Panic Mode: On

Tomorrow is our first dinner party since we've come to Pune. Some 20 people are expected (not counting children) and in a fit of craziness, i decided to do all the cooking. Needless to say, panic set in long before i started typing this out. In fact, the only reason i'm even writing this is because i can't cook/prep any more tonight. Why? Because my refrigerator has no space left in it to store anything till tomorrow morning. And so i have a few free moments before i force myself to go to bed. 

Anyway, my hands smell of garlic and my clothes are splattered with yummy italian tomato sauce. There is *so* much more to do that one part of me wants to throw my hands up in the air and run around the house screaming. The other (nuts) part of me wants to continue cooking through the night. But then the Indian part of me emerges and i think that if i do all the chopping and prep work tonight, what will my maid do tomorrow morning. What? Don't judge. I'm a very nice employee. She could have been doing all the cooking you know. And i could have spent that time painting my nails and trying on outfits. Ok, yeah. No. I would have just slept with my head under the AC draft till it was time to make small talk.

So. Here we are. The terrace has been washed and made tidy. The room where the children will be contained  given space to play has been dusted and cleaned up - meaning that everything that had to be moved has been dumped in the spare room, which will simply be locked up before the guests arrive.  The added advantage being that we have one room less to clean. The living and dining rooms (or that part of the house which guests will have access to) will be prettied up and dusted in the evening tomorrow. There is also a page long list of things-to-do-before-party-starts that i have, but i shan't bore you with that. Unless my party is a disaster and i have to vent here about all the things i should've done and didn't do. 

In the mean time, i'm off to bed where i shall try desperately hard to sleep and not lie staring at the ceiling, fighting the impulse to count spoons and plates at 3 am. 

Being Multicultural

Growing up in Bombay, you take so many things for granted. Especially the food. And the people.

Only when i left Bombay did i realise how homogenous it is, how so many different cultures co-exist seamlessly. I never appreciated the fact that growing up in Bombay gave me an exposure to so many languages, foods and people. When i see the stereotypes that people not from Bombay live with, i have this urge to shake them and tell to not believe in what TV portrays. No, not all gujjus talk like that, just like not all their meals consist of thepla and dhokla. And no, parsis are not foreigners. And i may be marwari, but i dont go around calling people bhai sa and bhabhi sa. There is more to everyone and everything than tv and movies show. And Bombay allows you to be a part of that - of that tolerance and welcoming attitude (i'm not talking of politically driven agendas here, but of the common man in the local train).

So used to this multicultural living i am, that i find myself surprised when people don't know what dhaansak is or don't know how to make poha. It's also very surprising that the first thing people do on meeting/hearing about someone is to categorize them as belonging to a certain community and then acting on stereotypical assumptions. In Bombay, this difference in cultural background is just another opportunity to try new foods and celebrate yet another festival. Yes, the stereotypes exist, but just as a round of jokes. So christmas is about my friend's mum's whiskey cake and yummy marzipan sweets while Eid is about going to Mohd.Ali road and trying out everything (something i can't wait to do, now that i'm a meat eater). And come Navroze, all i can think of is caramel custard. My maharashtrian friends are good for yummy prawn curry and the gujjus keep me happy with enough junk food to last me a lifetime. Also, some of the most generous people i've known are sindhis and marwaris. And no, the sindhis dont walk around with a stash of papad in their pockets. 

Today, i'm as comfortable singing Christmas carols as i am humming garba songs. I enjoy roadside anda bhurji as much as i do fancy poached eggs at a popular brunch outlet. I'm perfectly at ease travelling in a local train or bus as i am driving somewhere in a fancy car. Everyday is a learning opportunity, new people, new foods, new cuss words.

And so Bombay may be crowded, polluted, noisy and generally unlivable to an outsider. But for me, it's the best thing that could have happened. 

Of Cooking

Since we moved to Pune in March I haven't cooked. Our maid (which, as it happens, is the best thing to happen to us in this city), turned out to be a fantastic cook and quite efficient to boot, a rare species and i would have been a fool (a fool i say) if i didn't take advantage of her skills. And then our house had that fire and   we had to move again and the fridge wasn't delivered on time and we had no functioning kitchen. Also the super-efficient maid had to go be a grandmother and who can say no to that right? 

