The Ugly Truth

I read this article today. This mother wrote on how bored she is being a mother. I laughed out loud because she is getting blasted by people for telling a basic truth. Anything done for a long time tends to bore us. Whether it be motherhood, marriage, your job. We wouldn't have articles on how to spice up our lives or magazines dedicated to "1000 different ways to entertain your child."

She does mention that she has a nanny. That probably was the bit that set mommies around the world off. That and the fact that she exposed a side of motherhood that none of us want to talk about. If we did, that would expose us as being "BAD" mothers.

Taking the kids to school everyday is not a fun thing to do. A typical car scenario with my children involves yelling, threats and ends with me cranking up the James Blunt while they fight in the back. I wouldn't consider that exciting.

Doing laundry does not excite me, cleaning their rooms is not a joy, and making sure that they wash their hands every time they exit the bathroom is something I would rather not do. So I deal with these boring mundane things and live for the moments when someone says I have polite kids or they stick up for one another. I have to admit those moments are pretty awesome.

The Digital Hunter Part Deux or the Resort Quest.

I left off where the big grey elephant bum came into view. After a moment of awestruck silence, a little red car drove up and all the clowns piled out and started screaming about the elephant. We drove off then, seeing as we had no desire to be charged at.

My aunt had made a reservation at a place called Monarch. She heard all the rooms were machans (treehouses). This thrilled the girls (and me) to bits, because in spite of elephant-proof fences, they still came in. We drove through the village of Masanagudi. It's one street and that's it, folks.

We drove down very curvy lanes 'til we found the resort. We had to wake the manager from his afternoon nap. That should have been the clue that all was not well. After being greeted by the three mastiffs that guarded the grounds, the youngest and I came close to being gored by a wayward cow. When the cows wander onto a resort's property, the dogs are trained to chase them off. We did not know this and were happily getting out of the Jeep only to be greeted by a steer running toward us. That was the fastest I moved in a while.

We then went to our machans. My aunt summed up the false advertising by jumping from the steps onto the ground which was a foot below. Some treehouse. "Okay, we can live with that," was the general consensus. I then went to the bathroom to freshen up. I saw the cutest frog doorstop in the bathroom...until it took a leap towards me. I ran out and checked the other machans. They all had similar welcoming gifts in the bathrooms. This is the jungle after all.

We were starving and ordered lunch. Lunch did not arrive for an hour. We grabbed the fries when they came. The kitchen thoughtfully put pepper on the fries. We thought it was pepper until we saw the size and squishiness of one of the peppercorns. That ain't no pepper. Now our nerves were beginning to be a little shot. Dusk was falling. My mother suggested we call the Jeep back. We agreed we could use a drive around. I went to my room to pull back the covers when lo and behold there was lizard poo on the pillowcases. Now I will forgive the runaway cow, the bumpy Jeep and even the protein in my fries, but I refuse to sleep on lizard crap.

We packed post-haste and called a place my aunt had been to before. ...

This is my kind of pasta.

Chocolate Hazelnut Ravioli

16 wonton wrappers
1 egg, beaten to blend
1 cup chocolate-hazelnut spread (recommended: Nutella)
Vegetable oil, for frying
16 fresh mint leaves
Nonstick vegetable oil spray
Granulated sugar, for dredging
Powdered sugar, for dusting
Line a baking sheet with plastic wrap. Place 1 wonton wrapper on the work surface. Brush the edges of the wrapper lightly with egg. Spoon 1 tablespoon of chocolate-hazelnut spread into the center of the wrapper. Fold the wrapper diagonally in half over the filling and press the edges of the wrapper to seal. Place the ravioli on the prepared baking sheet. Repeat with the remaining wonton wrappers, egg, and chocolate-hazelnut spread.

Preheat the oven to 200 degrees F. Add enough oil to a heavy large frying pan to reach a depth of 2 inches. Heat the oil over medium heat to 350 degrees F.

Working in batches, carefully add the ravioli to the hot oil and cook until they are golden brown, about 45 seconds per side. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the ravioli to a plate lined with paper towels to drain. Then, transfer the cooked ravioli to another baking sheet and keep them warm in the oven while frying the remaining ravioli. (The fried ravioli can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cool them completely, then cover and refrigerate. Before serving, place them on a baking sheet and rewarm in a preheated 375 degrees F oven just until they are heated through, about 7 minutes.)

Spray the top side of the mint leaves very lightly with nonstick spray. Working with 1 leaf at a time, dredge the coated side of the leaves in sugar to coat lightly.

Arrange 2 fried ravioli on each plate. Dust the ravioli with powdered sugar. Garnish with the sugared mint leaves and serve.

Recipe courtesy of Foodtv.com

What I feel like today

The Digital Hunter

Part of the India itinerary was going to the forest. I wanted the kids to see the jungle and maybe catch sight of wildlife. I remember, as a child, being taken to Bandipur National Park. I only have two memories of the many experiences. One, a family of wild boar trotting to the watering hole drinking alongside the resort's resident elephants.

