In the middle

Friends,

Sorry for the long silence, but I'm in the middle of a move. Will get back with more soon...

xo

bb

Sportspersonship

Lionel Cironneau/AP

BBC

The only sport I ever watch, and that too rarely, is tennis. But I do read up on the news of my favorite player, Roger Federer, and his great Spanish rival, Rafael Nadal. What I love about this relationship is the symbiosis: one could not be himself without the other. While it began initially as a rivalry, what you can see in these pictures is the great mutual respect, camaraderie, and that special kind of friendship which exists only between sportspersons. We fight, because we must - that is what we do, but in the end we are the ones who understand each other best.

When I read John McEnroe's very entertaining autobiography, naturally entitled "You cannot be serious", the one thing I walked away with was his admiration of, and off-court friendship, with Borg.

Perhaps sports is the most evanescent and authentic art form these days. It is performed once, with no aids, body or voice doubles, and when it's done, it is left behind, perhaps for the record books or not, living only in memory, like memories of watching Borg vs. McEnroe as a child.

xo

bb

The next chapter

Chapter 1: Exile: The protagonist leaves New York and tries to settle into London. Initial nostalgia gives way to life with a new and satisfying rhythm. But then one day the protagonist confesses to London: "London, I like you. I really like you. But my heart belongs to another... [cue the Gerswin and Woody Allen's voice over introduction to Manhattan]

Chapter 2: The Grand Compromise: The protagonist makes a joyous return to New York, but in exchange accepts a grand, pragmatic compromise with these words: "New York I love you. But in exchange for weekends and telecommuting days (even months), I have promised my days to Boston." New York, used to being anything and everything for anyone and everyone, takes this in stride. The protagonist instead finds the bargain increasingly heavy.

Chapter 3: The Return: The protagonist has come to like Boston. Some days pass quickly, others slowly. [Overlay a shot here of the pages of the calendar fluttering by: 1 year, 2 years, 3 years...] But at last the protagonist has served out the partial separation for the agreed-upon period. At the appointed hour on the appointed day, packs books and bags and furniture and flies to New York with these words: "New York, I am yours. All yours."

Alternative treatment (or the Bollywood remix)
Chapter 1: The protagonist is wildly in love with New York. But the future father-in-law, who also happens to be the protagonist's boss (as happens in Bollywood films), says, "Life is not all about love. We need you, I need you, in our London office." Following duty, the protagonist settles in London, trying to learn to love the city. But arranged love proves impossible. The protagonist's heart still belongs to New York.

Chapter 2: The father-figure finally gives in, saying if it's New York you want, it's New York you'll get. But... ah the but. To prove your love of the city, you must spend your weeks in our Boston office for a period of two to five years. If you still love New York after spending all that time apart, then I'll we'll see. While growing to respect and admire Boston, love remains elusive. And every weekend, the protagonist journeys to New York and leaves with the words, "I'll come back to you one day... to stay."

Chapter 3: One Sunday the father-figure is driving by Central Park in his limousine when he sees the protagonist seated on a park bench (I know this seems unlikely, but it is a Bollywood film after all), looking downcast. "What is it child/ trusted employee?" he asks, "It's New York," the protagonist replies. "I've done what you've asked. I've tried, but every day I love New York the same as always, more if possible." The father-in-law/boss, by now sporting a salt-and-pepper goatee, puts a hand on the protagonist's shoulder saying, "You've passed the test my child/trusted employee. You'll move back to New York this summer. And to make up for the hardship we've put you through, we'll send you to Europe for two months..." [Cue the Bollywood dancers in Central Park...]

xo

bb

P.S. Yes, loyal readers. I'm back, back in New York. Of course, I do leave for Europe on Sunday for a couple of months, but come the summer New York will be my destination, not Boston. I did really, really like my stays in London and Boston, but New York has always been where I've wanted to live, so I'm happy, thrilled really, to be home. I suppose I'll have to change the header of the blog! Now there's a task that I'll enjoy.

It's been a source of great strength having you along with me for the journey thus far. And I look forward to more adventures together in the months and years ahead...

Becoming my father (or Paying the price)

I've been back from India since Saturday afternoon. Since then I have slept a grand total of 12 hours -- over three days. I should be feeling dead tired. I'm not. Just a little dazed, but otherwise quite functional. Though I'm not usually afflicted by jet lag, this time I seem to be affected by half of the syndrome (early rising), while the other half (delicious daytime naps) remains elusive.

