The World’s Worst Dinner Party

I’m well upset.

I have just returned from the World’s Worst Dinner Party.

I’d much rather have been at the dentist’s office getting my teeth drilled. Or alone at home watching some paint dry.

Sadly, I was doing neither.  Because I was attending the World’s Worst Dinner Party.

“Why?” you ask in surprise and curiosity. “Why bestow upon it such an unkind label?”

Well, you’ll just have to read on. But I’ll tell you this – it was frightful. And there was nothing – not a one – redeeming thing about it that could have saved it from being the World’s Worst Dinner Party.

Now, I have to preface all this by saying that the hosts in question are not our friends. They are not even friends of friends. They are people who know people we know. Who we met through the people we know. Four years ago.

And who, for a reason that escapes my simple mind, keep inviting us to their dinner parties (which they seem to have with alarming regularity).  And have been doing so religiously. For four years.

We’ve always politely declined, mostly because we’ve always had other stuff going on.

It so happened that this time we didn’t.

And so...

“We really can’t say no again, Ams,” Sid says to me. “It’s going to look like we keep coming up with excuses.”

“Well, don’t we?” I ask.

Sid gives me that reproachful look one gives to a particularly wayward child.

“Ok, ok – well go,” I say.

And so we go.

We get in the car and drive the outrageous 1.25 hours it takes to get there.

“I hope the foods worth it,” I think to myself.

When we enter, there are people everywhere. I don’t know how many, but if I were to guess, I’d say there are round about sixty. Which is slightly insane. There’s also an inordinate number of Indian people, which I suppose makes sense, because our host is British-Punjabi. His wife, however, is Irish (with a particular fondness for Indians it would seem). There’s nobody we know. Not even the people we know, who know these people.

No biggie, I think. I quite like meeting new people. Or sixty new people.

“I need the boy’s room,” Sid says.

“I need a drink” I reply.  “Oh and I didn’t know we were coming to a wedding,” I mutter as I make my way to the bar, “If I had, I’d have worn better shoes.”  Oh dear. Well, it’s nothing that some wine won’t fix.

Eighteen minutes and one sip later, I’m still wishing for those better shoes. I slink up to Sid (who, rather cleverly, has opted not to fight his way to the bar) and say, “Mmm...this wine’s really good, try some?” and hand him my glass before he gets a chance to object.  When I look up to see the look on his face (presumably after he’s had a sip), I am happily on the other side of the room.

See, it sounds awful, but I am somewhat of a wine snob. Not because I claim to have any particular knowledge of wine, but because wine that doesn’t taste quite right brings back unpleasant memories of that one time in college when I spent the night in someone’s bathroom with my head over the toilet. And so, if it tastes iffy, I won’t drink it. And will opt instead for orange juice.

Which is exactly what I do now.

And so here I am, quite happily sipping my orange juice, and admiring the house.  It is very gadgety, the house, with doors that come out of walls and lights that come on from nowhere.  “Everything is voice activated,” the person next to me whispers awestruck.  “Wow,” I say, because it seems like the kind of thing I should say.

At this point, I am approached by someone who – without so much as a “hi” – looks at my glass of orange juice and proceeds to ask me – “Are you in the family way?”

Am I, what?

Then – because he continues to stare resolutely at my juice – I work it out.  Just to be very clear – this person is an absolute and complete stranger. But, to be honest, I am less offended and more amused. And genuinely curious. Are you, I want to ask him, too embarrassed to utter the word ‘pregnant?’ Why? Is it because one needs to engage in rampant, routine, and unprotected sex to become it?

I decide to test my theory. “No, no,” I say, “I’m not pregnant...” (I’m right – noticeable wince)…I just don’t feel like a drink right now. Maybe later”

“What is your good name?” he asks, recovering admirably well.

Don’t have one. I’m the bad person who said “pregnant” - I have a bad, bad name.

I say – “it’s Ami”

“Hello A-my,” he says.

I didn’t say A-my, you loser.  I said Ami.  You’re Indian. You should be able to get this.

I say – “it’s not A-my, actually. It’s Ami... Like dummy?” I add helpfully.

“Oh,” he says looking thoughtful.

It seems like an apt moment to escape.

I try to look for Sid but I can’t find him. It’s too crowded, I’m too short, and nobody thought to tell me to wear heels. So, I turn around, a full 360 degrees just in the hope that I’ll meet someone, anyone, who’s not going to ask me if I’m pregnant. Luckily, the wall directly in front of me slides out before my very eyes – it’s actually a door that looks like a wall – but whatever.  Someone emerges from it and smiles at me pleasantly. I smile back. “Restroom?” I ask. “Restroom,” she replies.  And so, thankfully, I go in.

When I come out, the house is empty.  The wedding party’s disappeared. Am I in the twilight zone?  I wonder. I’m mad at Sid for abandoning me.

I wander around the rooms. There’s not a soul to be spotted. The bar is deserted. If the alcohol were any good, this would be my chance, but going by the wine, sadly it’s not. I give it one last longing look before moving on.

Then I see them, all sixty of them – they’re all outside, seated on a long, rectangular table. There is a large glass door between me and them.