Anyhoo. The fridge has arrived and we have an operational kitchen. Meaning, food can be cooked and we can even have leftovers. But the substitute maid, while efficient in her own way, is not a very confident cook. And so i did. Cook that is. And you know what? I had fun. I'd forgotten how much i actually enjoyed cooking, even something as simple as good old dal, sabzi and roti. I'm not talking about anything fancy. Just the familiar, comfort food that is ghar ka khaana. I guess i missed the thinking and planning ahead, the organisation of ingredients, the small tweaks in the recipe depending on my mood and that moment of thrill when you know everything tastes divine. Of course, i also realise that the only reason i'm feeling like this is because i havent cooked in nearly 7 months and as soon as the novelty wears off, i'll be back to complaining (duh).

And so tomorrow i let the maid take over the kitchen once more. Not because i can't cook. It's so that i can. 

Rajma Chawal Love

Steaming hot, fresh off the stove. 

Cold leftovers from dinner the previous night.

Breakfast.

Lunch.

Dinner.

5pm snack craving.

Maa ke haath ka bana. 

Punjabi dhhabewala.

Third and fourth helpings.

Instead of butter chicken.

Sneakily unbuttoning jeans to allow that last yummy spoonful.

Roti, Kapda aur Makaan

The house had a fire.
The clothes were all soot covered.
And we'd been eating out for a month thanks to no refrigerator and functional kitchen.

We've moved into a non-sooty house.
The clothes have all been dry cleaned.
And today, for the first time in a month, our kitchen will be cooked in and homemade food shall be had.

You can't even begin to imagine the happiness we're experiencing. That Maslow sure knew what he was talking about.

The Way The Universe Works

For months now i've been complaining about how i need to get off my ass and work some weight off. And i was all set to start next week. Really. I was out of excuses and the will to procrastinate and postpone was fading quick. But then the universe decided to run out of patience and take things into it's own, mostly bitchy hands.

It messed my jaw up. Ok, so it might have nudged an already dormant condition to the surface, but the result is pretty much the same - i have to keep my trap shut. And you know what this means right? Yes. Look shocked. Even i dont think i can do it. But i sure am going to try. Maybe i will be successful in resting my jaw and wont see the need to talk for the whole week that it is likely to take for the swelling in my temporomandibular joint to subside. Oh stop laughing. I've gone through almost one whole day of talking no more than 3 minutes. I might just be able to manage 6 more days (at least).

In the mean time, not only do i have to go without talking (which anyone would think was punishment enough), i have to give up food also. At least food that has any taste (read: unhealthy food). Instead, i have to make do with liquid/semi-liquid foods. And you all know what that lists reads like. No? Khichdi, porridge, juice, soups, and maybe milkshakes.

Well, as the sister said, at least i'll lose some weight at the end of these 7 days.

You see how the universe is working here?

Of Bosses, Chicken and Bonfires

It was 7.30 pm and there we were, the Fellow and I (keeping to our resolution of a healthier lifestyle), getting ready to enjoy a quiet dinner of home-made pav-bhaji, apple juice and an episode of The Waking Dead or Bones (depending on who sulked more) when the phone rang. It was the Fellow’s deputy boss giving him a heads up – the boss and he (and wives and kids) were coming over.

Now under ordinary circumstances, this would have meant we groaned and whined about the evening being ruined and how we’d probably have to be up late into the night listening to the ramblings of a chap who really enjoys his drink. But not today.

Today we didn’t have the time to complain – we were too busy cleaning up. Thankfully the maid happened to come by at that exact same time and so we had 3 pairs of hands stuffing things into the spare room and dragging furniture back in place. So in went stacks of cds, a huge stuffed dog, a large bag of coins, a roll of toilet paper, a lounge chair, a couple of helmets, piles of papers and files, one suitcase with the Fellow’s clothes and two handbags full of books. There was also a moment of brilliance when I reminded the Fellow he’d wanted to enjoy a bonfire for quite some days now, and today was as good an opportunity as any for it. And so the maid was dispatched to get some wood for the bonfire, dust off the garden chairs and put my newly potted plants to one side to avoid breakage.

15 minutes later the house (what part the guests would see) was presentable, the alcohol had been reviewed, ice-cube trays emptied and refilled, hair combed, a couple of disprins had (by the Fellow), and onions and tomatoes chopped for a quick snack.

20 minutes later we were fake-smiling, laughing and offering drinks. 24 minutes later the Fellow realised he needed to get some more soda and vanished (for the next 30 minutes), returning triumphant with lots of chicken tikka.

