking in America”, I don’t like a cookbook that makes me feel like a dunce. I like a cookbook that says “You might be a dunce but here let me show you how to work with your dunce-ness and have something good to eat it at the end of it”.

go to recipe | READ MORE

The Baker, Leanne Kitchen

One of my best friends on my cookbook shelf – and one of my absolute favourites – is The Baker by Leanne Kitchen. The book was a housewarming gift in 2010. At first I was daunted by the idea of yeast and cookies with poppy seeds and kept putting off trying anything from the book. Till one day I woke up with an unexplained, extreme craving for “caramel custard”. Have you ever developed a sudden craving – no one’s mentioned it, you haven’t read about it or seen it on TV but you know you really, really want to eat it – for a particular dish?

‘Caramel custard’ or flan – as I found out after some frantic Googling – was one of Ma’s quick go-tos when she had to make a dessert but didn’t want to make anything too complicated. I remember her setting the flan in a round, steel roti box (the ones with a lid?) I remember the box sitting inside the oven so it wouldn’t be disturbed till the flan set. I remember Ma adding just a bit of vanilla essence to mask the taste (and smell) of eggs. I remember Papa being critical about the layer of caramel at the bottom and complaining if it was too runny. I miss Ma so much.

I never did make the caramel custard. Mainly because I did not have a proper flan tin (has a lid) and I don’t have an Indian roti box. However, once I started reading about flans the craving grew and I remembered seeing a flan recipe in The Baker. While Ma’s caramel custard was sweet, this particular recipe was for a savoury flan. Perhaps I was meant to try the flan that day because when I checked in the fridge, I strangely had all the ingredients. Strange because the recipe calls for goat’s cheese and that’s not something I usually have.

It was also the first time I made pastry at home. Perhaps I tried it because Ms Kitchen provided a solution for blind-baking: she did not insist on pastry weights but instead suggested using rice or kidney beans as a substitute. For those who might not know, “blind-baking (sometimes called "pre-baking") is the process of baking a pie crust or other pastry without the filling. Blind baking a pie crust is necessary when it will be filled with an unbaked filling (such as with pudding or cream pies) or when the filling has a shorter bake time than the crust. Blind baking a pie crust also helps prevent the pie crust from becoming soggy from its filling.” (More on Wiki here)

The flan turned out perfectly and was very tasty. I’ve made it a couple of times at home – for Partner and me – but the real test for the recipe, and my amateur baking, was when I tried it for family and friends at Christmas last year. While initially everyone refused because they were either full or wanted only a “thin slice”, every last crumb was devoured. I was very grateful to Ms Kitchen. Nothing pleases me more than when my family likes something I’ve made for them.

I’ve tried cookies, cakes and bread from The Baker and I’m very glad to share that everything has turned out well. I also love the photographs in the book. While obviously shot professionally, each of the photographs has a very homey feel: a cutting board here, a trusted knife there, a casually folded tea towel and often sprinkles of flour and crumbs from the baked goodies. I also sheepishly confess, most of the utensils used in the shots look like stuff I (can and) have in my kitchen. :D Now I want to buy Leanne Kitchen’s other books, particularly The Butcher, The Dairy and her latest, Turkey: Recipes and tales from the road.

I highly recommend The Baker, you won’t be disappointed. Till you get the book, here’s the recipe for the flan and a picture of how it turned out for me the first time (and every time since).

TOMATO, GOAT'S CHEESE AND CARAMELISED ONION FLAN

Prep time: 1 hour 20 mins including freezing dough; Cooking time: 1 hour 40 minutes including blind-baking

Tomato and goat's cheese flan (recipe follows)

INGREDIENTS

200g plain (all purpose) flour/maida
¼ TSP salt
120 g cold unsalted butter, chopped
60 ml iced water
FILLING
2 TBS olive oil
3 onions, thinly sliced
60 g crumbled goat’s cheese
3 roma tomatoes, sliced 5mm thick
½ TSP rosemary
6 egg yolks
2 eggs
250 ml pouring (whipping) cream

METHOD

Sift the flour into a large bowl and add the salt. Lightly rub in the butter with your fingertips until mixture resembles coarse breadcrumbs. Make a well in the centre, then add the iced water to the well. Mix until a rough dough forms. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface and gently knead until just smooth, then gently press together into a ball. Form into a flat disc, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
Lightly grease a 25 cm (10 inch) loose-based round tart tin. Roll out the chilled pastry on a lightly floured surface until 3mm think. Roll the pastry around the rolling pin, then lift and ease it into the tin, gently pressing to fit the side. Trim the edges, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 200 degrees Celsius.
To caramelize onion, heat the olive oil a large frying pan, add the onion, then cover and cook over low heat, stirring often, for 30 minutes, or until the onion has reduced in volume and is golden.
Prick the base of the chilled pastry case with a fork. Line with baking paper and half fill with rice or dried beans, or baking beads if you have them. Bake for 20 minutes, then remove the paper and beads/rice and bake for a further 10 minutes or until the pastry is golden. Remove from the oven and allow to cool slightly. Meanwhile, reduce the oven temperature to 160 deg celcius.
Spread the caramelized onion evenly over the pastry case. Scatter the goat’s cheese over, top with the tomato slices and sprinkle with the rosemary. In a bowl, whisk the egg yolks, eggs and cream until smooth and well combined. Season with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, then carefully pour into the pastry case.
Bake for 30-40 minutes, or until the filling has just set. Remove from the oven and allow to cool slightly in the tin before slicing. Serve warm or at room temperature, the flan is best eaten the day it is made.

Not a nice woman to know

2011-05-09T19:15:00.000-07:00

My birthday was like any other day. We woke up to Mia’s babbling at 5.30am. Unlike when she was a ‘new’ baby and had me sprinting out of bed, her morning babble got the usual reaction from me. I slunk deeper under the doona hoping she would perhaps go back to sleep. I hope every morning. Every morning she continues the gibberish till she realises that no one has responded to her yet. Then there are a series of grumpy, staccato bub-bub-bub-bubs followed by a screech. BAAAARGH. It is an imperial command for us to respond without any further delay. I slink lower and Partner happily goes into her room, changes her, cuddles her and then brings her into our bedroom. My birthday was pretty much the same except that Partner entered the room dancing with his daughter in his arms and singing Happy Birthday. Mia thought it was a much better start to the morning and responded gleefully. Bub-bub-bub-bubbab-BUB!

Mia at her tanty best

Then she proceeded to refuse to eat her cereal, wanting to dip her hands into the bowl, throwing her spoon to the ground (numerous times) and blowing into her cup instead of drinking from it. Like every other day. I quickly learned that when you are a mother – or a parent – your birthday does not matter. The rest of the day followed our usual pattern except she didn’t want her afternoon sleep and insisted on wanting to stand all day. That’s her new thing, holding herself upright. Since she cannot balance yet she usually holds on to arms on chairs or her cot railing. Only on my birthday she wanted to stand all day BUT she wanted to stand holding my shoulders and nothing else.

Then Partner came back from work with the most gorgeous flowers ever. Even as I removed the various layers of wrapping from the bouquet and put the flowers in a vase, Partner surprised me with a little cake (even had a lit candle on top). I was really touched. I don’t remember having a cake only for me in a very long time. I know I can bake but it’s just a tad silly baking a birthday cake for yourself. Mia probably sensed there was something different happening and showed her approval by flailing her arms and legs in her favourite bhangra move. Bub-ub-bub-ub-bubaaaa. Then there was a fight because she really didn’t want to go to bed and wanted instead to investigate that interesting thing on the table with the fluffy white stuff. By the time she finally went to bed, I was bloody grumpy. And tired.

The next morning (Saturday) I woke up in a foul mood. I am not a morning person. Actually I am not even a person till I have my first cup of coffee. So I marched downstairs, ignoring the cooing coming from Mia’s room – Partner, as usual, was changing her – and headed for the kitchen. As I passed the Area Under the Stairs – where we keep the laundry basket – I nearly tripped on a sole sock. I kicked it vehemently and swore at it. It didn’t respond. On some bizarre coffee-deficient impulse I decided to put the clothes in for a wash. I yelled out and asked Partner if there were any clothes in the bedroom upstairs, he said there were none. A cup of coffee and some sanity later – still seething though – I went upstairs. Mia and Partner were sitting in the bed, playing. They both grinned at me and just as they did, I noticed a pile of Partner’s clothes lying next to the bed. I let lose. I pointed a finger in righteous anger: I asked if there any more clothes! What the hell are those? Just because I am at home do you think all I want to do everybloodyday is run after socks? And wash them? And dry them? And then put them away? And do the wholedamnthing again? Partner stopped smiling, Mia started grinning and did some bhangra, yay, action. I stomped out of the room and went into the toilet.

