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Archive for the ‘Daily Life’ Category

Many TV shows allow you to travel the world, see different places and eat different foods while sitting in the comfort of your home.  There is one I discovered recently which I think you will quickly become your favorite as it has mine. It is Migrationology.com, a vlog or video log by Mark Weins and you can watch it on You Tube.

Mark Weins is a 31 year old American, born in Arizona, brought up in France and Africa by missionary parents, who now lives in Bangkok with his Thai wife, Ying, and their one year old son, Mika. He has been producing these videos for the past six years, first in Asia but lately in Europe and the rest of the world. His videos make you feel that  you are at the table with him ; you can see that roadside stall or restaurant, smell the food, almost taste it.

What makes these videos so appealing, so much more enjoyable than the rest? It’s three things. Firstly, the camera work. The visuals are crisp and the editing masterly. The narrative focuses on the food and the ambience, mostly the former and just enough of the latter to give viewers a feel for the country Mark is visiting. BTW, Mark Weins is a one man show. He is the star, the cameraman ( he uses a video camera on a stick, like the one you shoot selfies with), the writer, the planner and the editor.  Secondly, the restaurants and the roadside stalls he eats at are just the sort that any foodie traveler would love to experience. They are recommended to him by his legion of fans worldwide who often guide him and accompany him to the best local haunts Next to home cooking, this is the most authentic food there is. Lastly, and most importantly, Mark’s personality is  a big reason for the popularity of his videos. He is knowledgeable about food without being pedantic, always pleasant and smiling, personable, good natured and respectful of the places he finds himself in and the people he encounters. I’ve never seen him say anything bad about anyone or any place that he has been to. Never.

Recently, I watched videos of Mark’s five day trip to Mumbai, India , the city where I grew up. I saw him visit familiar places, go to  restaurants that I’ve been to, eat dishes I’ve enjoyed. For instance, on Day 4 of his trip, Mark tried nalli nihari and tandoori roti at the Noor Mohammed Hotel on Mohammedali Road, demolished a vegetable sandwich  street side, and ate a malai cream ( a sweet dessert made from the first milk, or colostrum, of a cow that has just given birth). Then onto the Elco Arcade for bhel, pani puri and sev puri before a final stop at the Jai Jawan Punjabi restaurant on Linking Road in Khar for a dinner featuring Fried prawns, Tandoori Chicken and Daal Makhani. Imagine… all this in a single day. Truly, the man is a fearless eater with a cast iron stomach and the amount of food he can put away is amazing.

Mark is an adventurous eater though he does not go out of his way to find bizarre foods. He eats the local specialties, stuff that you and I would love to eat and he eats street food without a care in the world. He is not too fond of sweet things but  loves spicy foods and crunchy things. I watched in horror as he popped a fresh green chilly into his mouth and chewed on it.  Mentally, I was screaming” Don’t do it, Mark! Don’t do it!” but all he did was go ” Umm, a little spicy.”

I love to watch Mark eat. As the first morsel pops into his mouth, his eyes open wide in delight and a blissful smile spreads over his face. Then his eyes close in ecstasy and he goes ” Wow!” as he slowly tilts sideways to the right. Words can’t adequately describe this spectacle; you have to watch the video. Most dishes provoke this reaction in Mark but I have become an expert in gauging how much Mark really loves a dish. The reaction I’ve described means that the dish is top classs, A-1, not to be missed. If , however, he omits the sideways lean, it means just ” Good”, not ” Very Good or excellent”. If, on the other hand, Mark goes ” Ummm!’ while widening his eyes and pointing to the dish, it means the dish is just OK. He never finds a dish less than OK. Once, in Korea, when he was tasting sea pineapples- a shell fish that looks like a miniature pineapple – he said the fish flavor was very intense. That should have been enough to warn viewers away from it. ” Intense” is also the adjective he used to describe traffic in Mumbai, an epic understatement. Mumbai traffic is terrible, exhausting, intolerable. Comparatively, being caught in rush hour traffic in New York is relaxing.

Mark’s enjoyment of food may seem theatrical but it is genuine. When he was eating nalli nihari, a sinfully rich dish of mutton and bone marrow,  on his first stop that day, he expertly scooped it up with his tandoori roti but ran out of roti before he finished the dish. No problem. Remarking that the nalli nihari could be eaten like a soup, he grabbed a spoon and polished off the rest of the dish.