And the rest of the evening was spent around a bonfire, discussing how good the chicken is.

For Now

I'm in the process of typing out a really long blog post of what i now call the worst day ever since i got married (please to note there have been worst days before i got married but now they're all blurry and in sepia in the recesses of my brain and i can't be bothered to dig them out just to go into denial once more).

Anyhoo. My point here is that this is just a for-the-record kind of post. I'm in Bombay. And it's raining. Which, after dust storms is such a pleasure. Even though everything is mucky and wet and i'm carrying only really flat footwear.

I've been here two and a half days and already i feel like i never left (until i see the next empty ground near my house where a skyscraper has sprouted). I've gotten stuck in traffic (after zooming across the sea-link), had to wait for an autorickshaw for a long time, spent a seriously fun evening with girlfriends (and baby. Sigh), eaten gujju-style sambhar, bought crazy expensive fruits, discussed the merits of going to Amar Juice C at 1 am, gone shopping in Irla, cursed all the drivers in this city and then some, gotten stranded due to an autorickshaw strike, sat cosy indoors while it poured outside, bemoaned the lack of pakodas at home (everyone is on a diet owing to an upcoming wedding in the family - post coming later) and generally enjoyed being back in my room staring up at the very familiar ceiling.

And while i do plan to get some actual work done while i'm here (apart from the food and friends ie), for now i'm just enjoying the smells, sights and sounds of *meri mitti mera desh* Maybe tomorrow i'll start complaining?

Of Food, Cleaning Up and Panic

So the Fellow and I had our first dinner party last night. Needless to say, I was the one hyperventilating all through the day, cooking, tasting, cleaning, supervising (the maid), re-tasting, organising and trying to get the Fellow away from this computer long enough to help out some. The Fellow, on the other hand, dusted off the bottles of alcohol, made sure the beer was refrigerated and checked if there was enough ice to last through the night. Yes, he did help when asked (like grating a whole tin of cheese and getting the crockery out) but like he said, at one point I was creating work for him, just to keep him involved! Eventually I let him be, and just demanded he shave and change into something presentable for the evening.

Why was I so worked up about a simple dinner? Well, to begin with, we’ve never had a party at home, so that was a little scary. It’s surprising how much stuff gets spread around the house and how much I sounded like my mom when I was putting things away. As I ran around the house, organising and tidying up, the Fellow had only one thing to say (which he yelled from his den while taking a break from Mass Effect 2): lock all the rooms so people don’t go in there, and this way you won’t have to clean anything up. Keep them contained within the living room, dining room and garden he said. And he ended his monologue with “my house, my rules”.

Once I got past the Fellow and his gyan (by simply not listening anymore), I started worrying about the food. I’ve never cooked for anyone besides my immediate family (who unfortunately had to live through my experimenting-with-cooking-stage of life) and the Fellow. And since, for the past year, I’ve been cooking for only two, I had next to no idea how to cook for more people. This obviously meant second guessing myself and wondering if what I made would be enough for everyone.

Well, as it turned out, I could have invited another 8 people over for dinner, and still have food left over [Note: The Fellow, who hadn’t taken a look at how much I’d cooked till after the party was over and we were cleaning up, still hasn’t stopped laughing].

And so, even with all the pre-party nervousness, behaviour resembling the Energiser bunny, last minute checks on everything (including the Fellow), a 10 minute window of panic (when no one arrived at the designated time), and a refrigerator full of food at the end of it all (not to talk of aching feet), my first dinner party was a huge success.

I’m now a fully functional fauji wife!

Cravings. Sigh.

Something is seriously wrong with me. A month back, I was obsessed with baking. I ended up making everything from caramel custard to cakes, brownies and cookies. And I still have to try a chocolate pie, cupcakes and muffins and choco-chip cookies (amongst other things). Unfortunately my baking streak was interrupted by a little snag with my breathing (in that I couldn’t do it properly). Now it’s a full blown cold with the fever-headache-frog-stuck-in-my-throat thing happening. So obviously my oven is feeling a little neglected.

But that is not what’s seriously wrong with me.

What’s wrong is the fact that even with a stuffed nose and burning lungs, I’m craving food. And this time round, I’m thinking of malai koftas, the super-soft, creamy, delicately spiced ones, gobhi, the kind my mother-in-law made once sometime back, triple-fried potatoes in an awesome tomato gravy my aunt makes, chhole-tikki that mum made complete with green and imli chutney, aloo parathas and boondi raita made by somebody other than me…well, you get the basic idea right?