Later Partner announced we were going out. I didn’t argue because I couldn’t trust myself to say a word. We drove up to Newport and Partner pulled over outside a café. Just as I was about to declare that I really didn’t want another coffee and maybe he should’ve asked me what I wanted, he pointed and said, “You are booked in there baba, happy Mother’s Day.” I looked. It was a spa. I got a foot massage, a full body massage and a head massage*. All the things I absolutely love.

I haven’t felt that good, physically, in ages. As I walked towards Mia and Partner waiting for me outside the café, I felt strange. He was smiling at me, expectantly, hesitantly. I could see the question on his face – Did she like the massage? Mia was sitting in the café high chair, her cheeks rosy from the cold but she was happily eating her biscuit. She saw me and her eyes lit up. Bub-bubbbbb! I felt like a total heel, an absolute arsehole. I felt I didn’t deserve them. “That was absolutely brilliant, thankyou. I am such a bitch. I am sorry,” I said in a single breath. “I am glad you liked it. It’s all right,” Partner said, picking up our stuff and walking towards the car.

Why had I been acting like a jerk? Because somewhere I felt I could get away with it.

I remembered what my mother told me when we were returning from India (March 2011). “You’ve had a lot of things happen to you. You’ve known unhappiness, loneliness. Now finally you have everything you wished for. He has made it happen. Don’t take him for granted.” I remembered what my boss – one of the best boss’s I’ve worked with – said the night of our farewell party in India (June 2008) – “JB, bahut ho gaya, make this work.” I felt I had let them down, let Partner down.

As we went to bed that night and Partner pulled me closer and cuddled me, I asked, “Am I bitch?” I didn’t explain, he didn’t need to ask.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
(Laughter) “Yes. But then, you are a funny creature.”

I have written umpteen posts on men who don’t treat women right. At 32 I’ve learned that I can be as nasty as those men. I’ve also written strongly about how you shouldn’t let yourself be taken for granted. At 32 I’ve learned that I can take people – particularly those who love me most – for granted as well. At 32 I have learned that there are times when I am self-centered, rude, hurtful, aggressive and generally not a nice person… It’s not a nice feeling. How do I change that?

PS: *had the massage at the Indera Day Spa. Awesome massage, very good staff, highly recommend it.

Dead on target

2011-05-03T16:40:00.000-07:00

Gulp: Skarsgård as Eric Northman

Should a book be made into a movie/teleserial or should it be left alone? Can the onscreen version sometimes better the printed version? If you have read a certain book, should you watch the movie/serial? Personally I am quite undecided on those questions. I love the Harry Potter books and it took me a while to warm to the movies and perhaps watch them out of loyalty towards the books.

However, when it comes to the Southern Vampire mystery series by Charlaine Harris -- the Sookie Stackhouse series or now as they're known as HBO's True Blood series -- I veer towards the TV series by just that much. I've quite enjoyed the books but I am really enjoying the televised version as well. Maybe it has to do with hottie Alexander Skarsgård who plays former-viking-now-vampire-sheriff Eric Northman. I love Skarsgård because he can play a devious vampire and still have the comic timing of Meekus in Zoolander.

I loved Eric Northman's character in the books as well. He is everything a vampire should be and everything bloody Edward Cullen is not. For those who possibly live under a rock and go Edward Cullen who? He's the rosy-lipped, emaciated, vegetarian, joke-of-a-glittering-bloody-vampire in Stephenie Meyer's ridiculous Twilight series. But this post isn't about Twilight, it's about Sookie Stackhouse and author Charlaine Harris's books -- first written in 2001-- that have made a comeback and how.

HBO-inspired cover

Like many other people, I picked up the first book in the series -- Dead until Dark -- due to the publicity surrounding True Blood. I found the TV-inspired book cover quite cheeky. But it was the original cover for the series -- designed by Lisa Desimini -- that totally hooked me. I *adore* the cover art. Awesome interpretation of each of the books and I love the colour pencil + water colour effect. Ever since buying the first one I've made it a point to buy the books with the Desimini designed covers. The non-sketched covers are plain tacky.

So far there are 11 books in the series, with the 11th installment -- Dead Reckoning -- released on May 3rd 2011. There have been three seasons of the TV show with the fourth one to air in June 2011. While the latest book has left me somewhat cold (hah), I am quite looking forward to the show.

What do I like about the (book) series? Heaps of things, like vampires. I enjoy vampire fiction. Correction: I enjoy smart vampire fiction since Twilight even though it is (ostensibly) about vampires is one of my most-hated books. In my opinion vampires have overtaken superheroes, anti-heroes and romantic heroes as viable protagonists. There are many reasons for it but since they make a potential thesis, it'll have to suffice to say that vampires make a sort of all-in-one package. They have superpowers (flying, super-speed, immense strength, telepathy, hypnotism etc), they could have moral dilemmas (to eat or not to eat the heroine usually or to instantly kill or slowly torture), they can be eternal lovers (undead anyone?) and they are allegedly bloodydarnedgood in bed. When it comes to the sex, I think I'd choose Eric Northman over Harry Potter* any day. And for any of you who've been reading this blog, you know that's a HUGE declaration for me. (* I am not a cougar!)

As for Charlaine Harris's writing, I've always been partial to smashing openings in books. Writers who don't dawdle and give me an instant hit. From JK Rowling, Kate Atkinson (Behind the Scenes At The Museum), Terry Pratchett, Sara Douglass (Battleaxe etc) and many other authors I enjoy, they have all hooked me from the first para or first chapter. CH also delivers the same punch and maintains it throughout most of her series. The Sookie Stackhouse series are meant to be a pacy read and they don't disappoint.

Much before Meyer came up with the stupid idea of glittering vampires, CH had come up synthetic blood, voluntary blood donations (from humans) and the idea that vampires are trying to merge into mainstream society and have rights (haha). As a premise I find it much more believable and intriguing than vegetarian vampirism. There's a fair bit of reference --perhaps even deference -- to Anne Rice's vampire series based in and around Louisiana (Interview With A Vampire, Vampire Lestat etc). For most part, CH remains true to (established) vampire lore. Vampires need human blood. Vampires cannot come out in the sun. Vampires have bloody fangs and not teeth like horses AND vampires cannot have babies. Dead things cannot produce sperm. Someone please tell Stephenie Meyer.

Unique, like-able, flawed characters and a killer pace have also kept my interest in the series. Human or supernatural, all major characters undergo some sort of a transformation through the series. CH might not be heralded as the next-big-thing in literature (fiction) but she writes well and (usually) knows how to tell a good story. However, I have noticed continuity errors and inconsistency as the series have progressed. Sometimes it feels CH is thinking of the TV series and writing the novels. That said, let me warn those only watching the TV series, the story line veers quite significantly from the books.

I also quite enjoy the amorality of the series. CH is not shy of some "fangbanging*" -- Eric Northman likes monkey sex (Dead Reckoning), ahem -- and makes her characters more real. Like Sookie declares she isn't "that kind of a girl" -- who ever does? -- but starting from being a virgin has managed to (fang)bang four men in a matter of a couple of years. While the initial books in the series make attempts at social statements -- veiled references to various intolerances ranging from religious to racial and homophobia -- the later books stick firmly with Sookie and the supernatural happenings around her. The books are not without their irritating quotient though. (*Fangbangers = those who bang those with fangs, i.e. humans sleeping with vampires)

For one, the number of times Sookie shaves her legs REALLY bothers me. At least thrice in the latest installment if I remember correctly. Hasn't the woman heard of waxing? The whole being-a-fairy plotline also grates. There is enough happening with the vampire politics, werewolf takeovers, possible government uses of Sookie's telepathic powers and the many love angles without the need for the whole grandma-slept-with-a-fairy thing. I am finding it quite tedious. Till book 6 at least (Definitely Dead) there was a main plot focus in each book while the continuing subplots played themselves out. From dealing with local intolerance to Sookie's growing involvement in vampire/werewolf politics, the books seemed to follow a well-plotted arc, till the bloody fairies stepped in. I found the story getting unnecessarily convoluted and even though I am reading about vampires I still had some WTF moments; and not good ones. Having said that and even though CH has refused to comment in exactly how many books there will be; I'll continue reading the series. I do want to know what happens.

Verdict: Definitely pick up the books if you are not watching the series, they make for a fun read. Pick up the books anyway if you're curious about what happens next. If you are not, sticking only with the TV series is not a bad option, it's a helluva show. Did I mention I also love the names of the books?
The books in correct reading order:

Dead Until Dark (2001)
Living Dead in Dallas (March 2002)
Club Dead (May 2003)
Dead to the World (May 2004)
Dead as a Doornail (May 2005)
Definitely Dead (May 2006)
All Together Dead (May 2007)
From Dead to Worse (May 2008)
Dead and Gone (May 2009)
Dead in the Family (May 2010)
Dead Reckoning (May 2011)

So (not) MILF

2011-05-01T16:34:00.000-07:00

Another four days and I’ll be 32. Frankly I don’t want to be 32 and if you asked me – even if you didn’t – I’m not ready for it. I’d barely turned 30 and now I’m being told it’s been two years since. When the hell did that happen? How?