My early rising (5 am Sunday, 4.30 am Monday, 3.45 am Tuesday -- noticing a trend?) somehow makes me feel like my father. Like many Indian men and women he is an early riser. For him, there is nothing more spiritual than greeting the rising sun (although not from having been out all night; that's something my father never managed to see the romance of). When we were young, he would rise early (4 am or so), and work for several hours while everyone was asleep. Since he's a doctor, it wasn't his day job that he was working on, but instead coursework from classes he would take at the university. All of those early mornings eventually got him to a Ph.D.

I wonder if he felt in those morning hours as I feel now: slightly tired, but fully alert mentally. Every now and then, my father would wake either my brother or me earlier than usual (ahem, 5 am), and would make us a cup of tea (in India, even children drink it). We would chat a bit, and then both get to work. I'm pretty good in the mornings, so, although this sounds like torture, for me it was a delicious pleasure to spend those early, intimate morning hours with my father.

They say that as you age you become your parents. Well, I'm paying the price for my travels. It's happening.

xo

bb

P.S. In keeping with house rules, the flugelbindery is applying its usual 2:1 ratio: for every week I've been away (whether for holidays or work travel), two weeks' worth of work is waiting for me on my return. As soon as I dig myself out from under the mountain of work, I look forward to being back at your blogs (and back to my usual sleep habits).

I stayed in (or The Methodical Sound of Ripping)

In the end I stayed in Boston this last weekend, really stayed in, leaving the house only once in the entire weekend.  It was cold; there was snow on the ground; I had just bought four very nice wedges of cheese from my cheese monger and taken the precaution of buying a few bottles of red and a baguette as well. I was well stocked to wait it out.

While I was waiting, I decided to embark on the long overdue project of clearing through some accumulated papers. If I had known what I was starting I might opted for a television-induced coma instead. You see, the last time I had deep-cleaned my papers was somewhere between 10 and 20 years ago. Now I don't want to convey the wrong impression. I'm not one of those people who collects coasters, packets of sugar, TV guide, or just any old thing. Nor was it that I was living in chaos. Instead, I have perfected the art of ordered chaos. I take a chaotic situation, break it into semi-coherent pieces, put it into a box, and then forget about it for a decade. Everything looks tidy, and with some twisted logic might be.

For example, one box contained papers that used to be on the upper left corner of my desk c. 1995. Given the strange way memory works, as soon as I opened the box, I knew exactly what to expect.  And despite expecting it, I was still surprised by how small things triggered such powerful memories: old address books; postcards from friends; the study calendars I used to make for myself in the month leading up to an exam; a fax I had received from a friend. Some of the memories were just small moments remembered vividly, and others were large, dramatic moments in life that had become like genies in the bottles of these little scraps.

When I said that I don't collect just any old thing, it's true. But it's also true that I do (or did) collect a few things that I thought would be worth hanging on to:

• Long ago I used to keep all my correspondence. It became impossible to move around with so many papers, no matter how well filed, so I stopped doing this many years ago and hung on to just a fraction of this old correspondence. The hard part is deciding what to keep and what to discard, a sometimes random, sometimes thoughtful process.
• Then after I began traveling, I would collect postcards from every art museum I would go to. Just a few each time, but it was like my own visual reference library, except that I never filed them in any way. They were just stuck in bags. So I finally took them out of their bags, and put them in a stack, like a deck of cards, appending the receipts when I had them. It was like a visual flashback -- paintings I had seen, places I had been, with whom, when, in what weather, all coming back in a jumbled but exhilarating mass.
• For even longer I have been hanging onto concert programs, as a kind of personal musical archive. But again, there were so many by now (10-15 concerts a year x my age - 5 years = an impossible number). so I made the painful decision  to keep only the program page from each. Suddenly 15 boxes was boiled into one. And though I didn't remember all of the concerts and operas, some came back so vividly all these years later. The process of ripping off the program page reminded me of something my father used to do every Sunday -- rip through the week's correspondence, keeping only what he needed.
• And finally I had the scraps. The problem with any system is what you do with something that doesn't fit anywhere. A receipt from a café in Paris in 1997 reminded me right away of the cashier who was flirting with me (or was it the other way? or was it only in my mind?) Actually I have the spot in the Marais imprinted on my mental map, and whenever I'm in Paris and happen to be walking by I always remember that small episode. Surely that's a receipt worth keeping. And so I did, in a scrapbook, another habit I picked up from my father.