I try to open the door, but it won’t open. Now, I consider myself a fairly intelligent woman. I think, there are only three possible ways of opening a door. Push, Pull or Slide.  I try all three. Multiple times.  But I can’t, for the life of me, work it out.

I call Sid. He doesn’t answer. It’s probably too loud for him to hear the ring.

Great! I think, trying not to panic. What a place to be trapped inside. The microwave is probably going to pop out of one of these walls and eat me for dinner. And 1 minute and 30 seconds later, when it beeps to signal it's done eating me, there's going to be no one around to hear it.

Luckily for me, our host is seated on the side of the table facing the house. Facing me, that is. He looks up and our eyes meet. I make my best attempt at sign language to communicate that I can’t get out.

It works. He nods. I am relieved. It is shortlived.

Because he holds up something that looks like a remote control and presses a button.  And I hear a voice. It’s his voice, but it’s inside the house.

“Just wait there Ami. I’m coming in. I’m coming in…from the backside.”

You’re doing - what?

He comes in. Yes, “from the backside.” And then leads me out through it too. I follow obediently.

We walk towards the table. “We thought we’d do a proper sit-down meal,” he explains. “You know, for a formal feel.”

How on earth are they going to pull off a sit down with so many people, I wonder admiringly. I can hardly put on a passable show with six.

He takes me to the only remaining spare seat.  I am seated between someone I don’t know and the family-way guy. There are 60 people here and I get family-way guy?

I will myself to die.

I look for Sid. He is far, far away. To my diagonal-right, to be precise. He’s seated between two women; one is hanging over his shoulder and the other is hanging out of her dress. Surprisingly, he’s looking miserable.

Is this why you didn’t you save me a seat? I wonder angrily.

Then my host explains. “Also, we thought we’d make a rule that you are not allowed to sit next to your spouse or partner. And girls must sit next to boys. Enjoy!”

I feel like I’m back in Kindergarten.

Relax, relax, relax, I say to myself. This will all be over soon.

On my left they are having a conversation about when the “Britishers” came to India.

They didn’t, I want to inform them. The British did.

I hold my tongue.

Then the food arrives.  And I realise that it’s not exactly sit down.  Well, it is. But there are five dishes, thrice repeated, placed on platters, one each on either end of the table, and one in the middle. And you help yourself. So, it’s a sit-down buffet. Which is fair enough. It is, after all, not a wedding.

I cannot wait to get started – I am ravenous.

Because, here’s the thing:  I will tolerate all the bad company in the world for good food. Good food makes me a better person.  So, at a time like this, good food is the ticket out of Alcatraz.  Therefore, quite naturally, I was crossing all my fingers and all my toes, and hoping for good food.  But - and I always hate to say anything negative about food (it makes me feel like I am criticizing a child of mine) - this food was not good. It was not anything.

It was meatless, tasteless and heatless.

Now meatless, I’m willing to let pass. You’re a Vegetarian, fine. I love vegetables.  I will gladly be vegetarian for days if you make it worth my while.  But cooking the exact same vegetables (cauliflower, broccoli, carrots and peas) in three different coloured sauces – cream, red and yellow – and serving as accompaniments – white rice and brown pasta, is not going to make the cut. This is not vegetarian food.  It’s not food at all. It’s a sad attempt at a colour chart.

It is also quite, quite tasteless. The vegetables (colour, no bar) are soggy, overcooked and completely devoid of flavour.  If anything, it – all of it – is sweet. Which is unfathomable.  It isn’t Indian (save for the food colouring in the red vegetables), it’s not Italian, (save for the pasta), it’s not Irish, Scottish or anything else from this island. Nor is it French, German, Mexican, Thai, Middle-Eastern or Japanese. And I do apologise if I’ve missed out your home country, but I hardly think you’d want to lay claim to this stuff. 

Anyhow, even now – despite all of this, I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. OK, so you can’t cook. I can’t do Maths. Let’s call it quits.

However, what I simply cannot get past is the fact that it’s all stone cold. And I don’t mean room temperature or luke warm or any of those things. I mean straight-out-of- the-fridge, couldn’t-even-bother-to-microwave, cold.  This – and I am large hearted – I cannot forgive.

I stare at the food on my plate sadly.

My Left pipes up. “You’re not eating anything. No wonder you look so weak...”

I’m not eating anything because nothing’s edible. And what do you mean “I look weak?” This food’s put me in such a foul mood that I could do serious bodily harm. Just try me.

I say – “I’m just not that hungry”

“...and look at K (our hostess)” he continues, “she has reduced so much!”

Reduced so much? What has she reduced so much of? I want to ask.  Though I think he’s saying (in a trying-to-be-subtle, couldn’t-be-less-so, manner) that she used to be fat once.

Charming.

He continues: “I am an Infrastructure banker in Bombay (Right, didn’t ask)

...with a company in the name of Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation” he finishes.

For crying out loud, I live in 21st century England. I think I know who HSBC are.

“That’s nice,” I say politely.

He goes on to tell me that he’s being chased for an interview by Bloomberg – not just the company, the man himself – for some ground-breaking work he did on solar power.  Or something.  And that he’s angry with Virgin Atlantic Upper Class for providing him with pyjamas that were not quite up to par.

Shoot me, somebody. Please.

