The Sibling Discussion

About two years ago while I was dropping Kicky to the barnehage ('bar-na-ha-gay': kindergarten in norsk, you might as well have a crash course in Norwegian while you're reading this blog); so during one drop off, the kid asks me, 'Mama is there a baby in your tummy?' Don't blame her really, I actually look more pregnant now than when I was actually pregnant. No wonder people are offering me seats on the bus and are giving me that sympathetic look. Oh well, if they are so kind, I just oblige.
I had to tell her that I was just plump (that might be understating it, but it's impolite to say 'fat') and that though I had a big tummy there was no baby in it. She seemed to accept that, even though she seemed a little suspicious.
Ever since I randomly find myself in baby conversations with her.

One time she asked me how were babies born. Now in Norway I think they just present the facts to the kids; no mention of a big bird dropping you off in a soft blanket which is, magically, appropriately coloured and definitely none of the angel stuff, which I made up by the way. So I told her that an angel put her in my tummy and that's how she was born. Of course the actual foretelling was much more magical; I know that for a fact because from time to time I find myself narrating this story at bedtime and also reminded of the original text by an eager kid who remembers the first telling verbatim.

Once she heard the story of her birth, she wanted to know if the same would happen if she were to have a baby sister or brother. I told her that a baby growing in my tummy was one way of getting a sibling, but another way was also to bring home a baby who didn't have a mama or dada. Of course the efficiency of the angel could be questioned here but we didnt get into that. And then she asked, 'So can we buy a baby' The question was loaded with hope. Err, yes it could practically be a financial transaction but I was not going to bother her with those details. I had to twist the facts a bit and repeat the inefficient angel bit. Again in a loud voice, 'So are we going to BUY a baby?' Luckily we were at home and trusted that our doubled glazed windows worked also as partial soundproofers. I was not ready for child trafficking SWAT teams to raid my apartment.

Next day when I picked her up from the barnehage, I met her best friend's mom, who softly asked me 'I heard something. Are you expecting another one?' Took me a split second to comprehend, because I had completely forgotten our 'buying a baby' conversation. The only way to explain this was to repeat the whole story again. Yes, it's a bit awkward and strange when a person you don't know very well is talking about angels and buying babies. Too much information. Actually, too much weird information.

A few months ago, Kicky told the husband, 'Dada, may be Mama will have a baby in the summer.
Dad: 'Why do you think so?'
Kicky: 'Dada (rolling her eyes, frustrated that she had to explain herself), I said "maybe" '
The operative word being 'maybe' but again very hopeful.

Some days, she looks at my tummy which has now grown even bigger, and asks me if I am sure there is no baby in there. Sometimes I look at the tummy and wonder if something is gestating in there and might just pop through. Have you watched this weird show called 'I didn't know I was Pregnant'? There was a girl who popped in her car, in the car...! it was gross. Actually, it's probably gross even in the hospital but you cannot see it. Thank god for sheets and screens.

I don't think I am off the hook with the sibling discussion yet. I have been told (by Kicky) that it's unfair that she is the only kid and that all other kids have baby brothers or sisters. Some days she looks so sad and wishful I really wish it was easy to just buy a baby.

The 'Talking To Kids' Gawkiness Factor

Right,  I have now managed to break all my new year resolutions, successfully. My hands have involuntarily opened that bag of chips (evidence duly destroyed), I haven't stepped into my gym this year (this has been trending since sometime last year, but who's counting), though monthly payments are promptly made (this is the second organisation I support and no tax benefit even) and yes I have forgotten my blog a bit.

To think you can keep your blog alive and fresh everyday is being too ambitious. My life is not interesting, far from it. I have to rely on  my 5 year old for fodder for this blog and if I do that a tad too many times, I might come off as an obsessive mother; I think I am borderline obsessive already. For a girl who is not fond of kids, oh come on, it's not that I hate them, I am just very awkward around them.