In curating all these documents of my life I realized that I stopped keeping and collecting  a number of years ago, of necessity. But it's a pity. Though it took me literally 18 hours to sort through these things, it was a sample of my life -- beautiful, bizarre, happy, melancholy, sad, joyous. While I have e-mails and digital images from recent years, will those bring back feelings in the same way a decade from now? I'm not sure. Let's talk then.

xo

bb

I should get back to words, but...

I was strolling through Central Park, the snow gone, the leaves many months away, and there was a delicate beauty to the canopy of bare branches.

...sometime images are so compelling.... I'm from a verbal (indeed, perhaps verbose) family, and since around age 14 I've inherited my family's predilection for using words to frame images, to harness emotions, and to play the beautiful game with ideas. This my excuse for the stunting of any visual talents I might have had (though truly, not sure I did).

But over the last few years my brain seems to have rewired itself so that some pathways now directly connect my eyes to my feelings, though some feelings not all, wonder (adbhuta) in particular. This has pushed my travel a little bit toward nature, and not only to looking for spectacular vistas and vastness but also toward intimate nature, cozy ambiguous light that makes things feel close.

And yes it has even begun to allow me to enjoy moments of winter, a season that I used to dread. I'm still not enthusiastic about it, but I can see that it has its moments.

xo

bb

A life without Blogger, Facebook, and Google

A bit like that Christmastime classic, It's a Wonderful Life, one sometimes wonders what life would be like if some small, seemingly inconsequential detail were changed. What, for example, would life be like without Blogger, Facebook, and Google?

I got to run this little experiment during my week in China, since these three sites are blocked there. The middle of three seems the easiest to do without. After all, you can still e-mail your friends. The last was a handicap certainly. And the first -- outright painful! Yes, dear friends, I missed you all! And not only that, but I missed myself, if you know what I mean (and I know you all do): the act of writing is not only expression, but also creation. Describing what we see or feel, our musings, helps them take shape, forces a cloud of possibilities and probabilities to condense into a particular form.

Hope you are all easing into the holidays nicely. Look forward to catching up on some missed blog reading and writing soon!

xo

bb

Changed planes in SF yesterday. This was the view. Almost makes an 11 hour flight worthwhile!

Before it's too late (or is it too late already?)

I have posted and confessed before about my unusual musical tastes. I often tell people that the 1980s were my lost decade, but the truth is so were the 1970s, at least musically (although at the age I was then not everyone has intense musical memories, but some do...)

I'm not blaming anyone; indeed in many ways I am grateful, because the music I listened to growing up is still the core of my listening: mostly European classical music, with some veins of North Indian classical as well. My brother was the real music lover in the family, and he quickly took to European classical music, and I enjoyed drafting off his passion. My parents were very supportive of our interest. You might think it's an easy habit to encourage in your children, but revisit that thought after listening to Richard Strauss's Salomé blasting at full volume while you try to go about your business. My parents were also very generous in letting us travel on our own at an age when you might decide to lock your children in the house for their own good. That travel led me to good places, including Toronto, New York, Vienna, and Salzburg, and was my first exposure to Europe.

I truly came to appreciate this upbringing a few years later, when living on my own I began to revisit all the music I had listened to as a child and teen. And with some transformation that is perhaps maturity or experience everything that I had enjoyed culturally I began to enjoy personally, emotionally, viscerally. A few years later I added jazz into my listen repertoire.

The one byproduct of this path, though, is that my knowledge of anything other than classical music (or jazz to some extent) is random and in some sense tasteless. When I say tasteless, I mean just that I have no coherent taste. I also have gaps in my knowledge that people my age find truly bizarre.

Sometimes I come to music so much later than everyone else that it almost bizarrely retro-cool by the time I get to it. Other times, people shake their heads in mystification when some Robyn makes it into my iPod playlist at parties. Until recently my only real salvation has come through some intense cramming sessions with Mia whenever I am in Venice. The last few months or so I have been doing more than my share of road trips, so the car radio has been keeping my knowledge updated, while doing no good to my taste though.

This brings me at last to Phoenix. I've been reading about them on the blogs (Lola, Jane). I have heard them on the radio. And I've really begun to like them. Perhaps, for once, I might be on the right side of cool to declare my allegiances? But then as I was channel surfing a few nights ago, I heard them in the background to a club/dance scene on a cop drama on network television. Then I began to think, perhaps it's too late.

