The Naked Chef

No, I am not just going to launch into a diatribe on Jamie Oliver -- remember he is often referred to as The Naked Chef. I am assuming not because he cooks in the nude, but more probably because of his book that went by that very title.

My naked chef was a petite lady in an all-white ensemble and a white turban who presented her guests with the most fantastic naked food lunch on her 60-something birthday.

So have you ever been to a raw food party? If the answer is a resounding no -- given that you are probably thinking I am loony to even suggest it -- you should simply procure an invitation to one. Seriously.

On a particular afternoon, while feeling horribly bloated, I had to still make my way to a studio in Jangpura for Ms S's lunch. Lest you are a bit curious, she is a raw food specialist along with a host of other things. Read: acupuncturist, hypnotherapist and yoga instructor.

You can imagine my state of mind. It was ruled by three things at that point of time – bloating; the fact that I was working and had to be on my toes noting down everything; and last but not the least, the prospect of digging into raw food.

With great reservation, I climbed the steps of a two-storey house to find a round table of lunching ladies – a gathering of a bunch of socialites and expats. At the head of the table was the hostess.

It all started with a prayer and an exhortation from Ms S to start chewing in slow motion.

The first bite had me hooked. It was a dehydrated onion cracker that kind of inaugurated the session for me and I cannot tell you how I craved for more. But all I did was tell myself to behave and continue munching demurely.

The affair with raw food started with a plate of appetizers of those delectable onion crackers, a dense non-flour bread, non-dairy cheese, fig tapenade and sundried tomatoes.

Next in line were small crunchy sticks of vegetables wrapped in collard greens, mushrooms stuffed with raw falafel and a zuchini apple salad. Then came a course of ravioli, made not of flour but ingredients like spinach, flax seeds and non-dairy milk (churned out of almonds).

Yes the courses were many.

The denouement but lay appropriately enough towards the end when Ms S started rolling out the desserts bit by bit.

Mint cookies that were inspired by American style- Girl Scout-esque cookies (reminiscent of Ms S’s childhood growing up in America), a parfait of vanilla cream, strawberries and chocolate, macaroons, some spicy ginger sweets, chocolate hearts, chocolate brownies, and whew, a non-dairy ice cream too made with coconut and non-dairy cream.

It was washed down with soothing lemongrass and ginger tea at the conclusion of the afternoon.

Sounds like a food-filled noon right? Yet I felt not the slightest hint of sluggishness and returned a raw food enthusiast.

A little ode to times gone by on a slow Monday

There are days you turn up happy and hearty at work. You have that skip in your step. You love the cute, cosy office with the chirpy orange walls and the tight knit group of colleagues you think of as friends. Then there are days when you would rather be anywhere but work.

You could be browsing through book shops in the cobbled alleys of Khan Market, reading a book while nibbling on a delicious crepe and washing it down with a soulful mug of cappuccino, deciding on the must-have clothes for summer, dozing off at home with no agenda but to do a few asanas and some 30-odd rounds of surya namaskars. Pet the dog, watch a few episodes of Gossip Girl, sip on a cup of green tea before turning into bed. Snuggle upto the husband. Just talking about it makes me feel good. And it makes me sigh.

Ah yes, I do sigh a lot it seems. Though not very volubly. After all, I do not want to risk being branded the archetypal Barbara Cartland heroine who always needed healthy doses of hartshorn and a rugged hero to faint on, do I?!

The rhetoric apart, as you can detect, I am in the I-want-to-do-nothing-for-a-while mood. There are these bouts of nostalgia that are threatening to take over my day even while I strive to file a cover story for the Sunday magazine.

Memories from long ago flit in and out. College. Friends. Canteen. Promod da (the portly owner of the canteen). His chicken shingaras. Playing cards with the most random set of guys in the dark recesses of our canteen -- oh, that beloved canteen with political rantings inscribed all over its walls!

Collecting a rupee from each and every one around just to make up the requisite ten bucks to buy Pepsi on those hot summer afternoons. Casting puppy eyed looks at the crush of my life. Going for cheap Chinese meals at the hole-in-the-wall joint called Gunjan. The paan shop off College Street offering a hundred varieties of paan that included my favourite Dilkhush paan. Bengali rock bands playing in the college grounds on those evenings during the college fest.

