Let it snow!

There is a story about snow I'll never forget. This happened about two years ago.. or maybe it was three. Come to think about it, I think it was three years ago, because BigGeek was still in business school. So one cold day in February we had this huge ice storm. It looked lovely of course, the trees shimmering in ice-crystals, transforming the landscape into a regular fairyland, but the roads were not far away from being fantastic. Covered in black ice and very, very slippery and treacherous. So, on that day of the ice storm, I came home from work in the evening and spent more than two hours breaking the two-inch hard ice in our driveway and shoveling. It had snowed later that day, after the ice storm, so the ice was covered in snow, which had crusted with even more ice. All very nasty business. Chip was with his nanny and they both saw me from the warmth of a bedroom window, chipping the ice and trying not to fall.

Two hours later, the job was done and I was happy with the results. The walkway and the drive way were free of ice and snow and safe for walking. I headed inside and the evening followed its weekday routine, when suddenly at 11:00 pm, while I was in bed reading, I heard a knock on my door. It was Chip's nanny. She called me to a window and there we saw a snow plow, plowing the snow and ice until I realized that it was piling up all the snow right at the mouth of our driveway, blocking it. The nanny opened the window and yelled at him. He could not hear us. I ran down to yell at the driver, but before I could get out of the door, he had piled 3 feet of snow and was gone. We were snowed in.

I was too exhausted and it was nice and cozy and warm inside to go and work the snow again. I knew it was a bad move, but I decided to leave it till the morning. I woke up early next day and armed with my shovel, decided to get that wall of snow down. But over the night it had turned hard into a wall of ice. I attacked it furiously but managed only to get bits out here and there. This was turning into a battle of ego. Ice vs. Dottie. I hacked away at it with all my force, got a chunk out at a strategic spot, but my victory was short lived. I slipped on the black ice and fell. Hard. My ears were ringing.

The nanny saw me fall and ran down stairs but I told her to stay away. One person falling was enough. She begged me to get back in and wait for BigGeek to come home from school that evening and hack away the ice, but that would mean defeat, right? So I picked the shovel again and started to break the ice. Suddenly, my neighbor's teenage son was beside me, with a shovel. I looked up to see my neighbor at her kitchen window with a steaming cup of coffee. She smiled and waved. She had woken up her eldest son and ordered him to go help. How I envied her. There she was in her flannel robe, drinking coffee, ordering her sons to shovel driveways, where as my son was only one at the time. A few minutes later his younger brother joined us and between the three of us, the wall was all but demolished. There was a small hump, but I was certain, I could run my car over it.

I got into the car, revved it up and backed it out. It came to a halt with a loud crunching. The lump of ice had caught its underside. The car was stuck. It could neither go forward or back. We hacked the ice under the car, but it was a really hard lump. Soon another neighbor came out and started to help. Between the three guys, the lump was somewhat tackled. The second neighbor got into the car and ran over the lump. Hurray!!!

Ten minutes later I was driving to work, only to realize that I could only hear with one ear. The fall on the ice was not so good. Later that evening I went to the ER and they told me it was temporary and I should have my hearing back by tomorrow morning and I did, thank god.

But the only lasting impression I have of the incident is the image of my neighbor standing at the kitchen window, looking at her two sons shoveling. This Saturday we got four inches of snow. Chip looked out the window when he woke up in the morning and let out a glee and said "Aie, can I go and shovel the snow?"

From our backyard

The enthusiastic shoveler!!

Chakli Fail

It’s feeling like Diwali. The air has a bit of chill, but not too much. The maples in our backyard are looking absolutely divine in the mornings, as if the early sun has risen only to spray their tops in shimmering gold. There is a little crunch of leaves underfoot, the scent of Autumn in the air. This time of the year is a perfect time to celebrate Diwali. A few weeks later and it gets too cold, a few weeks earlier and it still feels like summer.

I look out the window. The cul-de-sac is quiet. School work and the chilly weather have driven the kickball players and bike riders into the routine hum of their homes. Across the street, where we live, it’s a different story. The Kingdom of DotThoughts has spun into high gear. Father and son have made a trip to our cavernous crawl space. Much to Chip’s delight. To him, the occasional trip to the dark musty underbelly of our home is like going to Ali Baba’s cave. And who am I kidding? I feel a small thrill too. Oh, look, the rattan basket that I bought to store raddi but used it maybe twice.. and over there, what’s that gleam? Ah! 25 foil pans I didn’t know I had and table cloths with “Happy Birthday” in rainbow colors. It’s like shopping without spending any money.