Oh well, I'll always have Boulez. He's sort of trendy in a Gallic-cuddly-old-man sort of way, isn't he?

xo

bb

Off the wagon and back on again

No don't worry it's not that kind of thing...

But this week the flugelbindery sent me on a flash trip to DC, and for a few minutes here and there I felt like an addict reintroduced to the drug you've learned to love and hate. Though not in the big leagues of work travelers, I've done my share of the shuttle: New York - Boston was a weekly ritual for a long while, and then NY - DC as well and of course monthly trans-Atlantics for a few years. I had the uncomfortable feeling of recognizing the old me in some of my fellow passengers: shuttle veterans who know the flight staff, regulars who know exactly what they're going to drink or which snacks they like and exactly how many. Not unlike George Clooney in Up in the Air, I quickly recovered my instincts for going through all the security screening without missing a beat. Even the slightly antiseptic, stale smell of the aircraft seemed vaguely comforting and familiar. In short, I was off the wagon.

But then this morning as I woke at 5 am just a few minutes before my alarming was going to ring (yes, that is the worst part; I get so wound up that I end up waking up before the alarm no matter what time I set it to...), the charm had worn off and I was happy to be heading home.

Actually I'm staying in Boston this weekend, and the weather is getting cold, so it could well be one of those stay at home, cook, Netflix, cheese and wine kind of weekends. A good antidote to a hectic week...

*         *         *

When I travel, the people I admire are those who are beautifully composed, present (i.e. not distracted or frazzled), focused, and uncluttered. The last is the one I wish I could achieve the most, because if I weren't so cluttered, I wouldn't be frazzled, and I would certainly look better composed... I always aspire to travel with nothing in hand. I did do this once on a trip to India, and it was magnificent (but I was staying at home there, so it was possible). But somehow by the time add my computer and the basic clothing, it's already too much. Perhaps one day they'll invent a way to travel with nothing in hand. No clothes, no cellphones, no travel guides or work files weighing you down. Just your hands by your side,  your eyes watching, your ears listening to the sounds around you, and your mind enjoying it all.

xo

bb

Happy

As they say in Hollywood, I am humbled.

No, what I mean is that I am honored and touched to be included in such fine company by Jude, whose blog I love reading -- I know I have a smile in store for me when I see that she has a new post up, whether it's a musing, a picture of Hawaii, or a recipe...

I am supposed to write about 10 things that I love. I'm not sure which way this list will go, but let's start and see:

1
Over the last few years I have developed a (small) obsession with (veggie) burgers. It might seem strange for a vegetarian to obsessed with burgers, but really I have my mother to credit or blame. She makes the tastiest veggie burgers: a potato, carrot, and pea patty filled with delicious Indian spices, and served on a bun with onion and green chutney. (A good reminder -- I've got to ask my mother for the recipe.) It's gotten to the point that I'll even eat the bland oat and who-knows-what veggie burgers you get in bars.

2
Over the last two months I have fallen for Toscanini's Ice Cream in Cambridge. Toscanini has been in Cambridge as long and longer than I've been here. But when I first moved here I was very much a gelato person. I still am. But recently I came to realize that American ice cream, if made by mad geniuses, can be a wonderful thing in its own distinct way. I don't go for the traditional flavors here, but their kulfi (which is Indian ice cream - somehow they transform it into ice cream exploding with cardamom flavor), green tea, black sesame, and salty caramel would probably make my top-10 list of best ice creams I've had.

3
Wine -- why deny it? -- is a happy part of my well-balanced diet. But let me narrow it down more. The love of the moment is German Riesling.  Somehow as one grows in sophistication as a wine drinker, one tends to gravitate toward drier wines, but I've been on the opposite swing recently , recognizing that some sweeter wines are exploding with flavor, subtlety, and joy. German Rieslings make almost everyone happy. Initially people ask themselves, should I confess to loving a wine that tastes (varyingly) sweet? The answer for me is yes.

4
In keeping with the food theme...

 

5
Well, the next confession is a big one. Mad Men. Yes, it's the first television show I've allowed myself to be pulled into in years. The characters, the story, the epoch, and the visual integrity -- it is difficult to resist the combination. And speaking of the visuals, each episode is like a game of hide and seek for people who love post-war design. There's always some contemporary piece of design hiding in the frame.