I’ve been in a bit of a funk for some time now, the blog silence being one of the resultant ramifications. There have been other ones too. Like not wanting to get a pedicure, a refusal to wear low-waist jeans and an absolute hatred for anything labeled ‘anti-ageing’. I don’t bloody need it all right? Even if I have Olay’s Total Effects anti-ageing cream for the mornings, the skin-revival night cream and three different brands of foundation to ‘make you look five years younger’. It’s evil how the number of reduced years promised on anti-ageing paraphernalia is inversely proportional to the number of years you add on. I really didn’t want to look 10 years younger when I was 25 but I could do with it now. I am pretty certain I don’t want to feel 22 but I wouldn’t mind looking it. Not one bit.

Like the other night when we attended this 21^st birthday party. There were all these dewy-looking I-hate-to-say-it, ‘youngsters’ – even the boys were bloody glowing – and there was me cradling Mia, feeling supremely jealous. Even though Partner said I looked good, unprompted. I wore a red dress in silk, fitted and well-tailored and with a fair bit of boobage. Let me clarify that I was not flaunting my assets; I simply cannot escape the boobage. The boobs aren’t going anywhere. Even if there are times – and often – when I want to leave them on my bedside table. There’s been a fair bit of boob-related writing on this blog and I’m not surprised to tell you – and bet you aren’t surprised either – that I still haven’t found any happy state of coexistence with my boobs. In fact it’s getting worse. Like this post was NOT supposed to be a boob post but look how they’ve taken over! See what I mean?

Perhaps it’s not just the boobs. I’m finding it pretty darn hard relating to some other aspects of my current situation/status/whateveryouwannacallit as well. I LOVE being a mother. I live and breathe Mia and if I could, I’d probably eat her as well she’s so darned cute. I’m pretty sure I’ve eroded her cheeks by the constant kissing. BUT. I really don’t want my boobs to constantly declare, “I am a Mam and these are my Mammaries”. And I don’t want to be a MILF simply because I’m not very certain about the ILF bit. (sigh) And my belly. No matter how hard I pull in and even when I wear a size 8 Nancy Ganz – all other clothes are now firmly size 10-12 – there is some bit of it still showing. “You’ll never look like a girl anymore JB,” my MIL said couple of weeks back. I know, I know and it’s all right but I really could do without having to use clothes clips to fold my tummy into my jeans waistband.

Or being told, “A bit of a cougar are you?” when I asked about a rather ~~tasty~~ nice looking young man at the 21^st. Here I was perving at a younger man and everyone at the dining table – ie Partner and his parents – thought it was hugely funny. I was hoping for some reaction from Partner, certainly not a guffaw. In fact Partner laughs each time I try to make him jealous. For instance the other day when we went for Mia’s swimming classes. Instead of being a dedicated mother oohing over her baby’s swimming prowess, I spent the half hour perving at this really hot-bod Chinese dad. He had Jay Z’s body and even though he was in a budgy smuggler he carried himself regally, like Katsumoto from The Last Samurai, if you know what I mean. So I told Partner later and all I got from him was “You little perv” and a wink. Huh? What about some jealousy then? A feeling of I-better-watch-my-wife*? Or a little uncertainty about his body perhaps? Maybe even a slight worry about the spark in our relationship? And how come I started thinking/feeling all that when I was the one doing the perving?

So not milf material. :(

(PS: *wife. It’s a technicality and I am not one technically.)

Happy new year then

2010-12-22T22:33:00.000-08:00

This bit was written on Tuesday but not uploaded as baby started crying and couldn't manage any time since: GAH. I had planned to put a post up in the morning sometime. What with Christmas baking, box-making, baby-handling and more baking, just have not been able to. I am trying real hard to get better organised but somehow the moment Mia hears the word 'organised', she decides she doesn't like the idea. Anyway. We will be leaving for the family holiday home on Friday and I don't know if I'll be able to put up anything till after the new year. In case I cannot -- most probably not -- here's wishing you all a very merry Christmas and an absolutelybrilliantbloody year ahead. Hope you've got some great plans ahead.

As far as I am concerned, my plans extend till March. Rather my only plan is to finish the manuscript by March. Though Partner would like me to think in terms of a 10-year plan -- "Where do you see yourself in 10 years" he asked the other day -- I have a huge problem doing that. Even hypothetical 10-year-planning is kind of impossible for me. So far whenever I have planned, I've had things going belly-up on me. In fact each time I plan, life and the situation goes so, so against the plans and often in ways that I couldn't have even imagined, I am bloody scared of long-term planning. Short term it is for me. The current short-term for me is the Christmas break. Here's my plan(s) for the holidays:

1. If it's hot, go for a swim in the ocean.
2. Buy new bras. (again)
3. Get a massage.
4. Give myself a manicure.
5. Read.

I haven't read in ages. Actually I read some a couple of months back -- The Help was in that list -- but somehow it feels like its been a while. Got hold of some new and old books that I intend to finish in the coming 10 days. Here's my holiday reading list:

1. One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez: I used to own a copy, till I made the mistake of lending it to Partner. This was when we had started dating and he hadn't yet become Partner. The book had been a gift from a fun French guy I knew (and dated for a bit). It had a lovely message from him on the front page. Partner borrowed it to read on his flight back home. That was the last I saw of the book. When asked what happened to the book, Partner said he threw it.

2. A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian, Marina Lewycka: My mother-in-law's recommendation and her book as well. "Extremely funny" according to The Times and "Outstanding" according to the Daily Mail. "Mad and hilarious" adds the Daily Telegraph. Neither the name of the book nor the design is anything that would have made me pick it up at a bookstore. But mum (Ma is my mother, mum is mother-in-law) and I have a somewhat similar reading taste. So I think I will like this one. I am also forever open to reading something different, good and someone new. Can't wait to read it.

3. The Time Traveler's Wife, Audrey Niffenegger: Recommended by Happy's (not real name) mum from my mothers' group, her book as well. It was quite nice to walk back from the doctor and find the book sitting at my doorstep. Happy's mum had some interesting things to say about the book, let's see how I go with it.

This bit is being written today, if you are reading this, it has obviously been uploaded. Baby should be waking up soon, let's do this fast: Tomorrow we head off to Torquay. I love that place. It's close to Melbourne for a quick drive yet always gives me the feeling of going on a holiday. And god knows I need a holiday. Partner needs it even more than I do.

Maybe it's because I've had a late initiation into the whole Christmas-craziness thing, but I'm absolutely loving it. Perhaps also because I've not had years of having to wonder "So what do I buy for gifts this time?" The cake in the picture is one of the cake's I'm taking; perhaps we'll have it for Christmas-night dinner. It's a chocolate cake with buttercream icing and alternate layers of strawberries and raspberries. Tomorrow it will get a layer of sinfully-delicious ganache on it. My Christmas gifts are also handmade but I cannot tell you right now because I don't want the family to know yet. If I can manage the time (and Mia), I intend to take a hummingbird cake and some home-baked white bread as well. I made the bread the other day and Partner said it was fantastic.

This Christmas is also special because it's going to be Mia's first. Next year I might put up a tree as well. It's funny how as a kid (and watching 'foreign') movies I'd wondered why we didn't put up a tree. I used to hang a stocking next to my bed as well. That was before I began to realise the whole "I'm a Hindu" and "Christmas is for Christians" differentiation. And that despite Hollywood movies saying Santa Claus has a gift for every child in the world, the "every" meant only Christian kids. What was really, really nice though was that Ma never stopped me from putting up that stocking. I don't recall her ever telling me the Hindu-Christian difference either. I probably picked that up at school.

I am looking forward to the week ahead. To be amid family, all of whom are mad in varying degrees. Of course that includes me; one of the reasons we all get along so well. It's my third new year in Australia and I am absolutely loving being surrounded by people I love. Since I started living away from my parents (2000), I've spent far too many new years either heart-broken and lonely or out of my wits with alcohol and other assorted intoxicants. I am not sorry if some of you out there don't like that fact. I got an email the other day, as usual from someone anonymous. About how they were a fan of Emancipation of Eve but how they won't be reading anymore because now I "only write about my white Partner and life abroad". I am sorry that you are upset that I am happy. But I'd rather have you upset and me happy than the other way round.

For 2011 I wish to do the following:
1. Finish The Book.
2. Start an exercise regime, even if it means going for a 30-minute walk with Mia in the pram.
3. Start my stretching exercises for the back before I get bed-ridden.
4. Stop all carbonated drinks and shut my eyes even if I see a poster for Coke.
5. Try not to eat the left-over icing from various cakes.
6. Bake more and try baking stuff that's original. How bad can mixing butter, flour and eggs in different proportions be?
7. Have LOTS of sex. Avoid babies. As in having anymore!
8. Drink at least 5 glasses of water everyday, take it up to 8. Most days I only manage two, I am horrible.
9. Start swimming. Take Mia swimming as well.
10. EARN MONEY IN SOME WAY. OR THE OTHER.
11. Read at least one good book a month.
12. Try all the recipes from at least one of the cook books I own.
13. Quit smoking. (No comments on that one people.)