I’m worried. Really. Fat Avantika is really coming through to the surface more often these days and I’m afraid I won’t have the mental strength to keep fighting her off. Too soon, I’m going to give in, and download a recipe for cream-filled koftas or call the aunt up and get the recipe for her super-fatty, very unhealthy, absolutely delicious potatoes. Sigh.

300

This is my 300^th post. Woohoo! Usual gyan giving continues from the next post, once my semi-euphoric state subsides and I get my ice-cream (and I convince the Fellow that I truly want to go on a weight loss program).

Cooking up Memories

I’m a true blue Bombayite. Street food runs through my veins. I’ve grown up on the golas at Juhu beach and the cornerwala sandwich bhaiyya’s veg sandwiches (with a slice of buttered bread and chaat masala with boiled potato on the side). And if there is one thing I miss about the city where I’ve grown up, it’s the food. In the one year that I’ve been away from Bombay, most of my home-sick moments have revolved around acute cravings for some or the other kind of food (mainly street food, with the random Mainland China and Basillico thrown in).

And today I finally did something I’d thought I’d never do. I decided to give into my food craving. How? By making the food myself. Yes. I know. Sounds undoable right? But I didn’t even think of attempting to match Bombay street food standards. All I wanted to do was calm down the craving monster in me, so that I didn’t spend the next 3 days whining and complaining (about this at least).

So I made Pav Bhaaji.

And while I made it, I thought of the super-heavy super-hot tava on which the street style bhaaji is and how it was impossible to stand too close to it. As I put in the pav bhaaji masala and the correct smells wafted up to me (yay), I was reminded of the sounds and smells from Khau galli, as we went to Fashion Street from college - the sizzle and splash of water on a hot tava, the rise of steam covering everything, and the smell of butter melting mingled with that particular aroma that only Bombay street-side bhaaji has. Then there was the pav. The butter soaked, hot, melts-in-your-mouth bread, which was a treat just by itself, making you want to overeat to the point of explosion. Sigh.

Somehow, even with all the flashbacks to a happier time, when I sat with friends by the side of the road licking pav bhaaji off our fingers, I managed to finish cooking. And surprisingly, I managed a decent enough job. Of course, the bhaaji could have used some of the red food colouring used in Bombay and the pav some more (lots more) butter. But it worked. My craving was appeased and I had the pleasure of licking some bhaaji off my fingers today.

Baking It

Ever since i saw the movie Julie/Julia, i've had this super-strong urge to cook. At first i waited to see if it would die a natural death (in a couple of hours after watching the movie). But it didnt. It just got stronger. And so i decided to give in and stocked up ingredients (mainly chocolate and cocoa) and tools (measuring cups, pans etc).

Then i went in search of recipes. And did i find them! I had to finally come up with an exclusion criteria to make life simpler for me. So i simply excluded all those recipes which had more than 7 steps and which listed even one exotic ingredient (due to problems of unavailability mainly). Once i had a couple of recipes which i thought looked doable, even for a baking novice like me, i took a minute to pray to the oven and cake mix gods and did my thing.

Suffice to say, my first cake was a success (owing to the fact that the Fellow loved it...and not because he loves me. His love for chocolate cake is much stronger and very finicky). I was totally thrilled. And it gave me the confidence to try more stuff out.

So in the last couple of weeks i've made chocolate chip and walnut brownies (twice), chocolate chip, walnut and oatmeal cookies and chocolate pudding. I'm now developing the urge to make some caramel custard. And it's not all about desert. I have at least half a dozen recipes for bread, including French bread, Whole wheat bread and bagels. But i'm still trying to build up the courage to make something as simple yet difficult as bread. And once i start, i know i'm not going to stop. So i need to be careful.

Anyhoo. What i really wanted to say was that i'm thinking of starting a food blog. You know, just to share what i make and tell the drama that ensues behind scenes (including burnt cookies and stakeouts in the kitchen).

But then, i also thought of starting a photo blog. Hmmm i think my new hobby shall be starting up new blogs, and then getting newer hobbies to keep the blogs running.

Curtains, Clothes, Grass and Guests

These last ten days have been quite busy and between family functions, falling ill and sorting out the household help, I’m going a leetle nuts.