6
This is quite a leap, or perhaps not, but opera is something I have loved since... well, shall I confess?... 1984. How do I remember the year? Because my brother and I became obsessed with the scene from Don Giovanni in Amadeus, which came out in the 1984 (apparently -- I would have guessed 1982...)

7
Perhaps this then is exactly the right moment to confess that about 10 years after everyone else I've finally discovered Norman Quentin Cook, aka Fatboy Slim, or more precisely discovered that I already knew his music, which is the kind of thing that you would have had to live in a cave not to know to some degree. There's something bizarre and fun in being out of cycle with everyone else (at least sometimes).  (I wonder what my contemporary music adviser will make of this self-directed discovery? Mia, I hope I have not gone astray!)

8
I love 3-legged chairs. I have two sets of them. One that looks like this:

(indeed, this is my dining table in New York). And the other like this

I have been told they are a little impractical, especially by guests who tip over while seated on them... But that's why I love them (the impracticality I mean, not specifically the tipping over part). They are outside nature and just from the human imagination.

9
While I'm on the acquisitive wavelength, I recently acquired one of these:

And it's instant love. I remember as a child my father would tell my brother and me stories in which the municipal water supply was suddenly transformed into coke, or milk, or juice. Well, this machine has the same element of magic to it. I've concluded that my one true addiction is bubbly water. And I've been carting those bottles home from the grocery for years now. Forget the environmental damage, it's my back (and hands) that I'm worried about... Now I filter and chill the water and have bubbly water on tap. Magic.

10
Finally I love the Sunday New York Times. In New York, you actually get most of it on Saturday, but I am disciplined and don't read any of it until Sunday morning. My Sunday habits have changed over the years, but right now it's this. I get up, walk out in search of the weekend brekkie (usually a croissant, but having failed to find good ones recently I've switched to a brioche). Back home, I make cappuccino, climb back into bed, and the paper for a few hours.

Now there are a few good thoughts to tide me over till the weekend!

xo

bb

You decide (4)

When I first began living by myself, as a student back in the 20th Century, my parents helped me to move into my place. As my parents were leaving, I noticed my father slip an envelop into my desk drawer, but was too busy saying my goodbyes to my mother to ask.

I didn't think it was money, since I had already gone through a series of big talks with my father (my parents more generally, but in general my father took the lead in these talks, interestingly even if the topic was domestic matters - something like cooking - in which he had little experience) on how to get by. I was half right, and half wrong.

It was indeed an envelop with "Emergency Cash" written on it, containing a hundred dollars. When I asked him about it over the phone a few days later, he said that I should hang on to it for one of those situations in which I lose my wallet and the bank doesn't open for another day.

The envelop remained unopened for 18 years, indeed until yesterday.

It's not that I had specifically avoided opening it, but I'm a pretty organize person. Thankfully, I've never had my wallet stolen (although someone did once pickpocket me for some poems, but that's another story). But yesterday I left my wallet at the office. I didn't feel like driving back, but I had a yearning for ice cream.

I thought about trying to offer them Euros from my leftover travel money or pooling together leftover change, but then I recalled that somewhere in my current apartment that envelop must still exist. It does. Orange-honey-ginger and rosemary ice cream never tasted as good.

Tonight I'll top up my emergency fund for whenever I need it next.

bb

You decide

When I was 13 or so I told my father that I wanted (needed, really) a pair of gloves. I needed these gloves because when we went traveling every summer I would help my father with our baggage, which had an impressive mathematical inevitability: five people, two bags each, ten bags total. Add to that a European sojourn on our way to India, rolling baggage carts that had only three wheels, at least one of which always pointed in a different direction from the other two. I liked to try to be helpful. But lifting those bags would leave my hands a little raw, so I thought a pair of gloves would solve the problem.

I imagined something like leather driving gloves, something jaunty and fun, for which it's true I did expect I would find a few other uses.

My father thought it over, and told me that the only gloves he could offer me at the moment were a pair of oversize cotton gardening gloves.

So I wore these - without any embarrassment - for a few summers while we were at airports. I stopped using them after an immigration officer in Tokyo asked me to remove my gloves and to show him my hands.

You decide.

xo

bb

It is an honour

I was lucky enough to be given this token of recognition from the inimitable, stylish, eclectic, and always-has-such-good-taste blogger Jane on the Nearness of Distance. I am touch, honored, and thrilled.

