I had a bad relationship with food & men. Being female meant being food provider. Social rules turned to acid in my stomach. Eventually they’d pour out of my mouth as bilious words, undigested pressure. I asked shaadi boys if they could cook before their moms could ask me. No…
Nila soru.
Food eaten under the moon.
Food shared with the moon.
Nila soru.
A friend shared a pic of a poached egg and it began a conversation about food I never thought I’d be in. I am learning that food is so much more than fuel.
I have an unusual relationship with food & people. Namely, I don’t like to be around both at the same time. Am I an asocial eater?
I thought about my claim that my feminism eats these guys on toast then realised it was time to diversify my feminist palate.
Forget about being nice. Just stay curd rice. ~O~O~O~ Curd rice on the streets. Mor mollagai in the sheets. ~O~O~O~ Kadipatta must be sent to jail for showing up in curd rice. ~O~O~O~ My balanced diet of curd rice, workaholism, wine and male tears. ~O~O~O~ It’s not over until curd…
The nicest thing to happen was that I felt like myself in my own skin. The nature of the current is home.
A review of Christine Ambrosius’ “A Pinch of Nutmeg”
What is difficult for a grown woman to manage, is another woman’s kitchen. Food is the battleground on which territory wars are fought.
Chimichangas bring together two very different appetites.