Many of us dream of traveling and eating  all over the world. Mark did too. The difference is that he went out on a limb in the pursuit of what he wanted to do and is now living his dream. Strangely , I am not jealous of him. I’m just happy that I get to watch his videos and share his experiences, even if it is only vicariously. You can too. remember ” Mark Weins” on You tube. Or if you want to read his blog, it’s migrationology.com.

 

 

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On the outskirts of Philadelphia is a very exclusive country club does not admit women. The prohibition against women is so strictly enforced that members are even discouraged from having their wives drop them off at the clubhouse. Indeed , some of the stories about how far the club goes to preserve the sanctity of this all male bastion are difficult to believe.

For instance, it is rumored that once or twice a year, a burka clad figure can be seen flitting about the clubhouse offices. No, it is not some religious fanatic; it’s merely the female accountant who has been smuggled in to balance the books. Then there is the apocryphal  story about the time, some years ago, when a club member passed away and left a substantial sum of money to be used for the renovation of the the clubhouse. The bequest was gratefully accepted and the renovation completed but the club stewards then faced a tricky problem. Should the widow be invited to the dedication ceremony? There was a long discussion, behind closed doors, and an agreement was finally hammered out. The widow was invited to attend … providing she left the premises immediately after the ceremony.

One final anecdote : A club member was stricken with chest pains while he was in the clubhouse. He was made as comfortable as possible and the First Aid squad summoned. The ambulance was there in minutes  and two EMTs quickly alighted and rolled out a gurney. But there was a problem and you can guess what it was. One EMT was a man, the other a woman. Even in this dire situation, the club stuck to its rules; the female EMT was told that she could not enter the premises. Luckily, the male EMT was able to load the patient into the ambulance with the help of the other club members and  rushed to the hospital where he made a complete recovery.  Some weeks later, when he was back at the club, he was told what had transpired and is reported to have responded: “Had to do it! Had to do it! Perfectly understand!”

No doubt, you who are reading this have questions to ask . Questions like ” What is the membership of this club like? What’s so great about the club? And, finally, How can such blatant discrimination be tolerated nearly one hundred years after women secured the right to vote? Here are the answers:

The club members are rich old white men, most of whom have their money in a variety of businesses.( They have to be rich because the annual membership dues run into the tens of thousands). They like the club’s all-male environment because they can make business deals in peace and’ boys can be boys’. The club does boast an excellent golf course but it is underused. It also has an excellent kitchen which puts out gourmet food. The members don’t come to the club to play golf; they come there to eat, drink, gamble and doing whatever they want unfettered by the presence of women. Gambling is very big at the club. A member once wagered and lost his car lease on a bet. Another member is reputed to have gambled away a million dollars in a single year. Yet another, no doubt under the influence of drink, is supposed to have played a ground of golf while clad only in his underwear. Crude behavior, it seems is not only tolerated, it is the norm. One member, a Cardinal no less, is alleged to have let out a loud fart while in the clubhouse and said, unapologetically, ” Cardinals fart too”.

Which woman would want to be in an environment like this where crudity and boorishness are the order of the day? No wonder women have not tried to overturn the restrictions against female membership.

 

 

 

 

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Since I became a grandparent, I’ve noticed that others open up more about their own grandkids. Recently, I’ve heard plenty of stories about other people’s grandkids, all of them interesting or cute and many of them funny.

One of our good friends was telling us how much fun our granddaughter would be. She said ” You’re going to have a ball getting her new clothes. I remember how much my granddaughter loved to dress up and how happy she was to get a new outfit. Boys are different. My grandson is five years old and he just told me, ” Gramma, don’t buy any new clothes for me. I have enough. Instead you can buy me toys. And , gramma, money is OK too.”

That little scamp!

 

 

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( I ‘ve only just started posting again after a two month long hiatus. The reason… many things, but particularly, the birth of our first grandchild, our granddaughter Saya, in San Francisco. This post is about our emotions on seeing her for the first time).

When we told our friends that we were leaving for San Francisco to see our new granddaughter, they were delighted for us. Those who had grandchildren of their own were particularly effusive. ” We’re so happy for you. That moment when you see her for the first time: cherish it. There is nothing like it'”, said one. ” Sheer magic”, gushed another. With such a build -up, we were eager to see the baby.