Browsing for cheap books on College Street. Wandering off into Coffeehouse across the street from college to see the big deal about it. Reference: Manna Dey’s wistful number, Coffeehouser shei addata aaj aar nei, aaj aar nei…The disappointment that almost always accompanies heightened expectations to see a shabby, smoke-filled old place instead of the place that was known for the kind of people who frequented it. Yes, it was the point of rendezvous for everybody from poets to artists and people from the world of art and culture. Names like Satyajit Ray, Manna Dey, Amartya Sen, Mrinal Sen and Aparna Sen all were regulars at a point of time.

The simple life of a college-going girl in the city of Calcutta. Growing up the simple way. No frills or furbelows. How I have missed you Presidency!

And yes, thank you. For all the times I have had since the time I entered your historic porch in 1999.

These are Chic Times

Okay, so the Wills India Fashion Week kicks off tomorrow afternoon with its Autumn/Winter 2011 designer collections. I am always happy to see clothes and more clothes. But fashion weeks put me off. They are so about snobs making their rounds dressed in ridiculous frippery which they want to pass off as fashion. When did fashion become thus? I had always thought about fashion as something that should make one look well turned out, not a nincompoop, for heaven's sake!

But I have been thinking about my own wardrobe and I do have a few wants this summer.

The poor wardrobe has been lying un-replenished for some time now except for a ruched jersey jacket that was an absolute steal from Bizarre. I have already worn it some three times – over a dress, a pair of slouchy harems and atop a long skirt. Yes, it is my It item this month.

Also I am eyeing these: Hats. The fedora. The top hat. The wide-brimmed straw hat or even the bowler. I want them all. It’s time to devote accessory space to the dedicated milliner! And ribbons, flowers, feathers, gauze – the trims -- are more than welcome to cap it all.

A black lace dress. I have been craving for one more since last year. Get it tailored or search the fashion stores high and low. I have one already though. A lovely nude coloured lace dress with tiers on its skirt that I picked up from Promod last season. The fit is almost akin to that of the famed Hervé Léger bandage dresses! But to satisfy a bit more of this feminine craving, I had my boy get me a pair of lace stockings – in the palest of pink hues and in a sexy black. I am so looking forward to wearing them.

Hair rollers are my new quirk. I am wondering about getting them. The thing is I have been watching That 70s Show, yes that hilarious and risqué show, like everyday! And if you have noticed, the ladies in the show have lovely curls that make them look so cute (Kitty, Eric’s mother) and sometimes pretty (Jackie played by Mila Kunis).

An electric blue raw silk dress. It would make for a nice formal look.

A midnight blue/teal draped gown. This would look delicious. But here's my woe -- which designer can give me the right fit within my budget? The last time I ended up paying more than five grand to this half-baked designer, I had on my hands a horribly cheap satin purple gown that fell so badly I wanted to cry. To this day, the above mentioned fellow says I have to go to his studio for a free dress to wear during the fashion week. Rest assured, after that gown disaster, I have always wanted him to vanish, at least from the fashion week venue and after-show parties.

A pair of blue aviators and another pair of classic golden-rimmed black aviators.

A pair of Aldo heels, a pair of platforms and a pair of shiny shoes to wear to weddings.

Handloom weaves – a Paithani or a Banarasi – to wear at weddings. And to complete the look, a maang tika in kundan.

Oh this list has me excited. Now to get cracking!

The bite of the new

It feels awful. When things change, they can be so difficult. I have always been resisting change I guess but there are times when you just have to give into it and sit back and watch it allpanning before your eyes. And if things work out, then the going gets good. And if doesn't, I pack my bags. What is it going to be -- I wonder.

O Walt Whitman!

"Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning - I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy'd satisfaction? Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this façade—this smooth and tolerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?
Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion?"

The Have Tos

It is good to have less work to do once in a while. For example, sit and browse through blogs – blogs that talk about random stuff really, spout out quotes, recipes, fashion updates or put out individual pieces of life for you to share.