I think I heard Mia babbling. That means she's had a good sleep. I LOVE it each time she wakes up. When I go next to her cot, she looks right into my eyes and flashes the mostamazinglybrilliant grin at me. Then she stretches her arms and does this jittery-dancy-thing, which means she is very happy to see me. Seriously, I don't think anyone has ever been as happy to see me. And I don't even have to get naked for her. Or wax. I love her totally, completely, absolutely. She's my baby girl.

See you in the new year folks. Have a good one. Be happy. If you can't, get drunk. Tequila's always good. Hugs and all.

Mondeh

2010-12-20T03:24:00.000-08:00

Phew. It's been a busy five days. My back is sore. Actually sore is an understatement, it's f*cked. Have a crazy desire to just sit down and finish the Book, but it will have to wait till new year. I AM going to get cracking after that. Desperately need a four-hour body massage while I sleep through it. Need to buy new clothes for Mia, that makes two of us with nothing to wear.

Whole lot of cooking/baking for the week ahead. Somewhat nervous if I'd be able to pull it off as Mia seems to be teething again. She has her front two teeth out but her cheeks are again a brilliant red, she's drooling more and she just had one of the worst crying fits ever. Just like the last time, she doesn't want to eat, wants to be constantly held and cannot sleep since she is hungry. Bonjela teething gel did not work at all and it was only once Partner suggested baby Panadol that the poor bub settled. I want to write but I'm very tired, stressed about the amount of hair I'm losing everyday -- molting worse than Billy -- and my back really, really hurts. When I stop thinking about my back hurting I remember that my right wrist has also now been really, really hurting for the last three months. Happy Monday eh? These are some of the pics of what I've been up to for the last five days...

I am scared of getting under the shower now. Each time, and I mean eachbloodytime, I am losing this and sometimes more.
Soon my hair will look like Mia's; I wouldn't mind her skin though.

She looks unhappy here because she insisted I was abusing her right to privacy by uploading her pic here. I told her that the only 'right' I know is the one where mom is always right. But. Imagine if tomorrow all the mommy bloggers' kids grow up traumatised because their lives have been open to the whole world. Truman Shows all around and the mums will be to blame.

She showed her frustration by giving a good hiding to Winnie the Pooh (good Christmas deals at K-Mart people, check it out). I think she meant to tell me she's not scared of taking on anyone bigger than her.

Then over the weekend we couldn't find Billy. Only to later find him in Mia's aunty's room. He said he was looking for the Christmas decorations and wishes everyone a merry Christmas.

I also baked another chocolate chiffon cake. It was meant for the annual-friends-Xmas-barbeque. I didn't end up taking it because Melbourne got rainy, the bbq got cancelled and we all -- Mia and two babies included -- ended up at the Lord Newry Hotel, north Fitzroy.

And the cake ended up getting a layer of luciously tart and ripe raspberries and became Saturday-night dessert for the four of us -- Mia's Nanna and Pop, Partner and I. Mia also got a weeeeee bit of chocolate cake. While so far she has refused any form of fruit or vegetable, she didn't seem to have any problems with the chocolate. Worrying.

Thursday, I made tomato-and-goat's-cheese flan again. This was my second time and again it made me happy That cook book stand in the background is from a cafe in Torquay. As in, the cafe also sells decorative homeware. I have plans of painting it bright red.

This is what the flan looked like pre-baking. I modified the recipe and chucked in some diced bacon as well. It's really easy and really tasty. Of course I will be putting up the recipe soon. That's my new Wiltshire pie-pan.

This is the baked flan. Partner quite likes it, which is a boon given how fussy he can sometimes be.

Today I baked some simple white bread. It turned out quite well, the crust was awesome. So much so that Partner cut himself slices and ate without any cajoling. He even gave me a 4.5/5 score. When I asked about the missing 0.5, he said, "Can't give a perfect score." ;)

After the bread I made some JB special green chicken curry in coconut milk. While usually I make it with zucchini, I also used a red and yellow pepper today. We both had two bowlfuls.

I do like cooking. But writing is my first love. After Christmas then, the Book. I've got to finish it.

tried and tasted: Red Velvet Cake

2010-12-15T03:13:00.000-08:00


Late Xmas Cake, born 2pm, dead 2.05pm

I had planned to put this up in the morning, but things haven't gone exactly to plan today. Mia has been great, no tantrums, happily smiling and playing. The downside of a happy baby is that a happy baby usually happens when said baby gets a lot of attention from mum. Yours truly was also trying to keep the baby happy while baking a Christmas cake. This was to be my first attempt at a Christmas cake. It turned out beautifully. And then turned on to the floor. I also singed my arm with the very hot springform pan and now have two welts to show for it. But the destroyed cake hurt much more. Now I am trying to salvage the cake by smothering it in brandy and wrapping it in rolls of plastic wrap. They do say brandy heals everything, let's see.

I'd baked the red velvet cake a couple of weeks earlier and it was a heart-breaker for two reasons.

Firstly because the cake was marvelous. The texture was absolutely divine, more like eating watered silk than velvet. I was using 'cake flour' for the first time and I must say I've quite enjoyed the result. Cake flour* is lighter than regular flour and produces cake with a more delicate texture. I was also very intrigued about the use of vinegar in the cake and was a bit hesitant at first. A little reading up later, I learnt that the vinegar and buttermilk used in the recipe actually make the cocoa release a red pigment called, 'anthocyanin'. The recipe is from one of my favourite baking websites, Joy of Baking -- access the original recipe here -- I've followed it down to the letter, with the exceptions of the red colour, cake flour and buttermilk, i.e. instead of store-bought cake flour and buttermilk, I made mine. I also used only 1 tablespoon of red colouring instead of two, didn't want it overly red. Oh yes, I also don't use mascarpone in my icing.

Partner was the second reason for the cake being a heart-breaker. Since Partner quite likes chocolate cake, I was hoping he would love this cake. I was so wrong. It was hate at first sight. "Why is it red?" he shrieked. I explained all about the anthocyanin, he looked even more skeptical. "I like chocolate cake that is chocolate." That was before I iced the cake with the cream-cheese frosting. Once that was done I begged, cajoled, pleaded for him to at least try onebloodybite. To no avail. He almost did a Mia-tantrum -- body rigid, legs straight out, mouth tightly shut, arms flailing -- when I tried to sort of force-feed him a bit of cake. Sigh.

Can't get worse than this; woman loves to bake, man won't eat, woman eats all cake, gets fat. But the cake's absolute divinity.

RED VELVET CAKE
Prep time: 20 mins, bake time: 30 mins

INGREDIENTS

CAKE:

2 ½ cups (250 grams) sifted* cake flour*

½ TSP salt

2 TBS (15 grams) cocoa powder

½ cup (113 grams) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 ½ cups (300 grams) granulated white sugar

2 large eggs

1 TSP pure vanilla extract

1 cup (240 ml) buttermilk*

2 TBS liquid red food coloring

1 TSP white vinegar

CREAM CHEESE FROSTING:

16 ounces (454 grams) cream cheese, room temperature

½ cup (113 grams) unsalted butter, room temperature

2 cups (220 grams) powdered or icing sugar, sifted

1 TSP pure vanilla extract

METHOD

Buttermilk can be purchased or you can make the buttermilk by mixing 1 TBS of white distilled vinegar/cider vinegar, or lemon juice to 1 cup (240 ml) of milk. Allow this mixture to stand for 5-10 minutes before using.
If you cannot purchase cake flour -- because you can't find it, like I couldn't -- make your own by mixing all-purpose flour and cornflour to the ratio of 3:1, ie. for 240 gm cake flour, use 180gm all-purpose flour with 60 gm cornflour.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). For fan-forced ovens, keep temperature 10 degrees lower. Butter/grease two 9 inch (23 cm) round cake pans and line the bottoms with baking paper ('butter' paper in India). Set aside.
Sift together the flour, salt, and cocoa powder and set aside.
In a bowl, beat the butter until soft; then add the sugar and beat until light and fluffy.
Add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. If the batter is sticking to the sides, scrape down as needed.
Add the vanilla extract and beat until combined.
Whisk together the buttermilk and red food colouring in a cup. Keeping the beater/mixer on low speed, alternately add the flour mixture and buttermilk to the butter mixture, in three additions, beginning and ending with the flour.
Combine vinegar and baking soda in another cup; allow the mixture to fizz and then quickly fold into the cake batter.
As the soda starts working instantly with the acid, work quickly and divide the batter evenly between the two prepared pans, smoothing the tops with a spoon/spatula if needed. Bake for approximately 25 - 30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the centre of the cakes comes out clean. Cool the cakes in their pans on a wire rack for 10 minutes.
Once the cakes have completely cooled, wrap in plastic and place the cake layers in the refrigerator for at least an hour (or overnight). This is done to make filling and frosting the cakes easier.
Cream Cheese Frosting: Beat butter and cream cheese until the texture is smooth and creamy. Gradually beat in the powdered sugar until completely mixed in and smooth. Beat in the vanilla extract.
Assembling the cake: Cut each cake layer in half, horizontally. Place one of the cake layers -- top facing down -- on a cutting board/plate. Spread the cake layer with a layer of icing. Place another layer of cake on top of the icing and continue to ice and stack the cake layers. Ice the top and sides of the cake.
I garnished my cake with shaved/grated chocolate.