I try to force myself to eat because eating is the best and most natural excuse to get out of the ‘table-talk’, but I can’t. This food simply cannot be eaten. I consider a spoonful of white rice because, I think, no one can mess up white rice. As soon as I hear that first “crunch” inside my mouth, however, I know I’m wrong. Again. So we have vegetables that have been cooked so much, they’re dead and rice that hasn’t been cooked at all. And well, isn’t this all just wicked!

My Left won’t stop talking... “I am in London for two more days. I am putting up with my aunt in Harrow”

At this point, my head starts to hurt. And very badly.

I’m thinking – my mother is right (god, never thought I’d utter those words): I’ve got to get to India more often. I’ve been gone too long, don’t go often enough, and when I do, clearly don’t pay any attention because I’ve forgotten, it seems, how to speak the language. My roots are in danger. Grave, grave danger.

This is when our hostess stands up and makes an announcement:  “There’s no formal dessert guys, we wanted to make this all nice and casual. There’s ice cream in the freezer. So, come back to the house and help yourselves.”

I very nearly jump out of my chair. Not because I am excited by the prospect of ice-cream. But because this could be – if I am lucky – the end of the World’s Worst Dinner Party.

I look over at Sid. He holds my glance. Yay – we’ve communicated.

It appears that my Right – family-way guy – is talking to me:

“Sorry we didn’t get to speak much over dinner - are you staying for ice-cream?” he asks.

“No, I can’t I’m afraid,” I say. “It’s rather a long way home.”

“Where is your residence?” he asks.

Sorry, don’t have one. I’m not the Prime Minister. Do have a flat though. With a garden.  And a tree.

“Hampstead,” I say

I fold my napkin and place it on the table. He gets the hint.

“OK, I’ll take your leave now”

My “leave?” No, you will NOT take my leave. Grow your own tree.

Amazingly, at this point, he proceeds to pick up my (used) napkin, fishes out a pen from his pocket, scribbles something down furiously, and hands it back to me.

“If you are free sometime, give me a tinkle,” he says

That pain in my head has just gotten worse.

All I can say, Mr. family-way guy, is that I am never, ever giving you a “tinkle,” whatever that is, whether or not I’m free.

“Bye,” I say as I push my chair back hurriedly and make a run for it.

We drive home in silence.  I am holding my head in my hands.

Then, Sid - the kindest, loveliest, most patient (and basically everything I am not) person in the world turns to me and says, “Do you promise that we will never – not ever – meet those people again?”

I nod my head and say,” I solemnly do.”

Oh, and not before long, we have to make a mad veer off the motorway to calm our growling stomachs. We end up with a Happy Meal each, which still, sadly, fails to make us happy.

And that, my friends, is that.  The World’s Worst Dinner Party.

CTM, Mate?

This piece is currently "checked out" but here's a teaser!

I have just officially become British.

“Jolly well done!” says the London Taxi driver jovially, when I explain – in response to his earlier question – what Ranbir and I were doing at the Town Hall.

“Thanks,” I would have said normally.  “Cheers,” I say today.

“How do you feel?” he proceeds to ask me, his round, pink, British face grinning widely into the rear-view mirror.

“Hot” I reply truthfully. For it is 27 degrees in London today (not that I’m complaining), although I think his question has little to do with the weather.

“Oh!” he remarks, rather disappointed by my reply. But he obligingly presses some buttons and the passenger side windows slide down to let in some welcome cool English breeze.

I decide I should text Sid to inform him of the events of the afternoon, namely that 1) The Ceremony had concluded, 2) Ranbir had behaved, and 3) I was now on my way home.

Now, I like to keep texts short and sweet. Mainly because when it comes to receiving texts, I like to get them short and sweet. Short and sweet is endearing. Much like Danny Devito. Honestly, I really dislike a text that is too long. Especially if it is so long that it spills over into two texts. That’s when my eyes glaze over and my finger travels in autopilot, straight for the delete button. I mean – isn’t that why you call people? To discuss lengthy things?  Or is it that much of a chore to actually talk to someone these days?

Anyway, I text Sid: “Job done. V Hungry”

He texts back: “I’ll cook dinner.”

I reply: “Why?”

He replies: “Because I’ll be home. And because you got your Citizenship.”

At this point, I’m not sure how to respond. I decide to fall back on the old trusty.

I write: “Cheers”

Hmmm.

It’s a hard one, this. Because while it’s a fantastically touching gesture, my husband cooking for me etc. I wonder – what’s he getting all giddy about? I mean, he usually cooks for me on Mother's Day and my birthday and so on. Special stuff you know. A treat-type-of-thing. His “being home” has never featured before on the Occasions Calendar.

So: what, I am compelled to ask, is the big deal?

I mean I totally get that it’s more convenient to be of the same nationality as my husband and son. This means that if we ever need to get air lifted out of Costa Rica, at least we’d all be on the same plane, headed to the same place. Or so one would hope.

But beyond that...

"Fig"uratively Speaking

Oh well, sorry to disappoint all you fig lovers out there, but this post is all about bananas. And ice-cream. And other goodies. Like booze. Lots of booze. But mostly about bananas.

Why then, you ask, does my title lend itself to believing that I am writing about figs?

An intelligent question, this. Highly so.