The other memory was a little more harrowing. I was sitting in the front seat of my uncle's Jeep, eating a plum, when the car came to a screeching halt. In front of us was an elephant. It was the rogue that inhabited the area. I recall my uncle saying that there were only two scenarios. Either the elephant moves or the elephant moves the Jeep. All of us prayed for the former not the latter. We all came close to weeing in our pants when he mock charged the Jeep then decided we weren't a threat. Not until he was in the distance were we able to move on.

That said, I wanted the girls to glimpse an elephant. I had heard of elephant sightings being rare these days. This was due to the amount of traffic on the main road and it being baby season.

A group of us took the train from Bangalore to Mysore. After that, we had to SUV it to the foothills of the Western Ghat range where the jungle is. Contrary to popular belief India is not all heat and humidity. In fact, it is downright cold as you start climbing the hills. Guess who only brought shorts and t-shirts?

As we entered the park, my eldest screamed that she saw elephant hiney. We laughed and the driver backed up to humor her. Lo and behold we saw a big gray bum moving about, eating. It had one eye on us and another on tasty bamboo. My daughter gloated the whole way to the mountain resort we were staying at. Now she wants to be a tracker....To be continued

Please park outside.

Now listen, I don't make a habit of reading about sex but sometimes articles just fall into my lap. So read this and feel sorry for the man this happens to. Give a whole new meaning to "rising to the occasion".

Summer Fluff Reads and Music

I went on a reading drought in India. But I did manage to read on the planes. Some good most bad reads...

Holy Cow by Sara MacDonald: A fun read about the various religions in India. An Austrailian who has to adapt to living in New Delhi. Some details are exaggerated but she pretty much hits the nail on the head.

P.S. I Love You by Cecelia Ahern: A young widow receiving letters from her dead husband. Pretty good for a young author. I believe she is only 23.

Something Borrowed and Something Blue by Emily Giffin: My friend Amy lent me the first one. It's cute and a good lazy afternoon read. A woman cheats with her best friend's fiancee in the first and the second is the sequel.

I'm currently listening to Michael Buble's "Home" and all of Keith Urban. What is with Nicole Kidman and short men?

Breathmint please!

It's true love if someone allows you to kiss them after this dish. It's well worth it though.

Catalan Chicken

2 large cloves garlic

Coarse salt or sea salt

3 to 4 Tbs. extra-virgin olive oil

12 chicken thighs, trimmed of fat, rinsed, and patted dry

2 large lemons, each cut into six 1/4-inch rounds

1 bunch fresh rosemary, snipped into twelve 2-inch pieces

1 bunch fresh thyme, snipped into twelve 2-inch pieces

12 sage leaves

Freshly ground black pepper

	A pestle is perfect for pounding garlic, salt, and olive oil to a creamy paste. Photo: Sarah Jay.

Using a mortar and pestle, mash the garlic with a large pinch of salt to create a coarse paste (or use a small mixing bowl and the back of a spoon, or mince the garlic very finely on a cutting board). Add the oil very slowly in drops while pounding and grinding the paste, continuing until the allioli is thick, creamy, and emulsified. Put the chicken in a bowl. Rub the allioli all over, including under the skin. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours or overnight.

Heat the oven to 425°F and set an oven rack in the middle of the oven. Arrange the lemon slices in one layer in a large shallow roasting pan or baking dish (9x13x2 inches is good). Top each slice with a piece of rosemary and thyme and a sage leaf. Set the chicken thighs, skin side up, on top; sprinkle them generously with salt and pepper. Bake until the skin is golden and the juices are clear, 45 min. to 1 hour.

Sometimes the lemons and chicken produce a lot of juices, in which case you can make a delicious pan sauce. Transfer the chicken (keeping the herbs and lemon slices underneath) to a plate and cover loosely with foil. Tilt the pan to pool the juices in one corner. Spoon off the fat that rises to the top. Set the pan over medium heat (if the pan isn't flameproof, pour the juices into a small skillet) and scrape up any stuck-on juices. Let the juices boil and reduce so they thicken to a saucy consistency. Drizzle the sauce around, not on, the chicken to maintain the crisp skin.

Recipe courtesy of Fine Cooking

Thin is not in...

Plump is beautiful. I am going to riff on a line from an Indian movie. It goes something like this.

"In India, you can be fair and rich, or fair and poor. Acceptable is dark and rich, but on no account can you be dark and poor. That combination will not catch you a man."

The ideal Indian woman is fair, wealthy, plump and hairless (like one of those nasty bald dogs that look like Chihuahuas.). The only hair on their body should be their luxurious mane of hair.

Now I made the conscientious effort two years ago to lose weight. I did it because I felt uncomfortable in my skin. And I knew I didn't feel good being the weight I was. So a lot of people in India have not seen me since my weight loss.

A few comments:

"When did your health problems start?" this is said with the meaning of "Just tell us when you are going to die, so we can make it to the funeral."

"Are you eating in America?" meaning "Did your husband lose his job and can't afford to feed you?"

Then since I live in a sunny state I, obviously, am darker.