When I pick up Kicky at the kindergarten, I see how other parents are so cool around kids, asking them questions and saying funny things. 'Oooh did you have a great time at ski scool today' 'Yaaay! We did!' Seems simple right. Not quite.

First of all I have this default look on my face, which seems to say, 'Lay off, unless you want to get punched in the face' I was born like that, my face looks grumpy, stern, serious, about 90% of the time. My actual feelings don't seem to manifest on my face instantly, so I know, I look a bit intimidating.
Sometimes I conciously remember to relax my face and maybe smile a little. Then I look like a psycho who has escaped the loony bin, and suddenly people are walking on the other side of the road to avoid an awkward ineteraction with the crazy lady.

The other hurdle is of course the language. My comprehension and knowledge of Norwegian probably is still at toddler level. I am quite sure they (the toddlers) know more words than I do, so basically I am one notch above a 2 year old in the 'dada dada' phase and a level lower than a bumbling village idiot.
One day on my out of the kindergarten I meet Kicky's friend who is coming in with her dad. She says something to me in norsk, in all that she said, I just heared 'Innika'. I reply, 'Yeah Innika is upstairs' She looks at me, then looks at her father and looks back at me again. She knew this was a lost cause, if she tried explaining her question that would make it worse, for her. At this point she was staring at me may be hoping for intelligent words to come out of my mouth. Her dad, sensing the awkwardness jumped in to translate. So what she actually asked was if Kicky could come over to her place for the evening. So imagine her surprised when my answer to that was 'Yeah, she is upstairs!'
I fled the scene, feigning 'late to work' syndrome.

This morning when I dropped off Kicky, one kid asked me if we were from England because we spoke English. I managed to hold a conversation for about two minutes, telling them in brief that we were from India and that there was no language called Indian (Indisk in norsk). Then they had me say something in 'Indian' (I give up!). Post that, there was that confused look and awkward silence again. That was my cue.

Also, you know how some people are suddenly extra nice when they talk to a kid. Yeah, that's not me. I can't fake affection (ask my husband). And kids are really smart; if you fake it, they know it. So I am down to playing it cool, speak when I am spoken to and not bother a seemingly busy kid. Else, my face will show that its being overworked with fake emotion and I might remind the kids of Chucky that weird killer doll. Oh wait, theres a new kid on the block in that department, Annabelle was it?

The 'Who is the Boss' Conundrum

The kid is at her chattiest during dinner, when I say dinner that includes making dinner too. From the time we get home we put together dinner in approximately 60 mins, sometimes 90 mins (when 'you know who' offers to cook, not Voldemort). There's none of the sitting down to relax and have my evening chai stuff. It's apron on!

We have a no TV, no laptop, basically a gadget free time on weekdays, only until the kid is asleep of course.
It's a different thing that on weekends gadget control levels are hitting subzero and the kid is wired on playdoh videos, peppa pig videos and have you come across these 'egg' videos? There's this kid or teenager, who continuously opens these toy eggs and shows us what's inside. I think its absolutely disgusting!
The 5 year old in our house is banned from watching them and I just know when she's trying to get a peek at one of those. She goes into the bedroom, tries to lower the volume and tries to watch the video ever so slyly. But I follow her and bust her and then she says, 'But I clicked the video by mistake. I don't want to watch it. Really'.

The peppa pig videos are annoying as well, but she learnt to play 'Snap' from it, also her manners have improved in a proper British way, so the humour (which I don't get) and the slightly bothersome tone of the whole show is a small price to pay.

So while on weekends the kid is virtually non-existent, on weekdays, she is forced to make polite conversation with the older people of the house, meaning the hubby and me.
Yesterday while cooking dinner she asked, 'Mama, who is the boss of the house?'
Me: 'Who do you think is the boss of the house?'
Always better to check first about what they think.
Kid: 'You are the boss of the house, aren't you?'
Me (with my ego now fed and secretly smiling): 'Why do you say that?'
Kid: 'Because you cook the food!'