And the answer to this highly intelligent question is: the Antiguan word for banana is “fig.”

Aha!

Now, I don’t really care for bananas. I don’t hate them (like my sister-in-law Su, who won’t live in the same house as a banana), but I don’t love them either. Especially when they’re overripe. Which is when they get all brown and spotty and squidgy. And then they scare me.

BUT.

Don’t you just love the bit with the “but?”

“What?” you wonder, as your imagination runs wild, “comes next?” “What’s the marvellous twist in the tale?”

Well, my friends – it is this:

I had a Banana Split in Antigua last week. For the first time in my life. And – wait for this – I enjoyed it thoroughly.

There – I’ve said it.

I had it by circumstance, not by choice, I’ll have you know. You see, it was hot, I was hungry, we were killing time, waiting for the sunset, and well – it was there. And removed from its horrible spotty skin with the pointy edges cut off, it looked slightly more bearable. And it was topped with ice cream (three different flavours at that) and fresh strawberries and fresh pineapple. Yum. And booze. Very important, the booze. And so all this – especially the booze - sort of changed my mind about the banana. And, as I just said, I thoroughly enjoyed it. So I thought I’d try it myself, and well, have you all try it too, you know? Because (and I can't believe I'm saying this), it was really quite yummy.

“Fig”uratively speaking then, I give you: Banana Split.

Now, I have always maintained that for every memorable meal, context is crucial. It is hardly ever just the dish that one remembers. No - more often than not, it’s the context that makes you remember it and smile quietly to yourself. And so no matter who or what my inspiration is, in every post that I write, I try to recreate recipes that matter to me in some way. That connect me with a person, a place, a memory, an emotion. For it’s that connection between the taste and the thought – that context – that I remember, that I want to remember.

And so, for this one, the crucial, necessary and indispensable context, is Fig Tree Drive.

Fig Tree Drive, Antigua's most picturesque road, is named as such, because? Go on, you know this now!!

Yup, you got it - because it is lined with banana trees on both sides!

Anyhow, now close your eyes and imagine.

Imagine you’re on Fig Tree Drive. Well, I am. But for the moment, transport yourself into my head (which is not as scary as it seems, really) and imagine for a brief while that it’s you. So, you’re on Fig Tree Drive, this beautiful, undulating road that meanders from the low central plain of the island up into the tall volcanic hills of the Parish of Saint Mary, in the island's southwest corner.

You start on the coastline, at English Harbour where the sailboats sway to the breeze, and then you climb. You cross the town of Swetes, where Curtly Ambrose was born. It is a sleepy little town stuck in time: people dozing off in hammocks on their balconies, women chatting to each other on doorsteps, houses painted bright yellow or blue or peach, rainbow coloured kites flying gaily in the sky, and (very aptly) little Antiguan boys playing cricket in their whites.

Along the way are a number of old sugar mills and pleasant little churches. You’re in for a particular treat if you go on a Sunday when there is Mass going on. Because then, the church doors and windows are thrown open to let in the breeze, and if you stop and peek, you see rows of cheerful Antiguan women, dressed in their Sunday Best, clapping their hands and swaying their (ample) hips to the tune of “Who’s that Rising, John The Revelator…” Their voices – sweet, and strong, and steady, carry across the stone walls, towards the sea. Resonant. Emotive.

So, you’re driving along through Swetes, when quite suddenly, just after the last colourful little village house has passed, you find yourself surrounded by emerald green hills. They tower over you; you disappear into them. You drive through lush rainforest thick with banana (or fig!), mango, guava and coconut groves, before descending, once again, to sea level. And it is hard (even though you’ve done it before and perhaps you’ll do it again) not to let your jaw drop when you get that first glimpse of the Caribbean Sea. You are overcome, time and time again, by the turquoise-blue splendour of it all.  And as you come down that steep cliff, you see it, right there in front of you.  Those white sandy beaches, the crystal blue water, a horizon that extends to infinity: that dramatic coastline.

It knows the effect it has on you. And it plays it up. It shows off. It toys with you.

It is at this moment that you spot the stand.  There are a few of them along the way, local stands off the side of the road, selling a bunch of local produce – bananas and black pineapples and mangoes. But you don’t really stop because you want to get to the end of Fig Tree Drive in time for the sunset. But now that you’re almost there, and the sky is only starting to get tinged with colour, you realise you have time to spare. So you stop. And you get a Banana Split, to go. Antiguan style. While you wait for it.

The sunset.

The sunset in Antigua is an event. A sensational coming together of sun and sky and sand and sea. 

So you wait for it.

You walk down to the beach, Banana Split in hand, and you stand there on the edge, where sea and sand meet, where the water, warm from the day’s sun, laps seductively at your toes.

And you watch. 

And you take it in.

It is vivid. Sweeping streaks of orange and pink, above, mirrored on blushing sands, below.

And it makes your heart skip a little.

Here’s what you need:

-     1/2 cup scoop vanilla ice cream

-     1/2 cup scoop chocolate ice cream

-     1/2 cup scoop strawberry ice cream

-     1 large ripe banana

-     25g/1oz dark chocolate

-     2 tbsp milk

-     2 tablespoons dark rum. Yum. Rum

-     2 tablespoons fresh strawberries, sliced

-     2 tablespoons fresh pineapple, cut into teeny-tiny chunks

-     2 tablespoons walnuts

-     Handful of fresh cherries

-     1 tbsp (or more!) brandy. Yum. Brandy.