I am supposed to - and will - tell you seven things about myself. I am never sure whether to go toward the big and important or toward the small, irrelevant, but in fact utterly essential. But of course this indecision is very much part of the award ritual since I always eventually decide on the latter. So here we go:

1. I am prone to food obsessions. I once ate ravioli with butter and sage four nights a week for about six months. It was delicious. Why eat anything else? Like many people (?), my breakfast is unvarying for 5-year stretches or longer.
2. I believe fervently in a concept known as the "fun breakfast". During the week, my breakfast is always the same: yogurt and tea. But on the weekends, I get to have the fun breakfast. The fun breakfast varies by local conditions. I think this goes back to my childhood: on weekdays we ate healthy breakfast cereals but on weekends we were allowed to eat the sweet ones. And this is important: travel breakfast=fun breakfast.
   
3. I am currently obsessed with Ricola. Not just any old Ricola. The the ones that come in a box and that are lozenge shaped (not the chewy ones that come in a small box, or the individually wrapped ones, or the small cube shaped ones).
   
   It of course happens that this is exactly the shape that is not sold in the United States (though I've heard a rumor - urban legend? - that there is kosher deli in Williamsburg that sells them). And notice all the flavors that we don't get in the US: elderflower and sage. Notice in the picture that the pink box says salbei on it? Proof that they don't export this flavor. It's a conspiracy.
   
4. To wit, I believe in conspiracy theories. No, not the second-shooter, Elvis-lives variety. The conspiracies I see come in two types. Some fantastic product that I find abroad is not sold in the country where I live, and I must (must!) have this product, but there is just no way to get it. The second conspiracy is even more insidious. Have you ever encountered the perfect product in some category? Just to fix ideas, the perfect pair of shoes: comfortable enough to wear every day, stylish enough to wear with fancy outfits. If such a product were invented, they would have to stop selling it, because it would destroy the industry. Well, such conspiracies are real. Believe me.
5. I'm convinced that I've discovered the cure for jet leg. Two glasses of Champagne before every trans-oceanic flight, one glass before a shorter flight. Always follow with a glass of water. Works like a charm.
6. I seem to have an affinity for countries that begin with the letter I.
7. I am a recent but enthusiastic convert to the Kindle. I don't own the reader, but use the app on my iPod touch (which was a recent hand-me-down acquisition). I know people of my vintage (and older) always fret: it's not the same as reading a book. I agree, and in so many ways (touch, smell, heft). I love my relationship with books (indeed, relationship: first you flirt, then you're all over each other, and then there's the long affectionate after glow), but when traveling the Kindle reader is great. You flick through pages with no effort, and you don't end up carrying around two volumes of Proust with you (which is what I in fact have been doing for the last two months)...

I'm not going to tag anyone yet. But I know you're out there, and I'll tag you soon!

xo

bb

Simple facts

I'm a little frazzled and edgy today, the reason being that I'm not sleeping well. And the reason for that in turn is simple: sunrise. I'm always caught a little off-guard at this time of year by the long days. They are wonderful aren't they? But long days imply either early sunrise, late sunset, or both. Early sunrise can be a great thing if you're a farmer readying to milk the cows, a hiker wanting to make as much progress as possible during the cool early daylight hours, or possibly a rodent eager to gather nuts. Late sunset of course means long leisurely nights out.

Less extreme than sleep deprivation, but more insidious, is confusion and disorientation. With years of habits we come to associate certain feelings and activities with certain levels of light. You wake up feelingly like you've just gone to sleep (and you have) -- it should be dark. You're out having far too many drinks after dinner and stumbling home -- it should be dark. You arrive at your first appointment for the day -- it should be light.

One of my vivid memories of my year in London was waking up to broad daylight, feeling tired, and then discovering it wasn't yet 5 am. These are the simple facts as of 1 July:

City	Sunrise	Sunset	Daylight hours
New York	05:29	20:31	15:02
London	04:47	21:21	16:34
Paris	05:51	21:58	16:07
Mumbai	06:05	19:20	13:15

It explains everything, doesn't it? In New York, nights out are dark at this time of year, and I wake up as the sun is on the rise (I'm afflicted with a serious case of early rising.) In London, sun rises at 4.47 am. How does one cope with this? Are drapes heavier? Are sales of eye masks one per man, woman, and child? And Paris, sunset almost 10 pm, with dusk taking you to almost 10.30 pm, those long endless evenings. They were not just figments of your imagination. They really happened. (Well, at least the light. For the rest, I can't say.) And Mumbai, sunrise 6 am. Memories of being woken by the parents as they make their way to play tennis, and deciding since I'm awake and won't get back to sleep I might as well go. Listening to the morning birds. Watching (being blinded by) the rising sun as the game plays out.