Chip and BigGeek haul a big black storage bin that says “Outdoor Holiday Lights”. Chip lets out a squeal. He has spotted a Santa House and a Singing Santa that we bought for $5 at a neighbor’s garage sale this summer. With the fervor of an event manager, he lugs that too. “No, Chip, that’s for Christmas. We’ll bring it up when we put up the tree.” I say. Now is the time to let you know that Chip is holiday-challenged. I can’t blame him. He is really not that into Indian festivals. Last year, he insisted on wishing everyone Happy Halloween instead of Happy Diwali. This year he wants to get all the Christmas things out and leave cookies and milk for Santa, for Diwali. Not yet, I tell him a hundredth time. First Diwali, then Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then, then Christmas. He crosses his brow and looks at me in disbelief. “Do you want the Halloween stuff too?” asks BigGeek from nowhere. Why not? I’ll put them up after Diwali. Chip is happy. We get out cardboard skeletons and a scarecrow and pumpkins and fall banners.

As Chip and BigGeek head outside to string the icicle lights, I turn to the faraal. I make faraal every year. No store bought stuff for me. For one, I love cooking, even though I admit with what our schedules are, all that cooking and frying drives me a bit batty. But, it just doesn’t feel like Diwali until the kitchen is filled with the scent of cardamom and tup and besan and frying and chaos. It just doesn’t. They say, our strongest and deepest memories are those of the nose. Diwali proves them right every single year.

I tell BigGeek, I cannot make unlimited faraal for everyone. I usually give a small goody bag of faraal every year to all my friends, so, it’s a limited quantity, and BigGeek usually is quite oblivious to the fact. But this year, I said the “limited quantity” out loud. BigGeek shook his head. “No, that’s not right; you can’t offer limited quantities of faraal. It has to be unlimited. All that they can eat.” My husband is obviously not afraid of me. To say such things at 8:30 pm on a weekday while I am going silently crazy. (If you have any ideas on how to make him quake in fear at my mere presence, shoot me an email)

He is banished from my immediate vicinity and I turn to survey the faraal. Ladoo, check. And they are yumm too. Chip has scarfed down one and is begging for more. Walnut burfi, check. This is a super simple recipe. My mother’s idea. Saucepan, chopped walnuts, fat free condensed milk and viola! Chivda, check. Chakli has been an utter failure. And I don’t know why, exactly. I have this steamed flour method that usually gives good results, but this time the chaklis have simply decided to dissolve in oil and laugh in my face. My attempt #1 was very frustrating and when no amount of repair made the chaklis as strong as my resolve, I, in a fit on temporary insanity, took the dough, added some methi and baking soda to it and baked them into cookies that were looked on with two pairs of very, very suspicious eyes. Attempt #2 is scheduled for tonight or tomorrow night. Wish me luck. Or better still, give me fool proof recipes that don’t involve exotic ingredients like moong flour.

I made karanjis yesterday and the golden crescents made me nostalgic and took me to my grandmother’s home for Diwali – the one year when she had decided to surprise everyone by making savory karanjis with peas. The Shankarpali caught whatever bug the chaklis had. They too dissolved and in oil and turned into a oily, crumbled pile of snarkiness. Attempt #2 will be made today or tomorrow. Or not at all. With chaklis, the magic number 5 will be reached. When the 5 items of faraal are done, I shall rest my old bones and dig in!

How is your Diwali prep shaping up? All set?

The Spat

So once upon a time, Aie and Baba were having a kitchen spat. I mean, what is a marriage without an occasional spat, right? Right? So, like most spats, it had no reason and one thing led to another. Lil Chip was standing by, watching the goings-on curiously. In the end, he decided to referee.

Chip: Aie, Baba, wait. Don’t fight. Let me get you a beer.
Baba: No, Chip. I don’t want a beer right now.
Chip: OK. I will get Aie a beer.
Aie: I don’t want a beer, Chip.
Chip: Then…. I can’t help you.

With that, this odd trio wish all US-wasis a happy July 4th!

Hello, carnation

What do you do when you come home from work, on a day when the sun is behind clouds and it has just rained and little droplets cling to blades of grass and pose prettily on the flowers and the light is all soft and gray and mellow and twilight is just beginning and there is no cooking to be done because its leftovers day and Chip is happily playing in his bath and BigGeek is taking a catnap on the couch? What do you do indeed? Thank the powers-that-be for a golden opportunity and then sneak out barefooted with your camera.