Here’s how you do it:

Remove cherry stems, pit them, and soak them in the brandy for a few minutes.

Stir chocolate and milk in a medium saucepan over low heat until the chocolate is thick and melty.  Add the rum to make a thick, smooth, boozy mixture.

Meanwhile, cut the banana in half lengthwise (hence the split) and lay it in a long dish (traditionally called a boat). Ours was a to-go container, so it must have been some majorly toughened cardboard to have been able to carry all that weight, but if you’re making it at home, just use a china bowl. Line up the scoops of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice cream between the split banana. Spoon the crushed pineapples over the vanilla ice cream, the boozy-hot-fudge sauce over the chocolate, and strawberries over the strawberry.

Now at precisely this moment – i.e. when your dessert looks as timelessly beautiful as the Antiguan sunset, you’re technically supposed to go and ruin everything by smothering it entirely with whipped cream and planting maraschino cherries on top.

No!! Please!! I beg you, no!

Because if there is anything worse than maraschino cherries – hard, sulphur-dioxide preserved, artificially coloured, scarily red balls of blackout-inducing sweetness – it’s whipped cream. Which tastes like shaving foam. Don’t ask how I know what shaving foam tastes like. Simply know that when I tell you that I’ve done some wild and wonderful things in my life, I am soooo not kidding.

Anyhow, my version of Banana Split contains neither whipped cream nor (gag) maraschino cherries. I believe in keeping beautiful objects beautiful.

So, please: garnish with walnuts. And sprinkle (liberally) with fresh brandied cherries.

Eat up. But before that, take a picture.

It’s only a banana, but it’s a rather beautiful banana.

Enough to make your heart skip a little.  Figuratively speaking.

Birthday Cake

I’ve had a perfectly lovely day, thank you. Lunch with my girlfriends, a spot of shopping and lots and lots of sun. Plus, birthday kisses from my son, the best-ever birthday present from Sid, and tons of emails and phone calls and Facebook wishes from all of you!

What more could a birthday girl ask for?

What’s that? Did I hear you say, “Cake?”

Perfectly right you are - Cause every Birthday Gal deserves Birthday Cake.

The problem is, of course, is that if I’ve got to have Birthday Cake, I’ve got to make it myself!

Is that bad? Like throwing one's own party? Well – I can’t really help it, can I? Because Sid can’t bake. But that’s alright, cause he’s a dude and he has other strengths and one really can’t be good at everything. Unless you’re George Clooney. Swoon. Die. (And then eat Hummus and come to life again.)

Yeah, so Sid can’t bake. But I have been hard at work teaching Ranbir. Since I’d really like him to be good at everything. And given that he can’t walk and can’t really talk, he’s totally helping my cause. And on the baking front – I must admit, we haven’t been very successful either. See, we cruise along just fine until we get to the bit where I ask him to measure out the bicarbonate of soda. Then he just stares at me as if he doesn’t understand what bicarbonate of soda is.

It confounds me.

Anyhow, I’m confident that by my next birthday he’ll be whipping ‘em out like a miniature male Nigella Lawson. He’ll be two and half then. Or am I being over-ambitious? What do you think?

So: yes, getting back to the task at hand – it appears then, by my very logical process of elimination, that it’s all down to me, folks. So, shall we give it a go?

Now, first things first. I don’t know about you, but Birthday Cake to me, is always, always, always Chocolate. It’s just the way it is. Nothing else will do.

In fact, quite sadly, the only Birthday Cake I remember from my childhood is the one where it wasn’t chocolate. It was one of those fancy figure cakes - Snow White, I think. Or was it the one with the glass slippers? Cinderalla? I rather think it was. Because I distinctly remember there being a large Pumpkin in the background. And wasn’t that what the handsome prince turned into? Or was it the frog that turned into the prince?? (I’m not going to tell you how old I am today, but I’m clearly too old for Fairy Tales. Which is sad. And rather Grim(m).

Anyhow, whatever my cake was that year – I can tell you with absolute and positive certainty that it was Pineapple. And I remember this because I’d have happily exchanged all the Cinderella’s’ (or was in Sleeping Beauties?) in the world for some good old Chocolate Cake. I feel terrible about admitting this of course, because having just become a parent, I can appreciate how hard parents work on thinking up new party ideas and themes and characters and cakes and flavours every single year for like 13 straight years. And it sounds terribly ungrateful of me to complain.  

I never said it then, because I didn’t want to hurt my parents’ feelings.

Now of course, I don’t give a damn about their feelings.

Kidding. Only kidding.  Thankfully they compete with each other on which one of the two is most technologically challenged, so I’m fairly confidently that my secret lies safe in the vast but unattainable realms of cyberspace.

So yes, I believe – deep within my aging heart – that Birthday Cake’s gotto be chocolate. It just does. That’s all.