Source: Joy of Baking.com

The Help

2010-12-14T02:18:00.000-08:00

How many of you have maids at home? Or have had a plumber/electrician working in the house? Or hired farm hands? And how many times have you had a 'different' cup for them to drink tea/water from? 'Different' meaning not your for-regular-use cups, definitely not your special cups, but cups that are somewhat chipped, or discoloured, or with the handle missing. Cups you don't drink from. Cups with a lower social standing on your kitchen shelf.

I have always had a maid -- sometimes two -- when I was growing up. And I clearly remember there always being a designated 'maid's cup' in the house.
We weren't royalty or politically established or even rich, but the maids didn't sit on the chairs when watching TV with us. No one ever asked them to, and they knew better than to ask. Their social standing (or sitting) extended to the carpet or on the floor. Maids -- when they ever were offered something to eat -- were never served in glassware. They were always served in steel plates, preferably the ones that were slightly bent from all the washing. (Steel is considered 'common' in India, poor people have steel, rich people have crystals and Army houses have La Opala) The maids were also only offered left-overs. It wasn't just so in my house, I've seen it in every Indian home I've been to.

Maids also never used the toilet in the house. I had never thought about where our/the maids went to pee -- I mean they must have wanted to go some day if there were working 2-3 hours at a stretch? -- till I read Kathryn Stockett's The Help. The book stunned me. It also shamed me. "Three ordinary women are about to take one extraordinary step," declares the front cover of The Help (2009), the author's debut novel. It took Ms Stockett five years to complete it and was rejected by 45 literary agents. The story takes place in 1960s Jackson, Mississippi and is narrated through the voices of its three main characters. Two of those women are black and are house-helps, or maids, as they are called in India. Or even 'servants' by some.

I picked up the book quite per chance. I was manouvering my way inside The Sun Bookshop -- it's small, I had a pram -- looking for something to read. There was nothing new from my favourite science-fiction-fantasy authors and whatever other SFF there was, I was quite reluctant to try. The reluctance was due to my recent experience with China Miéville's Kraken; still trying to read, bookmark firmly in place, no success. This is the first time I'm reading him and both the book and his writing have just not done it for me. Perhaps I'm neither smart nor cool enough for Mr Miéville. So I was browsing around when I noticed the sticker on The Help. The bookstore people had helpfully selected 50 books that they deem are "Must Read" for 2010. Despite my natural aversion towards anything (anyone) that tells me to "Must", I picked up this book. And I'm happy to tell you it has since found a place in my all-time favourites list. Once I get it back from my mother-in-law, I'm going to give it a second read.

Right from the first passage, I couldn't put The Help down. Perhaps because the first passage had to do with settling a colicky baby. No, it's not a baby-rearing book, but dude, I tried the trick from the book on Mia and it worked. Baby-settling apart, I absolutely loved the characters. Each voice is distinct and despite no chapter names and first person narration, you know who's talking. For a novel about house helps and one with minimal male-characters, no sex and no titillation of any kind, the pace is good. Usually I get quite bored when there's the mandatory 'back story' or character introspection happening; not so with The Help. The story flows so beautifully that I wanted to know what happened next. And I cared about what happened next. Can't say that about many books I've read recently.

And it made me look at myself honestly. And realise I am as prejudiced as the next person. As racist. As classist as Miss Hilly. As self-righteous, head-stuck-in-my-arse as every other person who thinks they own someone just because they are paying them wages. And like every other person who's had a maid in India, I've argued about giving her a raise of Rs 200. And had a stupid cocktail for Rs 500 the same night. I am ashamed.

But don't let all that scare you. Read The Help, it's a bloody good book.

Company of women

2010-12-12T23:18:00.000-08:00

Much as I love my baby, there are times when I've just had enough. Moments when I'm *this* close to wearing my pyjamas on my head and running around the house screaming. Or sprawled on the floor, kicking my heels and bawling my guts out; my pyjamas still on my head. While these moments have nothing to do with Mia, they have everything to do with babies. Rather 'talking' babies. All the time. Whenever I meet someone, anyone. I really cannot handle it anymore. I want a real conversation, something that doesn't involve saying "Whoozh ma bebbee gurl" or dancing to "Sippy cup, sippy cup" or "Whatta lotta potta yu haf dunnnn" or discussing said potta with various mothers.

It's like I don't know anything else anymore. Partner comes back from work, goes, "How was your day?" and I launch into the physics of how many cloth nappies/towels it takes to ensure baby projectile spew does not get onto the bedroom carpet or on our mattress. The answer is three towels with a whole lot of it on mummy. Or how I think it's after she has had one-third of the fourth bottle of formula that her poo gets "nuggety". Partner's description, not mine. I usually yell, "Oh no she's doing chickpeas again." Then I forget to ask him how his day was and instantly go on to, "Do you want to hold the baby or..." The "or" is left hanging for long enough to not be an "or" anymore.

Before the baby I used to dread talking to women/people because sooner or later it came to relationship talk. It's not always bad, relationship talk; but it's bloody tedious when someone just goes ON dissecting his/her relationship. Especially when you can see it's a no-brainer and a definite disaster but cannot tell the person. It's worse when you are the one doing it, you know you're doing it but cannot stop. It's a different matter when relationship talk is about ways of getting over the ex and it involves a lot of 'action'. ;) It's somewhat the same with baby-talk. You hate it when (m)others have nothing else to talk but babies and yet you are very much a part of the same brigade.

I had been *this* close to completely losing my shit (would that still be called constipation?).Till thankfully two friends came to the rescue. Two women, different age groups, on two different days. I am so glad I got off my lazy bottom and met them. It was absolutely fantastic and very surprising because it was so fantastic. It always surprises me when I have a good time with another woman. There was a bit of baby-talk but there was a whole lot of talking about different things as well. Like Julian Assange. Or chauvinistic men and how they are the same in India and Australia. (Liberation my arse) And why we should sue people who dismiss us unfairly (all three of us had stories). About bringing up kids, how our parents brought us up, what we do well, what we don't, what we think about things. It was such a mental stimulation and *such* a relief.

And all the while we talked, Mia kept babbling right along. She likes a good conversation too. Who do you prefer as 'conversation company': men or women?

PS: This is the chocolate chiffon cake I made the other day -- the one where I ate the icing? -- with pictures from before and after the chocolate-butter filling and ganache. I'm in love with it. Recipe to follow soon.

Pandora?

2010-12-11T20:43:00.000-08:00

Passionfruit flowers in full bloom is like having Pandora in my front courtyard. Once the fruits come -- and hopefully if they aren't all devoured by critters -- I'll try some recipes using passionfruit. Yum.

Tag: Fashion disaster, am I?

2010-12-09T12:56:00.000-08:00

I was tagged for this list on Facebook but I'm completing it here because it makes for a fun post. Despite now owning anything from any of the 'must-have' brands, I don't feel like a fashion disaster. As in, I am a fashion disaster in many ways (another post, another time), but not because I don't do brands. I do own a Dior perfume (J'adore, luuuurve it) but that was a gift from Partner and not something I purchased. Strangely, Partner buys me 'better' stuff -- if you believe that anything branded is better in quality than non-branded stuff -- than I buy for myself. The reasons for this are

(a) I get supremely self-conscious about money I'd spend on a branded item; it's my middle-class background that says any (super)expensive purchase for self is not only unnecessary ("Don't be a show off!"), it's also selfish ("You should save" or "You could spend that on grocery."); and (b) Partner has better taste than me (!) whether its in jewellery or clothes. Unfortunately for poor Partner, it means I drag him for most/every shopping trip. :))

Here goes the tag -- I'd have loved to tag some other bloggers, but don't know who's reading anymore! -- if you haven't done this before and don't mind -- tag-along. Oh yes, I am modifying the list a bit to fit in certain important changes. Like the fact that you might own some stuff but they don't fit anymore!Also since this list seemed aimed more at Indian women, I've also changed/added some stuff to be more world-friendly. :)

How many of these fashion items do you have? A website (*they are not paying me to promote them) has compiled a list of must-have fashion items for men and women .

(1) Copy the list on your blog. (2) Bold those items that you have, italicize the ones you don't fit into anymore!!! (3) If you have an alternate or BETTER brand, write it next to the brands given in red. (4) Tag your friends to see how they're going. Tag me as well so I can see your responses !

