feasting
After eating a plate loaded with aloo gobhi, chana masala, bengali green beans, rice, dal, raita, nan and tomato salad, everyone of my guests wilted into a syrupy sleepiness. We attempted to revive our energy by heading on a long, brisk walk, but the results were mixed. I was particularly bad, having split a litre of white wine with my co-chef while simultaneously cooking and watching Scottish sitcoms on PBS. By the time the guests arrived I was speaking with a prominent brogue. A&C brought two large pitchers of mango lassi and a CD of Bollywood hits they'd mixed for me. A&JT brought an apple pie they'd baked. Magda jumped from lap to lap. M-- and I cooked tripled and quadrupled recipes of everything, so if you glance into my fridge it looks like the day after Indian Thanksgiving. I have been eating Indian food morning, noon, and night for three days now. I am not complaining.
Yesterday M-- and I drove to Ashfield and spent the day on the beach. It's a pretty amusing phenomenon whereby landlocked people will label any tiny stretch of sandy lakeshore a "beach" and then will flock to it as if it were the ocean. This beach, no bigger than my apartment, was heavily occupied by families of hilltowners who a) were homogeneously, preternaturally tan and b) spent their day at the beach discussing the supermarket circular and how "you no longer need to plug in the Internet because it, like, comes in waves."
After several hours laying around on the beach with books and the New York Times crossword puzzle it was time to go home, have a quick lunch of Indian food and then lay around on the sofa reading books and agonizing over that same crossword puzzle. Probably one of the least stressful days on record. Then we went to the movie rental place and rented-- embarrassing revelation here-- Season One of The L Word. We spent the first half an hour moaning about how terrible the show was, and then knew we were hooked when our moaning transformed into laughter about how bad the show was. We'd have watched another episode except that J-- called us up to see if we were interested in fireworks, which we were. And they were good.
Yesterday M-- and I drove to Ashfield and spent the day on the beach. It's a pretty amusing phenomenon whereby landlocked people will label any tiny stretch of sandy lakeshore a "beach" and then will flock to it as if it were the ocean. This beach, no bigger than my apartment, was heavily occupied by families of hilltowners who a) were homogeneously, preternaturally tan and b) spent their day at the beach discussing the supermarket circular and how "you no longer need to plug in the Internet because it, like, comes in waves."
After several hours laying around on the beach with books and the New York Times crossword puzzle it was time to go home, have a quick lunch of Indian food and then lay around on the sofa reading books and agonizing over that same crossword puzzle. Probably one of the least stressful days on record. Then we went to the movie rental place and rented-- embarrassing revelation here-- Season One of The L Word. We spent the first half an hour moaning about how terrible the show was, and then knew we were hooked when our moaning transformed into laughter about how bad the show was. We'd have watched another episode except that J-- called us up to see if we were interested in fireworks, which we were. And they were good.