Now before we begin, I have to caution you to follow this one at your own risk because I will publicly admit that I’m absolutely rubbish at baking. Food is a different story. With food, you throw in a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and if you’re (somewhat) creative and (largely) lucky, you end up with something that can be quite satisfying, But baking? Baking means figuring out if 1/3 is greater than 2/6. And baking requires a level of patience and precision that I fundamentally lack. I just don’t think I was born with either. Which is why, with this cake that I’m just about to make, I’m whizzing everything in a food processor. Because I can’t bear to measure out and mix a hundred different things separately in a hundred different bowls. And then wash them all. Especially on my birthday. It’s insufferable. So, for all the lazy cooks out there – here’s a super short-cut route to some pretty darn tasty Birthday Cake.

Here’s what you need:
For the cake:

-         250g  bitter-sweet chocolate - I use the Chocolate Society's Cooking Chocolate, 70% cocoa-filled little ovals of heaven!

-         1/2 cup unsalted butter

-         3 eggs

-         2 cups sugar

-         2 tsp vanilla extract

-         1 tsp baking soda

-         2 cups flour

-         1/2 cup cocoa powder

-         1 1/2 tsp baking powder

-     1/2 cup of sour cream

-      1/2 tsp salt

For the Ganache:

-         1/2 cup heavy cream

-         180g bitter-sweet chocolate

And, here’s how you do it:

Preheat the oven to 180°C and line and butter your baking tin. Add all the cake ingredients - flour, sugar, baking powder and bicarb (this is where Ranbir stares at me like a deer in the headlights), cocoa, butter, eggs, vanilla and sour cream - into a food processor and process until you have a thick, smooth, creamy batter.  Pour the batter into the prepare tin and bake about 25-30 minutes - check by using a fork to see if it comes out clean.

Make the ganache: Finely chop the chocolate. In a saucepan bring cream to a boil over moderately low heat. Remove pan from heat and add in the chopped chocolate, whisking until chocolate is completely melted.  Let cool slightly, then pour it over cake until it is completely covered.

Sorry, but now I'm going to need to excuse myself so that I can admire what we've just created. 
Sigh. It’s beeeeaaaautiful.

Chocolatey and rich and luscious and moist and melting...just the way Birthday Cake should be.

So, come, celebrate with me. Go on – count the calories another time.

Because, it’s my birthday. But mostly: Because, you’re worth it!

:)

Immortality, anyone?

So, I’ve just read an article that says eating meat will “increase my risk of dying.”
(7 Reasons Not to Eat Meat.)

Hmmmm. Let’s all put our thinking caps on and process this wild and wonderful insight, shall we?

“Increase my risk of dying?”

Umm. Okay. Hang on a minute: if eating meat will “increase my risk of dying,” will not eating meat decrease my risk of dying?

Really?? Because – call me naïve – but all this time, I have gone through life believing that I will – eventually – die. Which, my poor mathematical skills notwithstanding, implies that my risk of dying is a 100%, no matter what I do.  No?

Come on people, if you want to give me serious advice on matters of life and death, couldja first please just learn how to write? I mean, go ahead - tell me that eating meat will increase my risk of dying younger or earlier or more rapidly or whatever (and I might even believe you) – but please don’t tell me that eating meat will "increase my risk of dying.” Because in doing so, you are implying that not eating meat will keep me alive forever. 

Which is really a bunch of hogwash. 

And so, even if I wanted to believe you (in the deep, dark recess of my subconscious mind) – now, I don’t.

And so, I’m going to eat meat – gobs of it – for the rest of my (not-immortal) life. 

So there.

Anyway and anyhow, apologies for the ranting. But, I’m an English Major. And badly written articles (no matter how illuminating) bother me. Of course, if you overlook – (but just for a minute because I really can’t stand much more than that) – the poor use of the English language and the highly misleading promise of eternal life, there is another problem with this article.

And that of course is - as my friend Elizabeth, rightly says - tomorrow there’ll be another one that exactly and precisely contradicts it. Such as one that tells me a Vegan diet will kill me. As will carrots and cell phones. You see, too little exercise will give me a heart attack, while too much “creates free radicals which cause cell damaging, oxidative stress.” Not a clue what that means, but it doesn’t sound good.

(Is Exercise Causing Damage to Your Body?)

And it doesn’t stop there. 

Too much sleep will shorten my life (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/1820996.stm)
and too little sleep (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep_deprivation) has caused death in lab animals. 

And so it seems, my friends, that the only way one can escape dying – is to die!

Anyhow, while I’m still around on this bountiful Earth, I thought I’d to put my meat-eating, under-exercised, sleep-deprived, ready-to-explode-any-second, BOOM... 

...brain to work and think about the kind of foods that have (in my view) a near-zero chance of killing you, so that I could write about them on Yummyami, and help you all prolong your lives. That – I thought magnanimously – would be my good deed for the day.

And so I’ve been thinking and thinking. And thinking.

And I don’t know if it’s the meat or what, but I gotta tell you – I’m struggling. I mean I can think of loads of things that fit the bill. Like cucumbers. But then I couldn’t really tell you what to do with them. Except the obvious I mean. Such as:

1. Peel cucumber. Or leave unpeeled.

2. Cut into vertical strips.

3. Or slice. 

4. Or dice.

5. Eat until you (never) die

This is not a recipe. This is a travesty.

This means that you would never read me. 