It was a bit ironic because yesterday the hubby actually offered to cook the main dish, while I was making chapathis (one type of Indian flat bread - just in case there are international readers).
Of course I should have given her high five said, 'Right on babe! Mama is the boss'
But you know sometimes I just have to do (or say) the right thing and I hate it.
Me: 'You know babe there is no Boss of the house. We all take care of the house.'

But later when I was telling the hubby what to do with his dish; hey I don't poke my nose in someone else's business, we were trying to determine if the dish was done or not and I was trying to tell him succinctly that it was done and if we cooked it any further it would turn to mush. So I must have looked a tad hysterical when I repeatedly said, 'Turn it off, turn it off'.
Anyway, while we were deliberating, the kid then quite vehemently told the hubby to listen to me, apparently coz I knew better, and may be was also louder.
Kid: 'Listen to Mama, Dada. She knows what to do. Just listen to her!'

I see signs of a feminist uprising in the household. In a few years we'll know who really is the boss.

Salt and Ice and Everything Nice

For a country that has an overall population of 5 million people, you would think taking the public transport in Oslo in the morning would be a pleasant affair.
But whether it's Bangalore (population 10M), London (population 9.5M) or Oslo (1.5 M), during the office rush hour, you are guaranteed to stand-in as acting 'Cheese Slice' in an unsavoury sandwich. Or worse because you're really short (yes, I am short) are forcibly tented under a massive arm; some days you're wishing you had that blocked nose.

Yesterday, I was stuck standing near the drivers seat and honest soul that I am, was trying to activate my travel card at the nearest card reader. I was in a half ballet pose, balancing on one leg (which is never a good idea in a moving bus) and since I am short, have short and pudgy arms, still could not reach 'swipe point'. A kind lady then swiped my card for me, only then to be pointed to an easier accessible swipe point right next to the driver by another fellow traveller, who seemed to have enjoyed my little pseudo-ballet number and waited to tell me after I had a near muscle cramp from all that stretching.

Public transport in Norway is actually very good, though the locals still complain. But coming from a place where handkerchiefs were considered a fair way to reserve seating on the bus, not to mention the condition of the buses themselves, one journey could send your back into spasm, public transport here is well maintained, clean and comfortable (if you have managed to secure a seat).

It's been snowing quite a lot these past two days, but the roads, at least the expressway my bus takes, seem clear of all snow at all times. Now call me uninformed, or naive or just highly optimistic of modern technology, but I thought (actually was quite sure) that the roads were made of some stuff or there was something in them that was melting all the snow. Yes, the question around what would happen in the summer then, did cross my mind. But these days you get underwear which will keep you warm when it's cold and the same damn thing will keep you dry and slightly cool when temperatures rise. If you can put this sort of technology into underwear how difficult is it to apply to roads.

So I asked my Norwegian colleague (not about underwear), how is it that the roads are free of snow when it has snowed like bloody 'The Day After Tomorrow'. He said that they salt the roads. Huh, so much for advanced technology. Salt and snow ploughers, I gathered.

On my bus ride home yesterday I sat in the first seat, this basically is 'bus' shotgun, you're kinda next to the driver but a few inches behind him. It's kind of like being in a simulator, where you can feel the speed and watch the track in the front of you, only here it is real.
Just before my ride home I happened to read a news article of a huge truck in an accident because of Black Ice. When I lived in my utopic world of self-snow-melting-roads I was confident that however fast my bus went on these roads I was not going to die. Also, I have immense faith, almost to the degree of blindness, in drivers who are by profession, drivers. A cab ride in India can give you the same thrill as the 'Banshee'. But because he is a driver by profession I travel undeterred. However, when with hubby who is a careful and skilled driver, I am pushing imaginary brakes and shouting out one word cautions, often expletives. I never said I was a pleasant passenger.

Now with my new found knowledge of salt, snow ploughers and accidents because of ice, I was watching out for black ice on the road (which is stupid, because you never really see black ice), cussing the driver (in my head) for driving so fast and was desperately trying to remember the hail mary. I usually read on my commute, but yesterday I had put down my Mindy Kaling (she's quite unputdownable by the way) and concentrated on the road, just to scare my already wildly beating heart more.