Spinach and Dill

Squash blossom

Carnations in our front yard

Carnations on my bookshelf

For the love of reading

I remember when I used to trawl the baby stores late at nights when I was pregnant with Chip. Set next to the baby bibs and developmental toys that promised to turn wee babies into geniuses, there were shelves upon shelves of CDs. Baby Mozart, Baby Bach and Baby any-composer-you-can-think-of. I must admit I was tempted to pick one of those CDs, only to be admonished by a little voice inside that said, “Stop! What, are you doing, you utter idiot? Did Bach sit into wee hours of morning to compose music for teensy babies?” Of course he didn’t. The Bach and Mozart (and Pink Floyd and Deep Purple) CDs at home would do just fine, right? And they did. But, I think, what worked more, was that our love of music rubbed off on Chip. Music surrounds us and surrounds Chip too and he has learnt to work the iphone to play the songs he likes and on many idle Saturday afternoons, he lies on the sofa in the gentle sun and hums his favorites.

I have often wondered of music-less parents who invest their dollars in buying baby music. Do they end up with music loving children? Unless the children listen and learn to appreciate good music not just into their toddler years but way, I mean way beyond, I don’t think music listened to as babies would help much.

What does this have to do with reading, you ask? Well, plenty.

In the United States at least, there is a cultish drive to get kids to read. As early as possible. In baby hood, if you can. A child who does not read in Kindergarten is well, someone who will grow up shunning books. Four years of parenting and I laugh at this. As a child, I learnt to read late. Sure, I could read words and simple sentences by the time I was five or six, but I did not read independently until I was eight. I remember the first book I read. It was an abridged version of the Three Musketeers. The story was intriguing, as was D’Artgnan’s yellow horse and Lady DeWinter. It was the first time, I remember the power of books – how they could take me to another time and place and I was enchanted. Of course, I was only eight and could not articulate my feelings then, but yes, it was totally what I did not expect a bunch of words to do to me. It was a slow start and I don’t think I became a voracious reader until I was eleven or twelve. By then, there was no looking back. I devoured books. I would want to come home from school, just because I could read in peace.

When I look at what the experts tell me – you know read to your child every night and all that, I take it with a grain of salt. My parents never read to me or my brother. They helped us read when we were older – I would go ask my father for meanings of words or to explain a paragraph, but that was that. We were pretty much left to read alone. We would discuss books and many a battle followed between my father, my brother and me (my mother would keep out of these fiery debates) and many a tear were shed (by me of course) over the debates.
Books were fun, reading was fun. My father took us to the annual book exhibitions in our little town. He would buy books for himself and us. We had memberships to the library and we would bring and read books from there. We were surrounded by books. We were intrigued by my father’s and uncle’s bookshelves. On boring summer days, when it was too hot to play outside, I would look at our book shelf and find an old tattered book and begin browse through it, only to find when I looked out the window the sun had set and that I had finished reading it in one sitting. My father, I think inculcated a deep love of reading in us without ever reading a single book to us.

So, when I see parents read to their young children with a missionary fervor, every night, I want to ask, do you do it as a chore? Something that “needs” to be done for your child’s development – whatever that might mean. Do you “run though” the books not taking time to talk about it with your child? Do you know if your child comprehends the story? Such reading is futile, I think.

Reading is more than decoding words, you know. It’s about nuances of words and their meaning. It’s about predicting how the sentence might end and then be pleasantly surprised when the author chooses to end it differently. It’s about learning how to guess a meaning of the word from the sentence that wraps it. It’s about cadence. It’s about how some sentences transform meanings of words. It’s about how some words become the soul of a sentence. Reading is much more than stringing words together. Knowing how to string words together will not make you a book lover. Knowing that rest of the stuff will.

I read to Chip, sometimes. Not on a regular basis. Some nights we read half a dozen books and then don’t read for a week. But he is surrounded by books and parents who love to read: albeit different things. Many nights, find, Chip and I reading. He, his own book and me, mine. His with colorful pictures and a sentence or two in big, bold letters on each page, mine covered in small print. Chip reads aloud – no, he can’t really read, but he knows the stories in those books and he tells it aloud to himself while adding detail that is only limited by his imagination. Every once in a while, he peers at my book and asks me what it is about. I tell him. He looks eagerly at the pages that lack color and pictures and I can see the fascination in his eyes. He spells out a few words and finds the pattern here and there on the page and is satisfied. He returns to his book and me to mine. Side by side. Both, book lovers, in their own way.