And:

What’s the idea of writing, if I’m never to be read

What’s the magic of living, if I’m never to be dead

Aha!

And so, since I aim to please, I have thought of one thing. One thing that satisfies the three cardinal requirements of today’s Yummyami post: It must be 1) good for you, 2) tasty (or what’s the point of it all) and 3) require you do to a tad bit more than pluck it off a tree.

And that one thing – (drumroll please) – is Hummus.

Now, I have a love affair with hummus. Indeed, I have had for many, many years. Hummus and I met when I was in college and over the past decade (decade? yikes!), we have grown to love, respect and understand each other. We’re like an old married couple in a marriage that never gets old. Ha! The stuff that romance books are made of. Yep, it's true - we have it, Hummus and I. That perfect relationship where the passion remains (and grows), but there is also trust and friendship. Reliability, dependability and (always) fidelity. Hummus will never let me down, nor I – it.  In fact, since I’m so “in the moment,” let me formally declare my love. 

(Sorry Sid, you’ve just been displaced for some beige mush.)

So – here we go:

I, Yummyami, take thee, Hummus, for my lawful companion, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, through thick and thi…

Umm. What was that?  Thin?

Uh oh. 

So sorry, but I’m going to need to amend these vows. Cause I aint staying faithful to any Runny Hummus! Every girl’s got standards, you see. And this girl needs her hummus to be thick. 

At all times. 

Or I might be compelled – despite my better judgment – to go back to Sid.

But no worries – that’s hardly a show-stopper! Because hummus is meant to be thick. And creamy. And delicious. Let’s give it a go, shall we?

Now, hummus is not a difficult recipe. I’ll be honest - it’s not easy. (Like cucumber.) But it’s not difficult either. Yet, most of us – myself included– just grab the stuff off the shelf.  I mean, why not? It’s sitting there in a neat little pot, all nicely packaged, just waiting to be grabbed – and you think to yourself: why bother?

You have a point. But here’s the thing – just try my recipe and you’ll see the difference. This is the “Real Stuff” and if you have the time and the inclination, Hummus made fresh tastes sooooo much better! Honestly! And to boot - no preservatives to kill you either!

I mean I’ve asked Perfect Husband to step aside for Perfect Hummus. That accounts for something. No?

So, here you go folks!

Here’s what you need:

- 2 cups dried chick peas (I think these work so much better than tinned ones), soaked overnight
, in about twice the quantity of water

- 1 tbsp salt


- 3 garlic cloves, peeled 

- 3/4 cup tahini or sesame seed paste


- 1/2 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice


- 1/4 tspn paprika or cayenne pepper

- Pinch of cumin

- 1 tspn extra virgin olive oil

I hope you can appreciate, by the way, that I painstakingly googled all the above ingredients to make sure none of them will kill you. And I can safely declare that they won't. As of today, that is. As of tomorrow - not so sure. Anyhow, live for the moment, the wise men say - so here's how you do it:

Drain the soaked chickpeas, and put them in a saucepan with water and salt. Bring to a boil and cook over medium heat, uncovered, until the chick peas are soft.  Remember, we’re ultimately going to mush these, so they need to cook until they’re almost falling apart – this can take upto 2-3 hours. Just read a book or twiddle your thumbs or something. You may need to add more water if the chick peas seem to be boiling dry.
 Meanwhile, in a food processor, chop the garlic cloves. Add tahini, lemon juice and water, process until smooth and completely mixed – you want to balance the heat of the garlic, with the zing of the lemon. Now, add the cooked and drained chickpeas, cumin and cayenne to the bowl of the food processor with the tahini mixture. Process until well blended, while adding water, as needed. Go slow with the water – thick hummus can be thinned (with water) but runny hummus takes a lot more work to make thick again! And runny hummus is a deal breaker, remember? Never vow to stay true to runny hummus. You're better off with a Sid.

When it's all done, serve topped with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and enjoy with literally anything you have on hand – chips, cracker, pita wedges, carrots sticks, cucumber…anything goes! And it’s the versatility of this dish that makes me go all soft in the knees and causes my heart to race and the butterflies to do their thing (whatever it is that they do), inside of me.  

That, and the fact that its good for you. Oh SO good for you. You see, hummus is high in iron and vitamin C and folate and vitamin B6.  The chickpeas make it a good source of protein and fiber; the tahini – which consists mostly of sesame seeds, is an excellent source of methionine (a good amino acid). Depending on your recipe, it carries varying amounts of monounsaturated fat (the good kind). And finally – it is great for vegetarians because it serves as a complete protein. 

And of course – like I endevour to make all Yummyami recipes – it is absolutely delicious. Thick and creamy and nutty and silky smooth. Yum!

So: till death do us part then? 

Or: if I eat you, and only you (maybe with some cucumber thrown in) – is there a chance that I may live forever?

Scrambling For My Life!

Well, the truth is, folks that I don’t like breakfast.

I know, I know. It’s a terrible thing to say. And just by saying it, I know I’ve offered up my name to be added to the hit list of every Nutritionist out there.

Well, I’m sorry – don’t shoot please. Because while I believe you when you say that eating breakfast is a matter of national importance, I still don’t like it.