It all makes sense.

xo

BB

Postcards

Hey friends!

As you can see I'm not in the south anymore... Goodbye sirens and hello Rhine maidens... Last night was the Germany vs. UK match. The horns blasting the whole night long! Thinking of you...

xo

bb

* * *

I'm guessing that all of us are old enough to remember postcards. It was a wonderful ritual of travel. You would browse around for something typical, or beautiful, or funny, or ironic (or all of the above). You would find a nice cafe table and scribble away. Then you would wander around looking for the right postage. First you would look for a post office. But then you would recall that tobacconists sold postage as well. And you would then apply postage, and in the final stage hunt around for a postbox.

And of course there was the other side of the ritual. Getting them in the mail! Sometimes a relative (parents - wish you where here!), a friend, or occasionally someone or the other who you had a crush on (or even who had a crush on you). Back in the days before Facebook and e-mail and Skype, that was all we had to engage in long-distance flirtation. Of course if the flirtation got serious you could also take it up to the next level. And back in the day that meant a letter (not wink-wink texting as it might mean these days).

I'm not judging or ranking. Today's methods have their own thrills. But the older style did too.

xo

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Thursday lunch box, Naples

I have no nostalgia for the lunch box. Lunch hour at school was a difficult experience for me. I was a finicky eater and was usually stuck with food that I didn't really like (Is it really my fault though? Is Havarti really the best cheese for a child's lunch box?) or that I liked but that was so bizarre that the other kids made fun of me (I recall one really great day when my mother gave up and gave me a piece of cake for lunch -- I realize now that my classmates were probably jealous, but that's not the way it came across then -- and in case you are worrying about my health -- don't -- my mother did that only once).

In any case, here at the Flugelbindery in Naples we have a pretty basic cafeteria. But basic in Naples includes at least three freshly cooked contorni and fresh mozzarella on offer. Oh, and a coffee bar manned by Pepe (who smokes while he draws the coffee and who is constantly rolling up the sleeves of his half-sleeved t-shirt even further, but I digress).

But one of the boys (ok - I mean older gentlemen) brought in some nice pasta and an apple for lunch. So I got to thinking, perhaps I should bring my own lunch with me. You have Exhibit A above: olives, arugula, fresh tomatoes, mozzarella (hidden underneath, you can't see it), olive oil that put at at the bottom of one of the cups, a piece of bread, and in the bag a small little cake).

My mother doesn't read my blog, but you can bet that I'm going to send her this picture!

xo

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Grilling

I don't know if this is only an American (/ Canadian) thing, but summertime and warm weather makes many people think of grilling. (By the way, it was 33 C in NYC yesterday.) In summer the traditional balance of kitchen power shifts from women to men: women hang up their oven mitts and aprons, and men take out their tongs and charcoal and head to the grill.

Growing up we were not a grilling family. In part this was the perception that grilling was really a non-vegetarian activity. This isn't entirely fair: grilled veggies (and for that matter fruit!) are great. But it is true, you don't see men buying multi-thousand dollar grills all for the sake of some nicely browned eggplants. It also has something to do with the fact that we're from India. Indian husbands don't typically cook (don't want to offend the Indian men out there, but you know that this is usually true). Lack of cooking skill does not however imply lack of cooking knowledge. Ask an Indian wife how to cook some fantastic dish you've just tried, and more often than not the husband will take over the reply and give you detailed instructions on how to make a dish he himself has never tried. (But in fairness to the Indian man, this kind of backseat cooking is a skill in its own right...)

In any case, I discovered not so long ago that my gas oven has a broiler underneath. I'm not sure if you've ever looked below your oven, but if you haven't do so know. A broiler in is basically an oven in reverse, placing your food centimetres from powerful gas jets. Your food is warmed, browned, and crisp in minutes.

Despite this felicitous discovery, my broiler was mainly used to finish omelets, until yesterday that is. For some reason I bought haloumi cheese, not entirely certain what I would do with it. Somehow it remind me of the "grill" and 40 minutes later I was marinading, skewering, and grilling away. (Haloumi, like paneer, is great for grilling.)