Edited: Trawl, not Troll, as pointed out by Sue :)

Spring Fling

In the Kingdom of DotThoughts, spring is a busy time. Since we are all nature lovers and avid gardeners, spring is a time of nail-biting anxiety and backbreaking work. Like whether you should have really dug and stored those gladioli bulbs last fall or did you plant the hardy variety? Or why the rose bush suddenly decided to only grow leaves on one branch out of its many? Or if the vegetable seeds you planted are taking well. Time to start your compost bin. Set the seedlings out now or wait until Mother’s day? Divide the helianthus and the columbine. Plant the lettuce. And then the spinach. And oh that Shasta daisy is getting too big for its spot. Did you plant the dill that BigGeek so loves? You did, but in the same spot as the spinach. Uh-oh. Move the coneflowers to the front bed where they will get some attention (and you some appreciation). Should you cross over to the dark side and use miracle-grow to fertilize? Those daylilies look odd there. Plant the annuals here. Petunias or Johnny-jump-ups? Scold the newly sprouted curry-leaf plant for giving me a bad scare by shedding all its leaves just before spring without telling me its plans. Pray the squirrels don’t get the strawberries again. (And then make plans to sprinkle hot pepper over the plants if prayers don’t work). Try growing lavender again? For the third bleddy time? Mulch, mulch mulch. Get bags of soil. Trim twigs, mow lawn. Plant the elderberry bush that gnd gave.

You see, with a growing season as short as it is here, you only get one shot to grow. The Spring. You miss and you have to wait one whole year. Every Monday for the past month, I have hobbled to work. A sprained back. A pulled muscle. Chipped nails. Aching legs. Sore arms. Exhausted, but content. There is something very satisfying about pottering about in the garden. The first days of spring, as the soil thaws and I venture out into the garden, I leave my gardening gloves behind. I yearn to plunge my hand into the soil that has not yet forgotten the winter. To sow those miraculous seeds of lettuce and perhaps spinach or radishes and watch life return to soil that not a few weeks ago was blanketed in snow. Every year, every single year, I am awestruck. By how that small seed will grow and yield. But how a mass of twigs will sprout a leaf, then two and before you know it a dainty white flower that will turn into a delicious strawberry. Year after year, unfailingly.

Someone once said, when you dig in the garden, you bury your troubles. Whenever I wring my hands here and there and fret over this and that, BigGeek quietly comes over and says “Think about your garden.” And suddenly those anxious thoughts turn to the lilac bush that has blossomed with flowers so fragrant that their perfume catches you with a delightful surprise every time you walk by. Or those tulips with a pink so subtle that you wonder if it is blushing because you have been staring at it agape. And the columbine and the clematis, who, having roused from their deep hibernation are growing so vigorously and with such gusto that you can’t but smile endearingly and compare their enthusiasm to Chip’s.

This is what I am growing this year. In my salad box - Three varieties of lettuce, Spinach, dill. Eggplants, okra, melons, pumpkins and squash from seedlings I grew from seed. And of course I have planted seeds for cucumbers and would have planted seeds for yard long bean except it fell into the lawn. What remain are tomatoes.

And out in the front. The tulips are almost done. Daffodils long gone. As is the rhododendron that I have styled in a faux-japanese way. Lilac is blooming and so is the creeping phlox. The clematis has put out lovely white flowers and the columbine is following suit. The three carnations are setting out buds as are the bearded irises and the Asiatic lilies and the salvia. The rose is silent. I think I have offended it in some way. The hydrangea seems to be a bit unhappy too. Although I don’t know what it wants? The alliums I pulled out last season, refused to leave and have sprouted yet again. The daylilies and the helianthus and the coneflower still think it’s a bit cold and are just twiddling their thumbs. The coreopsis is just showing its head under the wilting grape hyacinths who set a spectacular bloom earlier this season. And of course the azaleas have bloomed and are wishing a happy mother’s day already. Happy Mother’s day, to all the moms. What blooms in your garden?

Where was I?

Long time no see. Now en Espanol. Hace tiempo, no ver. One of these days I am going to write a post en Espanol. As soon as I go beyond speaking only in the present. So, I have been drowned in work, invaded by Spanish preterits, overrun by some bathroom remodeling, utterly subjugated by spring cleaning and have been running helter skelter trying to get those pesky seeds started for my vegetable garden. Now, where were you? BigGeek has earned mucho brownie points by making a DIY growing light for me. To grow tiny seedlings. Squash, eggplants, pumpkins, melons and okra. (Have you tried googling “DIY grow lights”? You should. I was amused at the search results.) I, since then have dropped the grow light on a pumpkin seedling crushing its tiny stem. In my panic, I also administered some homeopathy to the plant for the trauma. Cross your fingers. I am crossing mine. I should click a picture of my seedlings. But getting the camera, the usb dongle, the computer and five minutes all together is proving to be a muy indomitable task. Hope spring eternal.

