What eternity this love?

"What love we've given, we'll have forever. What love we fail to give, will be lost for all eternity." - Leo Buscaglia

Ripe heart Ratatouille.

What's for dinner tonight? Crocodile or Monkey heart?

I am in love, I tell you. Madly, truly, deeply, intensely, wholly, soul-ly, consciously, subconsciously, by all adjectives imaginable, for all verbs delivered, in all time conceived. I am in love with you.
But is this weally love, that only gives as much as it receives?

A crocodile once befriended a monkey, who lived on an apple tree. Monkey shared with the Crocodile and his wife, the sweetness of hitherto forbidden apples. The Crocodiles', overwhelmed by the juicy goodness of apples, craved a deeper fullness - to taste that monkey's heart, who dined on apples all day long. They invited Monkey to dinner, leaving aside the minor detail, that he was to be dinner. En route to his casa, wading through murky waters, Crocodile, who was carrying Monkey on his back, felt a momentary twinge of emotion and confessed to his friend of the evening's plan. Crocodile was sad, yet for all that - Monkey heart must be dined upon. Monkey laughed, and was very apologetic -had he known his heart was on the menu, he wouldn't have left it behind to air out on the apple tree branch. Crocodile, fearful of his wife's wrath, rushed Monkey back home to collect said heart.There is a nervous exhilaration in that moment when Monkey springs off the Crocodile's back, to his tree, safe from harm. But what if there was a heart served for dinner that night? Every night.

Can I give of myself to you until the lines get blurry and wipe away, and all that remains is the knowledge that we are nothing, but one.

My heart is what's for dinner, love. It is the ripest fruit of summer; ready and stewed to perfection.


Summer Ratatouille Recipe:-

Farmers market vegetables all -
Heirloom tomatoes - red, purple, yellow - go wild.
Yellow Squash
Zucchini
Green pepper
Mini sweet red peppers
Ripe plum
Cut dried fig
Oregano (fresh)                                                                                                                              
Basil (fresh)                                                                          
Thyme (fresh / dry)
Sweet golden onion
Purple Garlic
Carrots                                                                          
Olive Oil
Red wine
Marsala wine
Eggs for serving (optional)
Salt, pepper and love, to taste.

Cook onions and garlic in olive oil. Add carrots, zucchini, squash, and cook uncovered on medium until soft. Add remaining veggies and cook, till the juices flow. Add thyme, tomatoes, fruits and wine and cook some more. Garnish with chopped oregano and basil. Serve with Sourdough toast. Alternatively in an oven safe bowl, spoon ratatouille, crack two eggs on top and bake at 375 for about 5 minutes until the eggs are cooked and serve from the heart.

Born again Innocent.

It is perhaps a bit too late to be pondering this (on the demise of my 33rd birthday)....not to mention it is nearing 1am, but I wonder what does it mean to be innocent?

Are the innocent called as such because they have never erred or are those innocent who don't know of any other way to be?

An heirloom tomato is a tomato. It does not know of the tomato on the vine, or the Roma tomato, or its inferior GMO cousin.. it knows itself as a tomato and all it knows is itself.

Tomato, Gretel, Infant - the personification of innocence? A rabbit poops without responsibility, the infant eats, cries, smiles without thought, without morality - all follow instinct and instinct alone. If a baby had an urge to tug, or squeeze, it could potentially take a life, unknowingly. Yet, despite being blithely unaware of right v/s wrong, it remains blameless, uncondemned.

Is the essence of innocence then rooted in being as if there is no other way to be... That if there is even the minutest recognition of what one ought to be, in that lies an underlying admission of what one is not...Innocent.

Could it be that wise and the insane alike, have discovered this "being without knowing" and "knowing outside of being" to be the pinnacle?


Once again, I find myself making a wish upon imaginary candles, asking to be born again into this - Silence.


Spoken, it is already lost. 

Happy Birthday, until then, little girl.

Coming home.

There are many houses in this city. The brick house, the small house. The house with the pretty door, the one with the iron grille. The house with children out front and the house with the cat on the porch. There is just one you call home.

Yet with the restlessness of wind, we wander and wander in search of the perfect look, the perfect color, the perfect feng shui - and with all that wandering we are still seeking, still homeless despite many addresses, many experiences.

