Cooking leads to untold happiness. Mostly manifesting visually in the specific areas of body where mysterious lumps form overnight. It also leads to manifold miseries (and domestic violence). I am not talking just about hot oil splatter on now unflinching skin or vegetable chopping a.k.a. the most boring job in the world. I am in fact fixating about dish washing which is rendering my hands into feeling like rough leather. No matter what you make, be it a cup of tea or a measly cold sandwich, and even the detested bowl of oats (cause, “Have you seen a fat horse?” was my mum’s response to “Why is oats good to lose weight?”), there is always collateral damage. Something invariably needs to be washed, then dried, then put away, and guess what – then used again. It’s a never ending cycle. Damnable nuisance. I have half a mind to turn cuckoo and use disposable things entirely. But not only am I not prone to wastefulness, and in Bangalore, that’ll just add to the already increasing mounds of unsegregated garbage around every conceivable corner also known as Bhojanalay for the Savvy Street Dog, I neither have the resources to live off restaurant food for every meal to save me from washing dishes. You would think, bah, she is in India now, why doesn’t she just someone to come and help? I’ll tell you why, and this is my curse, I will probably wash everything before the house help materializes on my doorstep every morning. I cannot see dishes lying in the sink. It gives me a case of interminable heebie jeebies. Also, they wet more surface area than required and wet surfaces are yucky. Buss. So yes, I am fundamentally unhelpable and yet prone to launch into extended rants at will. Also, to my now growing horror “unhelpable” as a word has a wiki entry among other online dictionaries and is recognized as a valid scrabble word! Whatareyousaying!
So, no really, this is supposed to be about cooking. Ah, yes: Nigella Lawson. Queen of Food Porn, maker of sinful desserts and smizer of lust dripping in vats of butter covered in proschutto and devour-er of midnight “snacks” which make my Sunday lunches look like Oliver Twist’s gruel. I do like her and sympathize with her recent woes. I don’t understand what’s going on with public display of anger husband, and all the necking & nose digging which rendered her looking like a distraught Arwen Undómiel after trying to read The Silmarillion.
So really, how did that conversation playing out in Saatchi’s head, I wonder?
C.S.: Honey, we have to talk about the kids.
N.L.: Sure, but first can you smell that gorgeous aroma of oozing decadence from the kitchen? Mmm-hmm. *smize-suggestive jiggle-smize*
C.S.: *splutter* *choke* *grinding teeth* How dare you distract me. I will dig your nose for that, you leftover-sandwich-making-wife-whom-I-am-supposed-to-love-and-respect.
N.L.: Okay, I’ll just sit and let you that to me, then. Chalo, naak saaf karne ke baad gardan bhi daba dena, please.
(*exaggerated eye rolling*, fine, I’ll try not being flippant about domestic-in-public-abuse) but I will tell you this: The day I start cooking like her, singing like Adele and entertaining like Rebel Wilson, I will have reached me promised land. But since today is not that day and I have diminishing dress sizes to keep, today I must finish me surya namaskars on time – which reads: not watching shows on laptop whilst yoga to avoid twisting around asanas for better view of screen and thereby hurting self. Yes, I do that more often than I care to admit. Phooey baloney! Baloney sammich….sigh.
Oh, and on North ‘Nori’ West (who in my mind is North by Northwest), I recently read somewhere (okay, fine, so I read it on Daily Mail): “Calling the baby North is like calling Liam Payne’s daughter Period.” =D