Yesterday, Chip was looking at our wedding album and we had this conversation:

Chip: Where am I?
Aie: Huh?
Chip: Why am I not there in these pictures?
Aie: You were not there.
Chip (perplexed, puzzled): I was not there when you and Baba got married? Where was I?
Aie: You weren’t born then.
Chip: Oh! I was in your tummy then.
Aie : No, no, you were not in my tummy.
Chip: Then, where was I?

So, tell me, gentle readers? Where was Chip?

Batter Debugged (Well.. almost)

Thank you all for your awesome tips. I finally got around to making idlis this past weekend. 1 cup urad dal, 4 cups idli rava. Soaked. Ground urad dal until it fell in folds. Ground the soaked idli rava a bit too. Fermented in a warm oven overnight and then some. Also kept the light on in the oven. BigGeek was my secret helper. He warmed the oven a tad bit every few hours. This puzzled me a lot. Because I was impressed that a small light bulb could generate so much warmth. It wasn't the light bulb. It was BigGeek's love. Or his fear of eating rock-hard idlis.

The idlis turned out to be soft and fluffy and BigGeek was mighty impressed. "These are the softest idlis you have ever made" he declraed at brunch. I glowed!

Let it snow

Its 7:30 in the morning and I chase Chip downstairs for breakfast. He looks out the window and says in his best Leo-from-the-little-einstein-voice “Oh my god. I cannot believe it!” I follow his little index finger pointed at the window thinking something utterly disastrous has happened. It is a Wednesday and I am late. Would have been perfect timing, actually. But no. Not today. I look out the window and see something that is best said by pictures. The First Snow Of The Season. We’ll it’s only a dusting but it covers the road and the cars and the roof and trees. All very pretty, yes, but the damn plough hasn’t cleaned the road.

I give Chip his milk and grind some coffee, make some toast and sit down at the table.
“So, now we can go and make a snowman?” Chip asks.
“There isn’t enough snow.”

Well, we could have made miniature snowmen, but hey, I am not 3 and I have a job to get to, not to mention the ghastly traffic because well, in the spring and summer and fall months, people simply forget how to drive even in a quarter inch of snow. Snowmen are hardly the agenda on a Wednesday morning. (How do you blow a raspberry on the blog without having to spit all over the monitor?)

“Of course there is” Chip says.
Chip, I am convinced will be a good negotiator. He never lets go. Never.
“We can collect all the snow from the backyard and from the front and make a BIG snowman.”

Ok. Plan B, then.
“It’s going to get warmer later today, your snowman will melt.”
That buys me enough time to finish my toast.
“How warm?”
“Warm enough to melt the snow. There won’t be any snow when we get back in the evening.”
“Let’s go ice skating then.”

I can’t ice-skate. Or ski. I have the limb co-ordination and balance of a three-toed sloth. I waddle and fall down. Mostly. Actually, that’s not completely accurate. I can’t ski. I have never ice-skated. This past weekend, a friend coerced me gently to go ice-skating. I was so scared that when we had to go run some errands before the rendezvous, I wore a skirt and boots. BigGeek looked quizzically at me – and I couldn’t tell if it was because my selection of attire was completely inappropriate for an afternoon on ice or if it was because my sides bulged out like cheese popovers.

“You are going to ice-skate in THAT?”
A-ha. No cheese popovers. That means- I have either slimmed down or the man has wisened up. Prolly the second.
“No. I am not ice-skating in that.”
“We won’t have time to change.”
“No. I am not ice-skating. It’s my insurance. So I don’t have to ice-skate.”

We never did end up going. We came home, tried and decided to call the friends over to drink beer instead. At least there is no danger of slipping and falling. Not right away in any case.

So. End of long, un-necessary deviation from that Wednesday morning. Chip had been a bit put-off that we cancelled ice-skating the past weekend.

“You want to ice-skate now? I asked him.
“Yes. Let go get me some skates and we can ice-skate on the road.”
“You have to go to a rink to ice-skate. You can’t ice skate on roads.”
His lips pouted and steam came out his ears. A nuclear-grade tantrum was brewing.
“I want to ice skate now.”

Plan C.
“Look outside. Is that snow or ice?”
“Snow.”
“And do we say ice-skating or snow-skating?”
“Ice-skating.”
“Then how can you skate when it snows?”
Chip thought for a second.
“We need ice to skate.”
“Eggggzactly” I said being quite proud of myself for having defeated a three year old through logic.