Of course, there is a reason why men grill outdoors in the summer. Indoors, in a small apartment it gets hot. But aside from this small detail, it was delicious: tasty and satisfying, while light enough to satisfy my stringent diet.

If you're not already perspiring by reading this, you can find the recipe here. Surprisingly my kebabs came out looking pretty much like this:

{from JamieOliver.com}

And now, you guessed it, I can't stop grilling. I'm still not sure whether or not to tell my parents what I'm up to.

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Requiem for a toaster

My parents bought me a toaster in 1992. At the time I was still at an age where my parents would buy me things, but all ready of an age where my parents would buy me such things, things I needed more than things I wanted or desperately desired. We were the kind of family that when we went to the movies didn't buy popcorn or sodas. It's not that my parents didn't want to spend the extra money, or that they were trying to save our appetites for a dinner that would follow (or - except for a few unmentionable years - were trying to protect my waistline). It's just that we didn't believe in these things. Popcorn was nice, and soda was nice, and I never lacked for these things. It's just at the movies we didn't believe in them

(Strangely, all these years later, I still don't believe in popcorn at the movies. I am so absorbed in the film that even the basic process of shoveling food into my mouth is too distracting -- although perhaps this is the time to confess that for few years I used to take pasta to the movies. I mean if you are going to eat, then why not eat really good food?)

In the 18 years that have followed, I have taken that toaster for granted. For, you see, I am not really a toast person. Toast has never been a breakfast food for me. Nor do I take toast with an omelet at lunch or brunch. And when I eat bagels , I eat them untoasted. Nonetheless, it follows my blindly and loyally wherever I go.

I have from time to time used the oven feature. But really when I use an oven I need a real oven for baking. And I don't eat much frozen food. But still sometimes the oven has come in handy.

My parents bought me the toaster because they thought I needed one. There is a pretty lengthy list of things my parents bought for me, generous as they are, and most of the items on that list proved to be pretty useful. (The one item that stands out as less used than the toaster was an electric can opener. I got rid of it years ago. Not because I don't open the occasional can, but just because the mechanical variety seems to take just about the same effort and take up less space. I still don't understand why someone would need an electric can opener. I'm not being judgmental here, or, I hope, unappreciative of a thoughtful gift. I'm just trying to understand.)

In any case, after a long gap, and for some random reasons, I bought a loaf of toasting bread the other day, popped two slices in, and depressed the button. Nothing. I was taken a back. There are few certainties in our world, but this is one of them. When you depress the toaster button, the heating wires turn red, and the two slices are on their way toast heaven.

It stood there, inert, mute, cold, lifeless. My toaster was no more.

* * *

I miss my toaster for all these reasons, except the toast. But I am gleefully, and guiltily, thrilled to recover the counter space, the one most precious ingredient in my kitchen. And I have plans for that space, such plans! But more on that some other time.

For now I would like to remember the toaster that my parents bought for me 18 years ago, and the 18 years we have lived together since then.

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Update

I had better just confess this now. I've become a toast addict.

Having given thanks

For our European friends, this is the Thanksgiving weekend, my favourite American holiday. Unlike festivals which have been commercialized ( you know the drill: Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day, Mothers' Day, Fathers' Day... summer), Thanksgiving remains about family and friends, about cooking rather than buying, although the day after (Black Friday as it's called) things take a turn in the more natural commercial direction and Americans being their Christmas shopping. (My father would be proud of that sentence, though not my English teacher: he likes them long and multi-claused.)

In any case, I usually travel but this year I had some friends from the Flugelbinder Academy visiting me here in Boston, so I joined them at a local Thanksgiving dinner. Wine was had, turkey eaten (by others - I'm a vegetarian), pie consumed, children entertained.

Now they've all gone home, and I'm here watching Breakfast at Tiffany's and wondering what to do next. I must learn how to answer that question in here in Boston.

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Autumn Sonata, or Kodak carousel slide projector (discontinued October 2004), or Do you remember?

Sitting in the dark, the sequence of images flicker and flit across the screen, some holding there a beat too long, others never enough. Dusty darkness, dusty past, never past enough, never near enough, gone, extinguished, when lights come up and the lamp is off.

Winter nights, the fan rumbles on, cooling the machine, after the images are gone, but the air it blows on me is hot, hot in the cool, lonely air, wishing for more, more time to stay awake before it's time for bed, more joys, more sadness worth living.

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