Everything Else Is Rubble
The administrative office in front of the main building. In this age of endless information, I sometimes pause and realize something strange. I am drowning in information, but starving for memories. Every day, my mind absorbs hundreds of headlines, messages, videos, opinions, and notifications. Most of them vanish without a trace. Yet when I stop for a moment, memories from forty years ago return with astonishing clarity. Today, for some reason, my thoughts wandered back to my school and its teachers. I remember my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Carol at Little Angels. She was Anglo-Indian, impeccably dressed, and absolutely determined that every letter I wrote should sit neatly within the four lines of my notebook. Not touching the ceiling. Not falling through the floor. Perfectly contained. I don't remember what I had for lunch three days ago. But I remember those four lines. My first-grade teacher, Ms. Alice at BP Indian Public School, was...
true.. it's hard to make something uneatable... unless you dump a jarful of salt or chilly powder into the dish and even then you can use buttermilk / potatoes and even it out.
ReplyDeleteI mean, the other day to test the theory I sauteed onions, added chopped beef patties and some black eyed peas and what have you, a dish that got finished in 2 hours flat.
dear praveen, you have not mentioned the name of the person who gave you the recipe for poruchcha kuzhambu and when. i feel proud that you are able to prepare the food as instructed by a person from india. it is more than sending a rocket.
ReplyDeleten.kalyanasundaram.