We arrived in San Francisco, took a Lyft to our son’s apartment, greeted him and were ushered into the living room where Saya was cradled in her mother’s lap. My first thought upon seeing her was how small and vulnerable she appeared. She  was not yet one month old and I had not dealt with babies that young in a long, long time. I took in her features : the gimlet eyes that seemed to look right through me, the Cupid’s Bow mouth ,the cute little nose, the neatly combed hair – and I began to feel the first stirrings of love, an emotion that grew stronger day by day as this little stranger became a person and stole into my heart.

I remember the exact moment when it happened.

Little babies have it so hard. Thrust suddenly into a world they cannot comprehend, utterly helpless, completely dependent on large strangers for their every need, they can communicate their needs only by crying. Life is an endless cycle of eat, burp, sleep, eliminate and get clean. Even after being burped, Saya would be affected by hiccups. At such times, the only thing that brought her comfort was sitting in her grandma’s lap and being rocked gently until the hiccups subsided. We also discovered that Saya loved to hear the Hindu chant, Soham, sung by a church choir. As soon as we put it on, the crying would stop and , in minutes, she would doze off. I loved to look at Saya as this happened. One day, she was apparently asleep and my wife was thinking of putting her in the crib, when Saya opened one eye and looked at us. The look was so knowing and yet trusting that my wife and I were both charmed. It was magical.

Another such moment happened when she was fast asleep in her crib. As I watched, a beatific smile stole across her face. What could she be thinking of that brought such peace and contentment ? I thought of angels and Heaven and was reminded of the Inner Divinity that resides in all of us. The smile lasted for only a few seconds but , as I wondered if it had really happened, it happened again! O happy day !!

When we came back to New Jersey it was a wrench, parting from Saya. Even now, our thoughts are often with her. After we left, we heard that she was sad for a couple of days. Then, she got her shots and was miserable for a week. Hearing that, we were too. Luckily, her other grandmother is there now to take care of her and to pamper her and Saya is smiling again. We FaceTime with her on Sundays and, while it is no substitute for face- to face interaction, it is the next best thing. We get to see her and how fast she is growing and keep tabs on what is happening with her. We count the days until we can see her again in November.  Will she remember us then? Or will we have to make her acquaintance all over again?

Children and grandchildren both bring us joy but, as a friend once remarked, we are more relaxed with our grandchildren. Having brought up children, we know what to expect and are not as nervous as when we were young parents. At our stage of life, we also have less worries than when we were still making our way in the world.

I often think of how fortunate we are, those of us who have children and, perhaps, grandchildren. We have seen our children grow up, tended them through their mishaps, rejoiced in their achievements and shared in their happiness. Now, through our grandchildren, we get to re-live those golden years once again. Truly, we are blessed.

 

 

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There are several lists of the dirtiest jobs in America. Some of the jobs on those lists are:

Septic Tank Servicer         Horse Castrator        Sewer Inspector          Pig Slop Processor

Charcoal Maker                 Road kill Cleaner      Termite Controller      Embalmer

Bloodworm Hunter          Animal Vet                Bat Cave Scavenger      Coal Miner

Slaughterhouse Worker

As bad as these jobs are, and they are all really really bad, there is one that is worse than any of them. The crappiest job in America is White House Press Secretary (in the present administration). Consider what poor Sean Spicer has to go through every day. As in many of the jobs listed above, he has to deal with a whole lot of crap. In his role as spokesperson for the executive branch, he has to explain actions and events within the President’s administration to the world. Thus, he has to deal with the White House Press Corps on a daily basis and explain the President’s latest snafus. He has to use his wiles to evade… and deny … and deflect … and obfuscate. In short, everything short of outright lying.  After tying himself up in knots trying to do the impossible, he is regularly undercut by his boss who contradicts what he has just said. How he must dread those early morning Tweetstorms!

As if this is not enough, he is the butt of jokes and is regularly caricatured on Saturday Night Live and by late night show hosts. As someone has said, working in this administration means being perceived either as a fool or as a liar.