In doing so, I am re-discovering old passions that I have to rekindle.

The first thing I do next month is go and buy myself an oven. I have to, have to start baking. There is a rare joy in blending batter, tasting it raw, savouring the buttery flavour and then watching all of it swell to perfection in the warm insides of the oven. Baking eggs. Or grilling a piece of fish in lemon and butter and herbs. Oooh I am so kicked about it.

It’s been ages I have danced. Maybe it is time to re-join my jazz classes. And this time around maybe – just maybe – I could execute the most perfect pirouettes and those painful looking splits.

Spanish. I have to learn it. Love it somehow because of the simplicity with which I could pick it up from random online classes with a voice called Maria.

On another note, I have to build on my sari wardrobe it seems. Practically everyone around me is getting married and the only good sari I have is the one I bought for my own wedding. It is a beautiful mustard colour Benarasi sari with paisley motifs. I do not know if I will get to save it up for my own. The thought of it never fails to make me wistful, even though I know I shouldn’t dwell upon it.

Destiny is funny. I do believe in it. Because at times there is no way you can push things. They just happen or they do not.

But in the meantime, you just strive. Strive to find happiness in the small things in life and dream that one day you shall have it all.

As a Chinese proverb says: "If I keep a green bough in my heart, the singing bird will come."

That Icing On the Cake

A little note: This is not a love post. It’s time to lay them to rest awhile.

No, this is an ode to my abiding passion for cupcakes. Cupcakes that have been my comfort food ever since I stepped inside that most luscious bakery called Theobroma. When I first laid my eyes on them after a long day of sauntering around Pali Hill, they made me think, “Oh look, food for the fairies!”

There they were, these pretty little things with delicate, sugar sprinkles on them.

Unable to resist their charm, my friend S and I quickly chose a cupcake from beneath a glass cover with great anticipation. My first spoon of it happened to be of the portion peeking beyond the icing ( You see, I am deadly scared of stiff, sweet icing. You could kill my appetite with them, even if it calls for a teeny weeny bite).

“Give it a try, come on!” said S. After some convincing, I gingerly bit into the icing.

It was love at first bite, yes. And what a pure, delightful love it was. It was the kind of flavour, a perfect mix of the salty and the sweet, that had also made me fall in love with caramel popcorn at once at a cutesy popcorn stall in Disney Land. The icing was made of salted butter -- it was most decidely not your run-of-the-mill unsalted buttercream icing.

Now I cannot eat just any cupcake. I have tried my fill of an array of them out there. In malls, niche bakers, bakery shops...

But today ND, my coffee-and-what’s-happening-with-our-lives-yapping companion (we go out for a cuppa cappuccino almost every day), called me from outside office. She had baked a batch of cupcakes.

My input had been that she use only salted butter for the cupcake icing. And guess what, it was the cupcake I had been lusting for all this time! It was perfection as I sunk my teeth into the tiny little round thing with the pale white icing, topped off by a gazillion colourful sprinkles.

And even though ND has promised me another batch tomorrow, I cannot wait to get my very own oven. To start baking.

So here’s to dreams of fluffy white icing and buttery doughs!

Love at first sight?

Of late I have been reading the weddings column in the New York Times. It fills me with a curious joy to read about how couples met, courted each other and finally took the plunge. And of course that photograph of the lady in white, often in elaborate ruffled gowns, staring into her guy's eyes with like a world of love and happiness in her own.

So I was reading about this particular couple who met through a dating service and have just got married. The woman who is a pediatric dentist was skittish about meeting yet another guy, she said, till she happened to go on a drink date with this random guy. He turned out to be so handsome and dashing that she was pretty bowled over.

But a few minutes into the evening and she noticed a small dark thing between she said, tooth number 12 and tooth number 13. And yes, our lady pointed it out to the astounded man that he had a cavity and that he should keep off Gummi Bears. She referred him to another dentist and it did turn out to be a cavity.

Six months within dating, his habit of gorging on junk food got to her and she too ended up with her first cavity!

How's that for an unusual and cute love story. And so woman of her to have pointed out a flaw right in the first meeting*wide grin*