My last update here was whilst I was recovering from a virus attack. Now it’s whilst I go into denial about all the work I need to get done, before friends arrive. Usually I wouldn’t be overly worried. I mean, these are old friends. They already know how messy my room usually is. Unfortunately right after the friends leave, the in-laws arrive. And so everything has to be presentable, and this means curtains (to begin with). It also means bed sheets and pillow cases on the spare bed (instead of piles of washed clothes waiting to be ironed). It could also mean a married people’s kitchen (with veggies and fruits and juice and spices and grown up stuff). However, since we (my friends and i) hardly qualify as grown up, its going to be junk food all the way.

This poses a problem you see, since I’ll have just one day, between the friends and the parents, to grow up, bring vegetables into the house again and clean up all the cola/maaza/beer/vodka bottles.

Then there is the garden. I’m a city girl, so my idea of a front lawn is velvety grass, gorgeous colours and landscaping. What I have instead, is a garden, half of which is green (the other half has no grass on it so its brown). There is also a tree bang in the middle of the yard, bamboo fencing which is in constant threat from the blue bulls around and ugly rose bushes which have only leaves and thorns. Oh, and there is also a gardener whom I’m going to have to yell at (again) tomorrow for work not done (again).

Why does this stress me out? Because the mother-in-law is an expert garden-person. She even knows the names of all the flowers and can make them grow to be the size of footballs. And when she comes visiting, she’ll have to be told that the brown half of the garden is a cricket pitch while the green is to play golf on.

Of French Fries

Went to Nirula’s here in the gaon today, and was most amused by my reaction, and that of a couple of ladies at the next table. Why? Because we’d so obviously been conditioned by a certain junk food chain known as McDonalds.

What happened?

Well, when I flipped through the menu card, I saw the combos page. There were combinations of burgers and cokes to be found, and the only thing I was wondering was where the fries are? I mean, didn’t a combo mean a burger, a drink and fries?

A minute later, two ladies arrived at the next table with their toddlers in tow. They immediately decided on fries for the little ones and went on to tell the waiter the same. But as they were ordering, they asked the chap (who got more and more confused with each word) what sizes they have the fries in. Huh he looked. You know, small, medium, large fries? After about five minutes it dawned on the ladies that there was just one size.

And then I realised how conditioned we’d all become. Fries are now synonymous with McDonalds. Everywhere else we go, we assume it will be like Ronald’s place, and are mildly confused when it isn’t. Of course, there are also places where you order fries, expecting a quantity much like McD’s, and there arrives a large basketful! This is where you’re happy with variety and the unfamiliar right? I know I am.

About Food

Earlier today, as the Fellow and I dug into some absolutely yummy Chinese soup (his stuffed with chicken), I suddenly realised that our daily trips to the Mall are only about the food. Right from fresh from the oil french fries, piping hot tomato soup by the glass, subs, burgers, chicken/mutton momos, chocolate pastries and some of the best Chinese food I’ve had, it’s all about the food.

Right from the moment we step on to the mall, we start (in our own ways) thinking about what to eat/drink today. For obvious reasons of the shop being the closest on our path, we start with the french fries and tomato soup. Hot soup (with croutons) on a cold day is divine I tell you. And even better are fresh fries. I think the chappie behind the counter now recognises us. Much like the waiter at this small Chinese joint there.

I mean, if we visit a place 3 times in 5 days, eat like we’ve never been fed before, and take home an equal (and usually more) amount of food, the chances that we will be remembered are quite high right? But the food is so good!! Even the Fellow agrees (of course, that’s probably because the chicken portions are super-good and all that).

And so, when we leave Shimla and go back to the land of dal-baati, the one thing we shall miss the most (apart from home and all the pampering) is the food trips we made to the Mall everyday.

Traditions and Memories

Diwali means different things to different people. For a large majority, it is a religious festival, marking the Hindu New Year. For others it’s about new clothes. For yet more people it’s all about the firecrackers and candles.

For me, it’s about family and food. And this Diwali I missed both like crazy. It was my first time away from my folks and the extended family during this noisy and food filled festival. Every year, for as long as I can remember, Diwali meant going to the grandparents home, watching the aunts and mum make yummy treats in the kitchen, decorating the entire house with diyas and candles, stuffing ourselves silly with dry fruits and kaju katlis, and of course, catching up on all the family gossip. Then there is the traditional Diwali dinner, the menu for which has not changed ever – and I’m glad it hasn’t. Diwali is about traditions and no better tradition than food right?