Home is not perfect. Sometimes rather quiet - despite the occasional yelling that bunny receives when she is being naughty; At times very cold, though it is the only place one can truly seek and find warmth - yes, despite the ridiculous utility bills! And comfort...yes yes, the air mattress adorned with torn sheets sure beats sleeping on a cold floor without a roof under a strange sky. And the familiarity of belonging - Bunny bunny bunny, oh how I wish we could talk sometimes. And safety...no, there haven't been any 4am 911 calls..none that were recorded!

But most of all, home is where I can cook warmth, safety, comfort, familiarity and eat it too and love it forever more!

So how do you gauge the beauty of a comfort stew....?

Mine makes me want to come home to it.. regardless of all the delicacies of the world that maybe calling out from their gourmet shelves.. this is the one I want - because it belongs to me unconditionally. It comes from roots I cherish. It makes me smile at memories as I create some more and put away for a rainy night.

For comfort food, warms not just your belly, but your heart. It reminds you of who you really are - not the body, not the mind, but a soul seeking soul food.

From the warmth and depth of its core it says to me- Come home to yourself, wanderer.

The fine print -

Less glamorously known as "Pav Bhaji" - a street food delicacy - forgive the oxymoron...and the moron :)

My version of the recipe -

Take all the vegetables in your fridge and boil them until they know each other intimately and lose their individual identities in that knowledge. I have used Cauliflower, whole baby potatoes, carrots, peas, green peppers, red peppers and serrano peppers. I wouldn't really recommend other veggies.. avoid celery, broccoli, bok-choy, zucchini, mushrooms... and green beans etc- I try to stick with some traditional Indian veggies for this one, the others will muddy the flavors or not mash well together..

So as you are boiling the veggies, add lots of ginger, a touch of garlic (don't overdo garlic, less is more!),  turmeric, salt (if that is not obvious - to taste), and some water to keep the veggies from burning but not too much water... mid way add "pav bhaji masala" - this is a must have ingredient for this stew - no substitutes but easily found in any Indian store / the intraweb...

Boil and boil and stir..Once the veggies are soft take a potato masher and mash the veggies together to make a thick consistent base; we want something between the consistency of mashed potatoes and thick soup when we are done. In a separate pan, heat oil. add red onion and green chillies and cook - then add chopped tomatoes (lots of them!), tomato paste (1 tbsp), red chilli powder pinch, turmeric (a pinch) and cook - add pav bhaji masala 1 tsp, and then add the boiled veggie mix, and cook to reduce the water content - add a pinch of dried fenugreek leaves, lime juice, and Asafoetida (hing) - very very little, barely half a teaspoon of hing.

Cook and cook and mash and cook and mash and cook... until the flavors and the aroma melt your heart!

Make sure when you serve, you heat the accompanying bread in butter and brown it well! Do add cold butter wedges, lime wedges (squeeze lime juice over), raw red onion slices and cilantro to serve the stew - 'tis the traditional way and it is not to be messed with. This recipe is not for the faint of the heart, butter notwithstanding. There are many methods to cook this, mine is the longer, slightly healthier route (arguable!) with more veggies....you can take that path or watch this video for a different / fast food variation and sing.. "O ye'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low road, An' I'll be in Scotland afore ye;"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pye6pnZpjfs

Chocolate and other emptiness' of the sumptuous.

There are minarets rising above clouds, spooning a sun on its way to slumber. Perhaps these are beacons of an imaginary castle where never-lands abound, ascending like notes of hymns sung at Notre Dame on a silent day. Or, air traffic control towers, rising up to find their ground - adorned in a mist of tears, densely guarding a city by the bay.

As I shuttle between fantasy and reality, desire is an assiduous constant. It wants and wants alone - a self fulfilling prophecy indeed. I wake up with a longing for the dream castle, the solemn sound in prayer and a warm abode - all in the womb of reality.

And I wake up with a hunger for Chocolate.

Bittersweet chocolate chip pancakes are a perfect panacea for Sunday morning hunger pangs. Bob's Red Mill  whole grain pancake flour was gifted to me very kindly by a loving friend. Add to that, Euphoria Chocolaterie's unsweetened ground cacao, bittersweet <always fair trade> chocolate chips, pure vanilla and almond extract - et Voila!

Chocolate Creme Fraiche frosting is not for the faint of heart. There is a certain tangy romance between the melted butter-semi-sweet chocolate-creme fraiche trio. I add vanilla to soothe frayed nerves for the first introduction. Then we are all friends.