When something goes wrong, as it invariably does, it is never his boss’s fault; it’s his. He may be a decent chap but he is mistrusted by everyone, thanks to his job. Nor can there be any satisfaction in the job itself. Every day is worse than the last and, when his head hits the pillow at night, he must have nightmares about what the next day will bring.

Finally, as hard as he works, his job security is nil. There is constant speculation that he is about to be fired and, in the last week, the whispers have been growing louder. If I were a betting man, yesterday I would have been willing to wager that he would not last six months. Today, amidst reports that a Fox News correspondent is being considered for his job, it seems I was too optimistic. He may not last out the month. Yes, this is the crappiest job in America and Sean Spicer will probably heave a sigh of relief he hears the dread words  ” You’re fired!”.

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Last evening, we went to the Shankar Mahadevan concert at the Newark Symphony Hall in Newark, NJ. The concert was great ( more about that in another post) but what put it over the top for my wife was that she was able to sit very near the stage and have a close-up view of the singers. It really was fortuitous…

There were twenty of us from our Active Adult development going to the concert and because that was a sizable number, the ticket office upgraded two of the tickets to the VVIP class, seats which normally cost $ 250 apiece. The person who bought the tickets chose my wife for one of the upgraded seats in recognition of her hard work with other programs. Very generous of him and a godsend for my wife. She is herself a keen singer and a big, big Mahadevan fan. From where she sat in the fifth row, center she was able to see every little detail, every facial expression, every nuance of what was happening on stage. it’s true that those who are sitting further back can hear everything that’s going on but when you are sitting up front it’s a completely different experience.

That’s true for all kinds of shows, not just for music. Some years ago, we were at a New Jersey Devils game at the Meadowlands and were lucky to be sitting just four rows back from the ice. Wow! Only then did we fully appreciate what a physical game ice hockey is. When you are sitting further away or see the game on TV, you see the collisions but don’t realize how violent they are. That night, from our choice seats, we got the real picture. Whenever, a player was crushed against the plexiglass barrier by an opposing player,  it shook and shuddered and seemed on the verge of breaking up. We saw the missing teeth as faces were mashed against the glass, sprays of perspiration launched into the air when two players ran into each other. We also saw how rapidly the shift changes occurred with players on the ice for  less than minute at a time. Even when there was no scoring, it was exciting to watch the players crash into each other, hear the clackety clack of sticks as they battled for the puck. That night, I understood why violence sells, why hockey and NFL football are so successful in attracting fans.

There are, however, some close -in seats that are not desirable. Those are the ones next to the oversize speakers at shows that feature high decibel music. Once at the Blue Man show in Las Vegas, we had the misfortune to be sitting close to the speakers and the din was ear shattering. My brother-in-law was actually in pain. Apparently, this is not an uncommon predicament because an usher was on hand to give him earplugs so that he could watch the rest of the program without his ears being assaulted by waves of sound.

In general though, the closer the better. I hope you are able to have the experience.

 

 

 

 

 

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About twenty five years ago, I started seeing an appetizer called Chicken 65 listed on the menus of Indian restaurants. It consisted of  reddish hued deep fried chicken pieces and it was quite spicy.The name was a mystery and no one seemed to know its origin. There were some fanciful explanations, each more absurd than the last. One held that the dish contained sixty-five spices. This didn’t hold much water because I doubt that the pantry of Indian spices is that extensive. Besides, would restaurants go to the trouble of mixing up so many spices in making a single appetizer? Another theory was that the dish was a favorite of Indian soldiers at the frontlines during the 1965 India- Pakistan war and was named in their honor. This was scarcely more credible. Yet other theory was that 65 chillies were used for every kilogram of chicken. It too was easily debunked because so many chillies would make the dish too hot to eat.

This afternoon I finally happened upon what looks like a plausible explanation.

We were lunching at the Paradise Biryani Pointe in Bridgewater, NJ when I noticed a wooden plaque on the wall. ” The Origin of Chicken 65″, it proclaimed. According to it, the menu at a military canteen in Chennai ( formerly Madras) listed dishes only in Tamil. Many of the jawans ( soldiers) frequenting the canteen were from the northern states and did not know Tamil. They took to ordering dishes from the menu by number and number 65 , a fiery chicken dish, was a big favorite. Thus “Chicken, 65” became a frequent request and eventually became a menu entry. This version makes more sense than everything I’ve heard.

So, now you know.

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