But this year I was at the in-laws for Diwali. And as much as I enjoyed myself, and was surrounded by love, noise and candles, I couldn’t help getting wistful about what my parents and grandmother, and uncle, aunts and cousins must be up to, in another part of the country. And I missed the food. The Marwari in me woke up and started craving typical tastes and familiar flavours. So much so that I actually called dad and asked him what they were feasting on. Sigh.

I think it’s time to grow up and make some new traditions. Or at least acquire some new flavours and Diwali memories.

So Much Food. So Much Noise

(Day 98 of 112)

All day today my ears have been assaulted with noise. And my stomach with food.

The aunts have been busy cooking all day today. So I woke up to the smell of frying potato and whatever anyone might thing, on an empty stomach early in the morning, it’s quite a difficult smell to handle. Then there was the fact that I was expected to taste and critique. Groan. In the afternoon the grandmother’s house was full of relatives who kept coming and going and of course, eating. And I would have been content watching them come and go, and of course, eat, except that I was the one who had to serve the food. Let’s just say that the path from the kitchen to the dining table is now marked with my sweat and deep grooves from the constant to and fro (and it has nothing to do with my weight so no smart ass comments PK). So what with tasting the food, serving the food and then eating it, I’m so saturated that I would be quite content existing on a liquid diet for the next couple of days.

And then there was the noise. Never have I heard so many people talk at such high decibel levels and at the same time and obviously not on the same topic. So there was the random uncle prosing on and on about the melanin on his face and how he would have to start using creams at his advanced age, an aunt who was hell bent on discussing her aching knees and rapid hair fall, a bratty kid who thought it would help his digestion if he banged the spoon and yelled no no no no before and after every bite, aunts who wanted to share notes across the house about how they made XYZ dish, mobile phones ringing on top volumes with truly terrible ring tones, taxis honking outside, wandering sadhus yelling in the doorway for alms (cash only, no food) and the grandmother yelling back, etc.

Add to this circus the aforementioned grandmother’s determination to get her daily dose of television drama, and the noise levels were such that even the squirrels in the garden scampered away with fright.

Rediscovery of Pleasure

(Day 74 of 112)

I’ve rediscovered one of those small pleasures of life. That it relates to food shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me well. But what am I to do huh? While I may ignore several moments of undiluted happiness that I may come across from time to time, the ones that do remain with me most vividly, are those connected in some manner to food.

One of those vivid memories is of fresh, homemade, absolutely delicious white butter. I remember eating it as a child at my maternal grandmother’s home. But with time and at the insistence of cousins, she too moved to salted, commercially available yellow butter. I happened to mention this to the MIL in one of our numerous conversations and last night she made some (well actually a lot).

Today I refreshed my memory of fresh white butter eaten with piping hot parathas. Heaven, I assure you. Few things match the pleasures of watching a chunk of pure white butter melt in rivets in the middle of the paratha. And the taste. Oh yeah. Nothing beats the taste of white butter which all but melts in your mouth in an explosion of textures and flavours.

So for the next few days (or weeks) mealtimes are going to be so much fun. The butter is ready. Bring on the parathas I tell you.

We Are Apple People…

(Day 73 of 112)

…apple broth runs through our veins.

This is what the Fellow says every time he sees this fruit (along with telling me it’s sacrilege for me to be seen buying apples and that I’ll be a joke to be told everywhere if he got the word around). I can’t buy apples without the Fellow breaking into drama and dialogue, and while I simply roll my eyes and continue with my purchase, everyone around us stops to listen and get entertained. And if you thought this nautanki stops with buying apples, think again. I have to listen to this proclamation every time I eat the fruit in question.

However I am now beginning to understand why the Fellow breaks into speech at the mere sight of an apple. You see, the Fellow’s family has apple orchards. This means that the one fruit that you will always find at home is, well, apples. And right now it happens to be harvest time for apples so everywhere there is apple talk. Conversation around me is all about how the harvest is, about picking, sorting, grading, packing, selling etc. And if the talking wasn’t enough, there is also an inflow of apples, fresh from the orchard, which the MIL insists I must eat to feed my deprived city soul.

Now I finally understand why the Fellow can’t stand eating or even buying apples. He quite literally does have apple broth running through his veins.