I’ve thought about this. A lot. Because face it, it’s not very often that I put anything to do with food and the words “not like” in the same sentence.  So, I have thought about it. And come to the conclusion that I don’t like breakfast because breakfast (to me) is mind-numbingly boring.  I’m talking about breakfast at home, mind you. Not brunch. Now, brunch, I adore. Brunch like the kind you get at a New York City diner on a glorious Sunday morning, with plates of Eggs Royale and endless glasses of Bellini and a jazz band and a view of the Park. Now, that stuff is good enough to actually make waking up on weekends worth it. Nah, I’m talking about the everyday, normal (read: boring) breakfast one eats at home.

Take, for instance, the following common breakfast foods:

Toast: boring

Cereal: boring (although they make something called Cranberry Nut Crunch in the Land where George Bush lives.  Which more than compensates.)

Porridge: (oh-so) boring

Fruit and yogurt: Very virtuous, but every day? Ho hum.

Croissants etc: can be (highly) interesting, but unless you’re French (or my Mother-in-law), you’ll rapidly outgrow your clothes if you make a habit of routinely consuming these innocent looking, butter-laden monsters.

Muffins/Bagels/Pancakes/Waffles: as above - just replace “French” with “American.” Who it turns out, are actually quite happy to routinely outgrow their clothes. And (based on my limited understanding of the financial hole we’re all in right now) replace them with new ones by spending money they think they have.

(Yikes. Given how high my readership is from the North American continent, I think I may have just killed the goose that lays the golden eggs - and effectively put myself on plenty more hit lists...)

Right. Moving swiftly on.

Eggs.

Now, I love eggs. Eggs are not boring. Eggs are amazing.

But it takes time and effort (and tlc) to make eggs.

And most mornings, I’m usually running thin on all of the above.

Which is why, as you know from my post here, breakfast is usually always Sid’s domain. He’s got more tlc than you can imagine. In fact he’s brimming over with tlc. That’s why I married him. That, and because he brings me Snoopy-slippers from Hongkong. Ears sticking out from the sides and all. Adorable (the slippers, I mean...)

Anyhow, today is one of those oh-so-rare mornings, where I’ve thrown my hands up in the air and succumbed. To time, and effort, and, argh - tlc.

Because my child has turned his nose up at most everything else I’ve offered him: toast, cereal, porridge, fruit & yogurt, (boring, all boring) and being neither French, nor American, and nor, for that matter, my mother-in law – I don’t stock the rest at home.

And because my heinous habit of skipping breakfast notwithstanding, he must eat breakfast.

And because if I make something sufficiently yummy, maybe I can eat some too.

There.  You can all nod approvingly and strike my name off your hit lists now. Well, at least all the Nutritionists can. The Americans can keep me on their most-wanted. Since it takes them, oh about 10 years, to hunt down the really scary ones anyway, I think I have enough time to scope out a neat little hideaway somewhere in the Afghan mountains.

More pressingly however, in the here and now, I’m left with no choice but to make eggs.

And while I’m at it (and because I’m worth it J) I decide to go the whole hog and make Indian style scrambled eggs. Tomatoes, chillies, and all. Which of course, simply by virtue of being Indian, takes even more time, effort (and tlc) than normal. But then, simply by virtue of being Indian, is utterly and totally delicious.

This is the stuff I grew up with, see. You ask for scrambled eggs in India, and this is usually the stuff you get. The cooks there have gotten so used to chopping up onions and tomatoes and chillies all the time that the idea of a meal without them – the very idea that you can make and actually consume eggs cooked in a splash of milk and a little bit of butter, that’s all, – is unfathomable.

So when you’re in India and you want scrambled eggs, whether at a road side food stall (my favourite kind of establishment) or a restaurant, or the train station or on the dining table at home on a lazy Sunday morning – in your pyjamas and glasses, coffee mug in your hands, dog at your feet – odds are, this is the stuff you’ll be served.

Here’s what you need

- 4 eggs

- 1 onion, finely chopped

- 1 tomato, chopped

- 1 green chilly (Id have used more if it was just for me)

- ¾ inch ginger, finely chopped

- 1/2 cup coriander leaves

- 2 tbsp oil

- Salt, to taste

Here’s how you do it:

Heat oil and add chopped onions and fry them until they turn translucent. Now add in the chopped chillies and ginger and stir well at medium heat. Add the tomatoes, and salt and stir well.

Separately, beat the eggs in a bowl and add to the onion-chilly-tomato mixture and cook evenly. You are done once the eggs have set. You don’t want the eggs to be runny, but you don’t want them to be dry either. Hence the constant allusion to tlc. This dish does need one to pay attention. Anyhow, when all ready, top with coriander leaves (that truly magical stuff) and serve immediately!

I’m loath to admit it, but this is one of the most scrumptious and elaborate breakfasts I have had in ages. That is, excluding eating breadomlate on the street at 4am, Sunday breakfasts with my family, and that one time – long, long ago, in a Kingdom Far Away – that my husband made me breakfast.

And...it would seem that I’m now on yet another most-wanted. And my husband’s far deadlier than any other special-interest group! The snowy peaks of the Afghan mountains beckon – so I’d better scramble for my life, while I let you scramble those eggs. 

Happy Scrambling!