Little black dress
Black flats
Gold hoop earrings
Mac waterproof mascara
A black clutch
Sling bag
Gucci /Hermes-Berkin/Chanel/Prada Bag
Light-colored cotton saree/ A vintage summer dress
Summer scarf
Bright-colored umbrella
A red/purple/blue handbag
Over-sized t-shirt
Pencil skirt
Black crepe/georgette saree
Louboutin shoes/high heels
Le Smoking Jacket/Suit By YSL
Trench coat
Crisp white cotton button-down blouse/shirt
Solid wash jeans
Leather jacket
Pair of black pumps
Knee-length boots
Silver earrings/baalis/hoops
Leather / satin/ kid gloves
Sexy black/red stilettos
Turquoise stone bangles
Ipod
Platform shoes
Sexy swimsuit
Toe ring
Tattoo
Black tank-top
Hot pants
Kajal/kohl
Banarasee/Kanjivaram Saree Or an ethnic dress purchased when travelling
Beach sarong
Oversized sunglasses
White salwar kameez/ white pencil pants
An evening gown/ Chic racing wear
Classic leather belt
Lingerie By Victoria's Secret
Summer hat OR a gorgeous racing hat
Chanel/Hugo Boss/Dior/Ysl Perfume
Silk stockings
Iphone
Kundan choker/ studded choker
Pearl necklace
Faux-fur outerwear
Halterneck dress/halter top
Body-piercing
Silver /junk snklet/bracelet/armlet
Clinique set
Churidaar-kameez Or skinny jeans
Platinum band/Ring
Bracelet watch

Confession

2010-12-08T22:38:00.000-08:00

Today I baked a chocolate chiffon cake with a filling of chocolate butter icing and frosted with chocolate ganache. I baked it to celebrate the birthday of one of the mum's in my mothers' group. The girls came home, there were six of us and there's a quarter of the cake left. I am very glad that they liked the cake, that everyone had two servings and we had a relaxed time.

:P What is absolutely sickening though is that once I finished piping the icing and before I washed out the icing gun...
I ate all the remaining chocolate icing. I cleaned the bowl out with my fingers. I even put the icing nozzle in my mouth and squeezed the frosting right into my mouth.

Since Mia's birth -- and sometime before that -- I have eaten umpteen packets of Timtam, many cakes, croissants with dollops of butter on them. I drink full cream milk. I also drink very sweet coffee; two teaspoons of sugar in each cup. Sometimes three cups a day.

But none of the above compares to what I've done in the last month and a half. All by myself, I have drank 15 litres of Coca Cola. I hate myself.

JB's easy chicken curry

2010-12-07T18:42:00.000-08:00

I love a dish that can be whipped up with whatever I have lying around. Well, not literally lying around (what does she feed her family?), but more like what's in the fridge. I love such a dish more so on a day when I'm lazy to go to the supermarket. The stores are pretty close to my house and not much of a walk but packing the baby up etc. takes longer than it would take to shop.

Anyway, I particularly enjoy making something up when the whip-up turns out really tasty and does not require me to prepare a side dish/salad. This chicken curry recipe is a modification of a typical Indian chicken curry.
I made it for dinner last night and we'll be eating the leftovers today. Since it has vegetables in the curry, I happily skipped making any salad and felt really good about serving 'healthy' food. The recipe uses very little oil, mild spices and can include whatever vegies you have in your fridge/pantry. I used carrots, potatoes and zucchini; you could also add capsicum, okra, beans, water chestnuts, eggplant, bamboo shoot, baby corn....the choice is endless. Hope you like this one.

JB SPECIAL: EASY CHICKEN CURRY

Prep time: 15 mins; Cooking time: till chicken and vegies are tender; Serve with rice or rotis

INGREDIENTS

Chicken thigh fillets 400-500 gms

Onions 2 medium, finely chopped

Garlic mince/paste 1 TSP heaped

Tomatoes 3-4, finely chopped

Carrot 1, peeled, diced small

Potato 1, diced small

Zucchini 1, diced small

Canola/veg/olive oil 2 TBS

Cardamom pod 1, slightly crushed

Peppercorns 4

Turmeric powder ½ TSP

Coriander powder 1 TSP, heaped

Garam masala 1 TSP heaped

Red chilli powder ½- 1 TSP

METHOD

Heat oil in deep frying pan/ wok. Once hot, add cardamom and peppercorns and fry for 1 minute.
Add the onions and fry on high heat, stirring so they don't burn till onions turn golden and soft.
Add garlic paste and fry for another minute.
Add tomatoes and cook till tomatoes soften and start releasing water.
Add the turmeric, coriander, garam masala and chilli. Mix in with the tomatoes and cook till water released by the tomatoes is almost halved and the spices give off a 'cooked' aroma.
Add chicken and vegies, mix well, reduce heat and cook for 10 minutes without covering till chicken changes colour. The vegies and the chook should release some water.
Mix thoroughly, cover the pan and cook covered for 10 minutes or so (keeping in mind that the stuff should not start sticking to the bottom of the pan).
Mix again, cover and cook for another 10 minutes; till chicken is cooked and potatoes are soft.
Add 1 cup water and bring to the boil. IF chicken has cooked, your curry is ready. If it's still somewhat uncooked or potatoes are still hard, cover again and cook for another 5-10 minutes.
Serve with roti or rice. :)

Tease

2010-12-06T17:06:00.000-08:00

Harlequin bug aka fire bug

This is what is happening in my courtyard. Everywhere I look these bloody bugs are running around, their bums stuck together, producing baby bugs. I absolutely hate them because a) They are destroying my plants and b) they are having blatant sex in my courtyard while I'm not having any and definitely not any in the courtyard.
I'd spotted these bugs* in early spring and hadn't killed them thinking they looked so pretty and were harmless. I was an absolute idiot. Now they are everywhere and are bloody destructive. I bought some marigold saplings -- apparently marigold has insecticidal properties -- hoping the flowers would deter pests. The saplings were the first to be devoured. Now these bugs are attacking everything from my tomatoes, strawberries, capsicum and chilli plants to my nasturtium saplings (which I grew from seeds) and the passion fruit.
(* the bugs are Harlequin bugs aka fire bugs, scientific name Dindymus versicolor. They are evil. Here's how you get rid of them.)

It's like they mock me by having a bloody party in every corner I look. They are on the wall running up and down. I'm watching TV and then I see them -- bums joined -- scurrying all over the French doors. If not they are prancing on my outdoor-table, line dancing on the clothes line, sunning themselves, getting a tan and just generally lounging around when not generally screwing-around. All this when I've already written about the this-service-is-temporarily-unavailable situation that I've been enduring.

Though yesterday my dear doctor finally gave the go ahead. ("You've been blaming it on the doctor, have you?" she said, I told her she has nice hair). She did say that it could be different. (Please note, not necessarily 'nice' different). While 'physically' everything is in perfect working condition -- please report for regular servicing after six months -- it's the mental-area where there might be problems. No, I am not mental (thankyouverymuch), just that I think I am (I am) a tad anxious.

Then the doctor said that it's a good idea to perhaps build it up, you know, romantically. All my hopes were dashed at that one. Romantic and baby just don't go together in my book. Like romantic dinner = restaurant = who will babysit? Or baby will cry in restaurant. Romantic dinner = at home = who is cooking and who will do the cleaning-up later? Romantic movie = not happening because can't take baby to movie shows. Romantic movie at home = baby teething, uncertain pattern, we ate all the popcorn last night and if I drink anymore Coke I will think about my jelly-belly and that's certainly not romantic. Romantic massage = love the idea, but definitely don't want to give one and what if baby wakes up in the middle of it? Romantic = can't think of anything more and that's the problem.

And then I get stressed with wondering about wonder-when-it-will-happen and go outside for some fresh air and what do I see? Bloody sexually active bugs. I've had it. I'm going to exterminate the last of them and if that means I will be reborn as a bug, so be it.

HELP!!

2010-12-05T19:39:00.000-08:00

Mia in her Bjorn bouncer, napping

It's 2pm and I'm very nervous. Typing this out is also taking a while because I'm hitting the keys very, very gently. I've put the cellphone on silent and have killed two flies who were inside my house and buzzing too loudly. I even ran to the other room when I had a minor sneeze attack. I am dying to have some cold milk but dreading opening the fridge door lest it's too noisy. All this tiptoeing has been going on for the last 40 minutes. Mia is finally asleep and I'm terrified of doing anything that might wake her up. And the only place she'd sleep is in her Bjorn bouncing-chair (I'm in love with it).

