The title is quite direct for a couple of reasons, a) because I am perhaps having the healthiest food of my life right now, yet, b) I have never craved so much for junk food ever.
I had an amazing lunch today -- rice, methi saag, kumro makha, poppadum, raita and even a couple of pieces of grilled chicken. Yet, my heart is as restless as are my fingers, which retreats to Swiggy to order a bucket of KFC popcorns, or CR Park fish fry. I am quite cheap that way, even though the best is here, I can't wait to savour the unhealthiest.
People who know me well know very well how deep is my love for a diverse cuisine, an adventurous palette which welcomes with equal fervor a steaming hot plate of sheddho bhaat accompanied by boiled potatoes and eggs (preferably duck), generously drizzled with mustard oil (not ghee) and potent green chilies, as much as buckets of french fries and Calcutta biryanis. This entire winter with a wedding in the family, and trips to Amritsar, I was feasting regularly on the seasonal sarson da saag and makki ki roti which obviously has to befriend a dollop of unsalted butter and a chunk of imperfectly-shaped jaggery, and finished off with the bejewelled gajar ka halwa. The homeliness of a profound bowl of meifoon noodles ornamented with the best of dry chili chicken, an entire wok full of local crabs in Bhubaneshwar, or Delhi kebabs and firni, my copious appetite sometimes makes me think how come I have not yet written something on food by now. Oh yes, fish. How I had fish for breakfast, lunch and dinner during my submission and convocation vacation, even grilled pomfrets in the evenings! It is a wonder that I have not yet turned into a fish myself.
And chips. Plain potato chips. I will bring in an incident here. We were travelling to Colombo from Delhi via Mumbai, and my friend Looney (do not underestimate the frivolous nature of her name, she is an Assistant Professor, English) was travelling from Calcutta to Dublin via Delhi. It so happened (unplanned) that our layoff time at New Delhi airport was more or less same, and so we took it for granted that we could catch up for a good goss-session. She asked me what she would get for me, knowing particularly well that I would ask for the greasy Bhowanipore chips, and that was exactly what I asked for. Yet, as luck would have it, we saw each other at the same terminal, from glass barriers but could not meet, as some official reason would not permit us to be at the same place at the same time. I could have mourned for so many things then, dear readers, but no, all I mourned for was the jumbo greasy packet of plain potato chips. Later, she informed they accompanied her plate of rice and dal in Dublin. So, yes, chips. Lots and lots and lots of chips, contested only by the greedy amount of my orange consumption -- yet another thing which turns me into a monster -- the excitement of peeling an orange on winter afternoons and discovering their sweet or sour character. Like love :)
Growing up in Assam, humble home-cooked, rice and fish heavy food was a part of our regime, with little or almost no access to restaurants. Leafy vegetables (I loved them) were eventually discarded from my intake because of a health condition, as was milk. Thereafter, discovering food through TV (TLC) offered me a high I didn't know existed in me. I also discovered my affinity towards knife-skills, and was later told I inherited it from my uncle (not the knife, the skills). Assisting in the kitchen became an activity I now looked forward to, as evenly cut vegetables would make for the perfect pnaach mishaali torkari. By no means an expert, or even good cook, I am a scientific one, content in my role of donning the apron to sous-chef, yet patience is the virtue which is the piece de resistance in my kitchen sanctum. And the pleasure of eating, my meditation.
I had an amazing lunch today -- rice, methi saag, kumro makha, poppadum, raita and even a couple of pieces of grilled chicken. Yet, my heart is as restless as are my fingers, which retreats to Swiggy to order a bucket of KFC popcorns, or CR Park fish fry. I am quite cheap that way, even though the best is here, I can't wait to savour the unhealthiest.
People who know me well know very well how deep is my love for a diverse cuisine, an adventurous palette which welcomes with equal fervor a steaming hot plate of sheddho bhaat accompanied by boiled potatoes and eggs (preferably duck), generously drizzled with mustard oil (not ghee) and potent green chilies, as much as buckets of french fries and Calcutta biryanis. This entire winter with a wedding in the family, and trips to Amritsar, I was feasting regularly on the seasonal sarson da saag and makki ki roti which obviously has to befriend a dollop of unsalted butter and a chunk of imperfectly-shaped jaggery, and finished off with the bejewelled gajar ka halwa. The homeliness of a profound bowl of meifoon noodles ornamented with the best of dry chili chicken, an entire wok full of local crabs in Bhubaneshwar, or Delhi kebabs and firni, my copious appetite sometimes makes me think how come I have not yet written something on food by now. Oh yes, fish. How I had fish for breakfast, lunch and dinner during my submission and convocation vacation, even grilled pomfrets in the evenings! It is a wonder that I have not yet turned into a fish myself.
And chips. Plain potato chips. I will bring in an incident here. We were travelling to Colombo from Delhi via Mumbai, and my friend Looney (do not underestimate the frivolous nature of her name, she is an Assistant Professor, English) was travelling from Calcutta to Dublin via Delhi. It so happened (unplanned) that our layoff time at New Delhi airport was more or less same, and so we took it for granted that we could catch up for a good goss-session. She asked me what she would get for me, knowing particularly well that I would ask for the greasy Bhowanipore chips, and that was exactly what I asked for. Yet, as luck would have it, we saw each other at the same terminal, from glass barriers but could not meet, as some official reason would not permit us to be at the same place at the same time. I could have mourned for so many things then, dear readers, but no, all I mourned for was the jumbo greasy packet of plain potato chips. Later, she informed they accompanied her plate of rice and dal in Dublin. So, yes, chips. Lots and lots and lots of chips, contested only by the greedy amount of my orange consumption -- yet another thing which turns me into a monster -- the excitement of peeling an orange on winter afternoons and discovering their sweet or sour character. Like love :)
Growing up in Assam, humble home-cooked, rice and fish heavy food was a part of our regime, with little or almost no access to restaurants. Leafy vegetables (I loved them) were eventually discarded from my intake because of a health condition, as was milk. Thereafter, discovering food through TV (TLC) offered me a high I didn't know existed in me. I also discovered my affinity towards knife-skills, and was later told I inherited it from my uncle (not the knife, the skills). Assisting in the kitchen became an activity I now looked forward to, as evenly cut vegetables would make for the perfect pnaach mishaali torkari. By no means an expert, or even good cook, I am a scientific one, content in my role of donning the apron to sous-chef, yet patience is the virtue which is the piece de resistance in my kitchen sanctum. And the pleasure of eating, my meditation.
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