Bu today, I wake up with a deep burning desire to drink chocolate. Not to sip the insipid hot chocolate seeping in water. Or even the version that I have previously imbibed with smug pride, spicy cocoa with milk and cream, laced with vanilla ice cream and Kahlua.

No - I want to drink deep from the cistern of pure dark forbidden pleasure as all do here. They won't share the conspiracy behind the concoction. I won't ask. I will willingly be a prisoner every morning and every evening and in between if they would have me. I will give in to longing as an end in itself.

Good Bye San Francisco. Good Morning Madrid - Citadel of Desire.

Vers la quai

Pause. Breathe. Pause. Breathe. Stop.

That was to be the epitaph of a certain Ms. Boat. It may still be.

Ms. Boat was born from a song. As a child of the Baul's, she too is a wandering minstrel, tumultuous in her own lilting melody. An ephemeral being oscillating on incessant waves searching for the invariable - a conundrum indeed.

For eons, Ms. Boat has been following the dawn - lost in the night. Her search for light, perpetual, her joy, perpetually transient. To the onlooker and to the passenger alike, her journey seemingly futile. Rushing through towns and waters, movement is her static state. Inertia weighs down her anchor, never dropped, just held in suspension somewhere between the throat and the heart space.

Winds replace winds, tattering her sails already hanging by a thread.

If the dawn does not lose hope, how can I? - she rhetorically asks the night waters - their cold caresses her only solace through winter nights.

Perhaps on any one of these glacial nights, the "stop" ought to come. It would be simple enough really to break the tenuous string of her music, what with the epitaph preordained, prepared. One wonders if fate orchestrates all funerals with such expedience and maybe even in harmony with conception?

As her song ascends to a close, we expect the crescendo to reach the final note of silence. After all, if the universe itself is conspiring against her, wherefrom then is Ms. Boat finding voice to hold song, we ponder. She should be sitting pretty for her epilogue, not gasping for breath and buoyancy at the precipice of terminal gravity. 

Are you still delusional with your visions of warm waters and steady winds, Ms. Boat - we ask just as we urge her to capitulate.

She is silent now and dark as the one moment before day break. 

Will the light forever be a mirage or will you find it in its entelechy? we ask again. 

Eternity will find me always within ambsace of a sunrise where the sun and its light are one - she responds.

El Quesedilla de piedras....

Ten times must thou reconcile again with thyself; for overcoming is bitterness, and badly sleep the unreconciled. - Nietzsche

An empty stomach grumbling about a heavy heart does not make for a good evening or a good night's sleep -That is a conflict indeed; and one raging within the confines of oneself - a lonely uphill battle that cannot be won, that cannot be lost. I march towards victory and loss, armored with courage, shamed with remorse. Lead me to a rock greater than I - the Bible doth expound. My prayer and my salvation are one... my soul, lost in translation, understands only that it is yet just a bruised, hungry fragment searching for light within the dark recesses of thought and desire.

From this empty evening emerged but a shadow of a stony silent night. I remained hungry for life, for a voice.... stoically patient...in fear that movement would disturb the equilibrium of inertia.

And a voice comes knocking! Smiling, angelic in hope and reward. Suddenly the grumbling and groaning subside into elegant coordinated movements, that of fingers leading the knife..arms grabbing out and holding the pan for support and direction, swirling in olive oil to set back in movement the one who appeared to have never paused. 

The faux chicken is roasted on cast iron then chopped. The fridge ransacked for onions, tomatoes, green peppers, red peppers, to be melded into a harmonious one. Kale and Broccolini, already soul-mates, find friends in leek and garlic fragrant in butter. We are finding love in togetherness and togetherness in love. It's a party!

When she walked in I told her my fridge was empty; It was really rather the opposite, bursting at the seams with unnecessary, expired, rotting remnants of yesterday... The very yesterday that had left me empty, forlorn and not anticipating any joy for I had not forgotten that after hope flirts, reality commits.

At first glance we thought we may be able to scrape up a tortilla with some cheese.. call it some sort of a poor woman's quesedilla.... but then as the stone soup brewed, we found we had much more within to offer it; that hope had died and reincarnated into strength.... yesterdays and tomorrows collapsed into this one moment of peace with my friend cooking supper and bunny chewing on leftover kale.

On a full stomach and a purged heart, I embrace you - sleep.