Since last Thursday (Dec 2), whenever I'm trying to put her to bed in the morning hours, Mia seems to be fighting with me a lot. That was the first day she was awake for almost 10 hours in the morning. Now it seems she is not only fighting each time I'm trying to put her to bed, she's also fighting each time I try to feed her. Earlier she would drink at least 100 ml straight up, have a play then drink the rest of her milk and go off to sleep (say 180-240 ml in all). Now she drinks say 40-60 ml and then fights, fights, fights if I try to feed her more.

BUT, when she is awake, she seems pretty happy and does not cry. As in the only time she throws a complete fit -- crying, arching back, tears, LOTS of screaming, body-going-rigid -- is WHEN I try to give her more milk once she's drank some (and spat out the bottle). In fact if I even show her the bottle -- and she doesn't want to drink -- she starts grizzling. The moment I put her down or hide the bottle, she starts smiling or babbling and is generally happy. She does finish her feed but instead of her usual patten of eat-play-eat-sleep, she now spreads it out over two hours, without any sleep at the end of it. I don't know what's happening.

Mia will be five months on Dec 17th. Is she big enough to skip morning sleep? Should I stop trying to put her to bed in the morning/afternoon? Will that not overtire her? Is she under-feeding? While she fights in the morning, at night she has her feed and goes to bed with little fighting...and then sleeps for 8-10 hours. Is that all the sleep she needs? Am I getting unnecessarily worked up? Mia's also teething (front two little toothies coming out) and touches/pulls her right ear a lot, even while asleep. She's also started drooling a fair bit and chews on her right index finger.

Is the no-sleep-food-fight behaviour because of teething? I am using a bit of Bonjela teething gel, is there anything else I can use/do? Any of you who have undergone something similar or have any suggestions on what I could do, please share, it would be much appreciated.

PS: To the hour, she's up. I looked at her, she smiled and then blew raspberries at me. Sigh.

i ♥

2010-12-03T20:31:00.000-08:00

Touch of a...

2010-12-02T17:21:00.000-08:00

I was supposed to meet a uni-mate for lunch today. I just cancelled because Mia spewed -- third time in three days -- and is now sleeping. Last night she went to bed about 7pm and slept till 4.30am this morning. She's already done three hours of sleeping (5.30-8.30am) today. Despite all that sleeping, she still spewed. What could it mean?

Since she hasn't been grizzly and has happily chewed on Pinky Boo's arm (bunny in header image), kicked her legs and babbled to Billy, I'm eliminating any illness. Perhaps she's overtired from yesterday(guess work here). She woke up yesterday (after 9 hours of sleep) at 9.30am and did not go to bed till 7pm! I tried putting her to bed at about 2.30pm -- after two hours of meeting other mums and bubs -- but failed. I am mystified and have gone through the baby books at home. Nothing mentions babies suddenly not sleeping one day. Sigh.

Why am I giving you a breakdown here? Because that's pretty much what I do everyday. I monitor Mia constantly and she still manages to confuse me. Like that no-sleeping-thing yesterday. Or the reason why she has spewed thrice. Or when suddenly from being khaki-green and sort of wet-cementy, her poo suddenly turns light lettuce-green and somewhat watery. Or when most of it is khaki green but the borders (well!) are yellow. I have never stared at anyone's poo this diligently, not even mine.

For that matter I've never poked a turd before either. (Warning: this is going to be gross) Like the other day when she poo-ed after two days. Normally I wouldn't have worried but I'd given her some rice cereal and needed to confirm if it was making her constipated. Does this make me sound like an evil mom who's treating her baby as a lab-rabbit? Too bad. I don't have anyone else's baby to try it on there's no other way to find out for sure.

So when she finally poo-ed after two days of smelly farts and a lot of grunting, I looked. And there it was. A cherry-sized turd. Only I hadn't seen a turd before, as in, her turd. I needed to be sure it was a turd and not just her regular poo masquerading as one (can only explain as formula-fed baby = plasticine-like poo = folded nappy = folded poo, looks turdy, is not!) So I wrapped my finger around a wet wipe and poked it. Only Mia kicked right then, nearly slipped off changing mat (kept on slanting washing machine top, I know, sooo bad) and I caught her and while catching her the wipe slipped and my finger went right into the turd. I.n.t.o.

It wasn't squishy, rather a sort-of-solid feeling. I'd probably be able to describe it exactly if it happened again, but I'd rather it didn't happen again. I remained calm. Didn't freak out. Didn't run screaming to the basin. Reminded myself it was only formula in a different shape. And stopped giving anymore cereal to Mia. I think I'll wait for her to be five months before trying again.

Do you have (favourite) poo stories to share? Do tell.

PS: The constipation got worse after that. No more turds but she got really, really gassy and kept curling her legs to her belly and crying. My poor bubba. I dealt with it by giving her a teaspoon of sugar (spare teaspoon) in every bottle of formula after that. This is the tip given in Robin Barker's book, Baby Love. It worked and by the end of 24-hours -- recommended period for trying sugar-shit trick -- she'd stopped being uncomfortable and did a nice, big, normal poo.

PPS: To avoid further episodes, I've started increasing the amount of water in her formula. Eg., instead of 120 ml with two scoops, I mix 125-130ml with two scoops. She refuses to drink water, so that's how I'm giving it to her. Seems to be working.

Weather for aloo kheema

2010-12-01T21:03:00.000-08:00

It's really bizarre weather for almost-approaching-summer. Nature is such a funny thing. For years and years farmers in Australia have cried for rain and there has been none. While this year the rain has been good, now it's raining when the farmers need to be harvesting. The result is spoiled crops, damaged hay and losses. Partner comes from a farming family and it's heartbreaking to see someone work so, so hard and then it all going belly-up. How do farmers do it, whether here or in India? How do they go to work each day, not knowing the outcome? It's such an important job, feeding people, and we think so little about it and about those who do it. Till I met Partner, I had never really thought about 'where' my food comes from or who's responsible for it.

I do love my food though. And when the day is grey and wet like today and has the potential to really depress you, I simply LOVE a good, spicy curry. The mince-potato curry is one of my favourites. It's uncomplicated, quick to cook and always, always satisfies. It's also great for bulk cooking. Got 10 people coming over for dinner? Make this, you won't be disappointed.

MINCE POTATO CURRY/ ALOO KHEEMA

Prep time: 15-20 mins, cooking time: 1½ hours covered; Serve with: Steamed/ boiled and drained rice

Aloo: potato, kheema: mince

INGREDIENTS

Beef/lamb mince 500 gm

Potatoes 4 medium, diced

Tomatoes 3-4, finely chopped

Onions 1-2, finely chopped

Bay leaves 2

Cloves 2

Peppercorns 6

Dried chilli 2

Cardamom 2, slightly crushed

Ginger paste 1 TSP

Garlic paste 2 TSP

Vegetable/canola oil 5 TBS

Turmeric ground ½ TSP

Cumin ground 1 ½ TSP

Coriander ground 1 TSP heaped

Garam masala ground 1 TSP heaped

Red chilli ground/powder 1-2 TSP

Frozen/fresh peas ½ CUP

Fresh coriander to garnish

Salt to taste

Water

METHOD

Heat oil in a deep-bottomed pan. Once the oil is hot, add the dried chillies, cardamom, cloves and peppercorns; cook for a couple of minutes till chillies turn black.
Add onions and cook them, stirring intermittently till they turn golden and soft.
Turn heat up to medium and add the chopped tomatoes. Cook till the tomatoes are soft and pureed but not completely dried out.
Add the turmeric, cumin, coriander, garam masala and chilli powder and cook till the spices are well-blended and ‘smell’ cooked. Keep stirring frequently to mix the spices and tomatoes and to avoid spices sticking to the bottom of the pan. Cook till tomatoes are almost dried out.
Add the potatoes and cook, stirring and mixing for 5 minutes.
Add the mince and cook for another 5 minutes or so till the mince changes colour and is well coated in the spicy mixture. Turn heat up and bring the mix to boil, the mince should start giving out water.
Once it boils, reduce heat and cook till mince dries out a bit.
Add the peas and a cup of water* and stir to mix. Cover and cook till the potatoes can be ‘cut’ with a fork and till the mince is tender. Stir a couple of times while cooking.

NOTES

The amount of water will decide how much ‘gravy’ you have. Since the mince was not browned before adding, it will release water. The tomatoes will release water as well. Adjust your water amount accordingly. However, it’s recommended not to use more than 2 cups else the curry will be too watery.

Diwali with roses

2010-12-01T02:34:00.000-08:00

How many times have you had someone do you a good turn out of the blue? And how often have you wondered if there was a selfish motive behind the deed?

If you've never doubted the motive, lordie, you must be really naive. Or a genuinely nice person (who thinks nice of others as well). I'm neither naive nor nice and usually view good deeds and their doers with some suspicion. I am, however, trying to believe in people more. And sometimes, thankfully, there is reason to.

It was a week before Diwali this year (Nov 5). Like 2009, I wanted to invite family over for dinner. Hopefully, it's going to be a yearly tradition. For those who might not know, I moved to Melbourne in July 2008 and spent most of that year moping. I didn't celebrate any Indian festival because I was too busy missing home and crying about it.