"Listen, you need to take this color off. It's not good for you." This from the spa lady giving me a facial. She then proceeded to insta-glow my face. She swore it wasn't bleach but I think it was. She didn't get a tip after she stuck some ultrasound wand on my face and proceeded to ignite my metal fillings. This caused me to jump off the table and swear horribly in Tamil.

"What happened to your color? You were so lovely with your skin tone. It's a good thing you did this after you married." an elderly aunt's comments.

"Your youngest is dark. It's a good thing she is a smart girl." another well-meaning relative.

Then came the hair thing.

"Are you sure you don't want to wax your insert body part? This is posed as a question as they approach you with hot wax, ready to strip every visible and invisible hair from your body. I succumbed to various parts but got my revenge by yelling "ow." This scared quite a few girls in the waiting room.

"You mean to tell me that women in the States have hair there?" the girls that were spaing me clinging onto to my lies as I gleefully told them that we only go hairless here come springtime. Kind of like waking up from hibernation.

Anyway, the girls at Annie's Nails in Bangalore now cling on to the hope that you can be a thin, hairy, dark Indian woman and still catch a man. And thanks to them I am thin, semi-hairy and only fairly dark. ...

King of the Road.

There are no traffic laws in India. You just aim in the right direction and pray. If you yield right of way, you'll be old by the time you get to where you want. Also, people will laugh at you. There are a few unspoken rules that everyone must obey when driving in India.

1. The bus, car, autorickshaw, and the king of all -- the scooter -- rule the road. Pedestrians do not have any right of way, and if you don't look carefully, you will be hit. Not enough to kill you, but just enough to knock you off your feet.

2. Stray dogs are the sentries of the roads. In India, they are called pariah nai or pi dogs. Each city has their own breed of pi. In Madras, they are lean looking curs with terrier faces and stick straight tails. In Bangalore, they look like Basenji's with curled up feathery tails. It is their right to chase your car till their territory ends. After that, their brethren take over till you aim said car in their direction and threaten to run them over. Be warned, this will not faze them because they know you won't.

3. It is the cow's holy right to plop itself in the road and have you horn at it for minutes to no avail. You then have to get out of the car, avoiding its deadly looking horns and curse at it. This does not accomplish anything except releasing pent-up frustration. Pi dogs will join in the hoopla, and little children will try to help shove it off the road. We are not talking about beautiful bovines. These are walking skin and bones with an itchy trigger foot. They are arrogant and know there isn't a damn thing you can do about moving them off. Just when you are about to collapse from a cow-induced aneurysm, they'll see a particular tasty garbage pile and move. This takes no less than 20 minutes. Meanwhile, you are now considered a pedestrian. You're fair game. And don't step in the steamy present the cow left you.

4. Red means go, green means go and there is no yellow. Don't look on either side just step on it. You are only centimeters (we're metric in India) from the scary big bus and the scooter whose driver is leering at you.

5. Beware of women in saris on pink scooters. They need to get where they are going, and if that means running into your bumper they will.

6. Above all, you must use your horn. It will save your life and that of someone else. It tells a person to jump out of the way. It tells oncoming traffic to come to a screeching halt. It tells a bus that it's scraping the side of your car.

7. If any of the above cannot be accomplished, hire a driver.

Home Again!

Recovered from jet lag and found the house still standing. I'm glad to be back, yet sad I left. Even though I was brought up here in America, the best memories of my kidhood were there. Other than to visit, the main reason I was there was my mother remarried. I was a little skeptical at first, but when I met him I didn't think she could have found a better person to start the second chapter of her life with. Even though the wedding was small, we still injected as much wedding drama and teasing into it as we could. After all every bride, at one point, has to wish she eloped.

Other than the wedding, I did my fair share of traveling up and down from Bangalore to Madras and back. My base of operations was my grandmother's house in Madras (you call it Chennai, I call it Madras). At one time or another, every member of my family has passed through its doors, eaten at the table and slept in one of the rooms. They say a house isn't a home till there has been a death, a wedding and a birth in it. My grandparents were newlyweds in the house married off each of their kids from it, and all the grandkids were born there. My grandfather passed away in it, and it provided comfort for everyone who came.

The house has stood empty for years. My grandmother moved on, to the more pleasant climes of Bangalore, to be near her kids. She makes the occasional visit to make sure things are in working order. I wasn't prepared to see the house age. I showed my kids everywhere. The terrace where all the cousins flew kites, the mango tree where we plucked unripe mangos only to have the kitchen cook chase us away admonishing us to leave them on the tree. My kids did not see it. They saw an old house that looked a little lonely.

But for two days in June, the house brightened and threw open it's doors to host another celebration. People filled it. Not as many as before, but the core group that lived their lives in it. All the seats at the dining table were filled and the bedrooms were used. There was laughter and spirited discussions taking place all over the house. My kids finally caught a brief glimpse of my childhood memories.

I'm still here

Just a quick post to let everyone know that I am still in India. I need to write this before the power goes away. I have kept a written(I know so Stone Ages.) log of my trip and when I get home I will have to predate and post entries. Internet is so sporadic here that everytime I have tried to post nothing has uploaded. The kids and I are having a blast but we are missing Snark and pets. As much as I love being with family there is nothing like your own home.