In 2009 I decided to stop moping, move my ample arse and celebrate with the family (like this). My Aussie family joined in with great gusto. Partner wore a kurta both years, I made a rangoli, we put up candles and fairy lights and I even lit my brass lamp with some ghee and cotton wicks ("Wow, you're making ghee candles," said Partner's brother).

Rangoli I made with coloured rice
powder (pink), flour and yellow
lentil

This year I wanted to decorate with marigold flowers as they are the ‘traditional’ flowers used during festival-time in India. However, firstly the marigold here is bloody expensive for strewing on the floor and secondly, they're not the same as the ones in India. Different variety, fewer petals. So I decided on roses and thought I could pick some up from the local florist. The idea was to ask for the wilted roses they didn't sell.

When I walked into the florist (Yarraville Village Flowers, 26 Anderson St, Yarraville) and asked if they could spare some roses, the answer was negative. The florist lady told me that whatever roses didn't go in bouquets were used for funerals. Dejected, I was walking out of the store when she asked me why I needed them. So I told her I wanted to use rose petals to decorate my home for an Indian festival.

"Why don't you ask someone with roses in their gardens? Roses are in full bloom everywhere," she suggested. I told her that since I hadn't (and haven't yet) asked my neighbours over for tea, I couldn't really ask them for flowers. I thanked her again for her interest, bought some calla lilies that had been spray-painted blue (they are white) and started walking out the second time.

"I have roses in my garden," she said, "But they are yellow. If you don't mind yellow ones, I could bring you some," she offered. I was quite surprised and told her I just needed a couple of roses, but a week later. She quickly wrote my name and 'roses' on a chit and said she'd have them.

A week later I was walking back home from the railway station. The next day was Diwali and I was preoccupied about the dinner. I'd also been to my obstetrician (some unexpected bleeding) and was stressed out about it too. It was 4.30pm and I'd nearly walked by the florist when I remembered the roses. I walked in and asked for the lady. She'd left for the day. I thought "I knew it" in my head yet asked if perhaps she had left any roses.

"Ah you're the girl who'd asked for the roses," the man said, walked to the chiller/freezer and pulled out a plastic bag and handed it to me.

I'd almost forgotten about the roses and here they were, sprinkled with water so they'd stay fresh. I'd asked for "a couple of roses", there were about 15 of them in the bag. They looked like they'd come from a garden that was looked after well... And she had plucked them for a stranger who'd bought flowers from that shop only once before. I'd asked for them once and she'd remembered. She had cared. I was, and remain, very touched.

I narrated the incident to some friends. The reaction was mostly, "Ah, she wants you to be loyal to that shop." Or "She wants you to promote the shop with people." For once I am pretty sure it's neither.

The lady does not own the shop (I asked), she just works there. She helped out because... I don't know, she just did. She didn't take any money, she didn't expect anything in return, I haven't been back to buy flowers since; but she got me those roses. I will always remember it. Thank-you Trina.

PS: I tied some of the roses in a bundle and dried them. They are special.

PPS: *Such* a racist country eh?

You gotta mo it

2010-11-29T22:05:00.000-08:00

I've been making cupcakes. Some for my mums' group, some for my friend Hannah (also my sometime-beautician) and some for Partner so he could take them to office for Movember. That's November with a mo. Partner took 22 cupcakes and earned AUD $40 from them. The money went to charity, for spreading awareness about prostate cancer. That's the idea behind Movember, when men grow a moustache in November. You can read all about it here. And you should. Because I know three men, very dear to me, who've had it. One man is in his 80s and two in their 60s. It's horrible, it's the second greatest cause of cancer deaths in men and it can get any man above the age of 50 (above 40 if there's family history). I've asked my dad to go for a check-up, you ask yours.

Partner also grew a moustache through November and despite the good cause it was for, thankfully he's shaved it off. No, no, I think he looks hot with a mo, just that I think he looks hotter without one. ;) Here's Partner, or rather his chin with the mo. That's Partner's grrrrrrrrrrrowl-baby look, it often leaves me speechless. Please don't say bad things about it. :P

<--- Here are the cupcakes, they are yummity-yum carrot-apple-raisin cupcakes. The recipe is the same as the carrot-apple cake, with a cup of raisins thrown in. You put the batter in patty cases and bake for 20 minutes or till a toothpick inserted in the cupcakes comes out clean.

Once the cupcakes were done and cooled on a wire rack, I iced them with fluffy vanilla-butter frosting. I used a waterproof icing cone and the 'star' nozzle to make the swirls. I think they look rather pretty.

Next was the Movember touch and I wanted to add moustaches to the cupcakes. I used store-bought fondant (Orchard White Icing) and rolled it out to the the thickness of a pencil. Always remember to lightly dust your working surface with sifted icing sugar before you roll out fondant. For the stencil, I drew a moustache on a visiting card and cut it out. I merely pressed the stencil on the fondant and then cut out the shapes using a fondant-cutter (any sharp knife/blade will do).

Later on I kicked myself as the stencil would have been easier -- and neater -- had I simply downloaded a moustache-format from the net. Once all the mos' were stuck I painted them with edible black colour (Wilton black icing paste). While most of my baking stuff is from the supermarket, I buy my specialised ingredients from Cake Deco. I really, really love the store and can't spend much money there because the pram does not fit inside. Thank god for that, otherwise I'd blow the budget on cake tins. The cupcakes were a hit and I'm waiting to hear all details once Partner comes back home. I enjoyed the work involved in making them, hope you think they're cute too. I know they were tasty because I've eaten five since morning.

I also do cupcakes for birthdays and special occasions. Here's an example of baby-shower cupcakes. However these I'd made for my mums' group. They were chocolate cupcakes with white and pink fondant frosting/shapes.

Controlled crying?

2010-11-29T03:18:00.000-08:00

Controlled crying: behaviour management strategy often employed by babies whereby they control their parents by timely (and sometimes untimely) crying. Anyone who tells you that 'controlled crying' is a way of blablablah is bullshitting.

Mia, 4-months-2-weeks-old has developed this habit of sleeping "at the boob". Or rather at the teat since I bottle-feed her. In other words, she will feed right till the moment she falls asleep. There was perhaps one week when I managed to put her in the cot and pat her to sleep. I think that was only because she was deciding if she liked it. Along with sleeping at the teat, Mia will only go to sleep if it's me putting her to bed. Each time Partner has tried, I've come back to find her wide-awake and staring at him, while he has nodded off. When asked what-does-he-think-he's-doing, Partner has said, "But honestly, she makes me sleepy!" (?) So it's always me. Mostly I don't mind, but sometimes it sucks. 'It' being the situation and not the baby.

So the other night Partner and I decided that perhaps we should try and start teaching her how to fall asleep by herself. Mia was fed, burped, cuddled and when she was drowsy enough, laid into her cot. Of course she was wide awake in an instant and started crying. We let her cry and went downstairs -- we live in a townhouse -- to wait it out.

'Controlled crying' manual/experts etc say that once babies realise they are not getting their way with the crying, they usually give up -- or get tired -- and fall asleep. The proponents of cc also say babies should be allowed to cry for a while, then cuddled to soothe and then put down in the cot again. If they cry, the whole process should be repeated. There is some debate on the 'cry for a while'. Some say it's all right to let bubs cry for 30 minutes while others suggest 5 minutes. We decided to take the middle ground and planned to let her cry for 15 minutes before a cuddle.

After five minutes of incessant crying where Mia sounded like we were a) starving her b) beating her c) pinching her d) all of those together, Mia suddenly shut-up. My mommy-sense tingled alarmingly and despite Partner telling me I didn't need to -- "Hah, see it worked, she's gone to sleep," he said -- I had to go and check.

All I could see were her big eyes in a sea of white (with some lumpy bits). It was as if someone had whitewashed most of her face and her upper body in vomit. As I stared at her, shocked into immobility, she smiled at me. There was some spew still in her mouth. I yelled out for Partner quietly. (Quiet yell: When you yell, quietly, enough to let the other person know they better listen to you right now.) He came, he saw, he laughed. She gurgled. I was the only one who didn't get the joke. (And felt extremely guilty) But it wasn't over yet. She needed a bath, so I ran hot water and jumped into the tub. Partner held her out to me. I asked him to take her singlet and diapers off. And my god. It was another whitewash, only this time it was khaki-green and all over her bum and back.

A big spew, a bigger shit, whole lot of crying; all in 5 minutes. A bath and a quick feed (just 20 mls) later, Mia was sleeping soundly. Like nothing had happened. I learnt an important lesson. No controlled crying. Seems Mia has learnt an important lesson too. Strangely since that day, each time now she wants something and I ignore her, she pretends to vomit. Not kidding. :|

PS: Any tips on how to get her to sleep without the bottle? Also can babies develop habits at 4 months...y' know the whole thing about 'spoiling a baby'?