I am usually not paranoid, actually I am quite rational and sometimes do the putting of two and two together, as they say. Oslo saw two major public transport accidents last autumn. If you can screw up and get into a head on collision in totally dry conditions, how hard was it to do the same on ice. Ice which was now possible because it was a manual process of salting and ploughing, dependent on a guy who could miss a spot, a spot that could spin your car around in a very 'The fast and the furious' style.

Today I stood in the rear of the bus and had my nose in my book, ignored the two thuds of something hitting the bus from below. If I died today I would have at least died laughing. (Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? - Mindy Kaling)

Walking on Ice

Yesterday's weather forecast was snow, and well it's always nice to have snow as long as it stays snow. And even though I wore my good boots (by that I mean, feminine looking and not waterproof) to work, I thought it wouldn't be that bad walking in them in the snow.
But no, meteorologists failed to announce to us that this snow would fast turn into rain and the snow which had laced, more like blanketed, footpaths and walkways would now be looking like the disgusting machine drink that kids love so much, only this color was not neon blue or shocking pink.

So on my way home from work I had to reluctantly place my feet (alongwith my boots) in almost ankle high slush. There was just no escaping this potential hazard to the leather on my boots. Yes, that's all I could think of while squelching through the melted snow. But I got home with very wet feet and no further incident and hopefully my boots have forgiven me for putting them through that ordeal.

This morning however, was what you could describe as the Ice Queen exploding.  Of course, after yesterday's snow and rain, temperatures had to drop just enough to create ice. Let's see Hammer singing to this.
It's one thing to walk in slushy snow with pretty boots but a different game when you get out the big ugly 'I can withstand a snow storm' shoes also known as winter boots.

When you're experiencing winter for the first time (yeah whatever you say, there is no such thing as winter in South India) you look for the most practical gear; a jacket that will keep you warm in -30, shoes that are waterproof and that will keep you warm in -30, a cap that is windproof, gloves that are waterproof, windproof and durable.
What this means is, once you get dressed to go out and experience the winter you're
a) looking like a dork
b) not able to move freely enough and are now walking like a cross between the michelin man and a duck
c) actually now too hot, because it never hits -30 in the city.

Anyway, coming back to this morning, out came the mother of all winter boots. And when you wear these kind of boots, because these are the right kind of boots to wear in this weather, you have this sense of confidence that since you're wearing the right stuff, you're protected and also may be feel a hint of invincibility. That feeling shot me down twice.

I was running late today and have to take two buses to work. I had exactly 3 minutes to get from stop A to stop B, didn't pay any attention to the driver's warning about ice and what do you know. Yes, I fell, which I have already confirmed, in a previous post, is not a pretty sight. Then this one guy helped me up, I really dont know where he came from, asked me if I was ok, me still trying to get to stop B thanked him briefly may be even sounded curt, said I'm ok and dashed off again. So leaving behind a slightly annoyed norwegian (due to my lack of graciousness) with the left calf of my jeans wet, I managed to catch the bus.

The further away you get from the city the icier it gets. Strike Two. I fell just after I crossed the road, once I got off the bus.
You know there's a moment when you know you're going to fall and that there's no use fighting it, you just have to take the fall. Right calf now wet, at least my jeans now looked symmetrical, and people would not wonder if I couldn't hold my water, I treaded carefully to work. I have seen old ladies with walking sticks and spikes in their shoes walk faster than me.

Time to shop for spikes and may be a stick? People will at least be telling me how wonderful I look for my age.

Are you Charlie? Are you really now?

So I have been out of action for a few days, the family bug finally got to me,  I am actually talking about the virus that was hovering around our house during the Christmas vacation like a dementor sucking out all the happiness out of us (yes the angel of doom has a new name). It evaded me during the vacation , because I guess it was happy with the other two. However, it couldn't resist fresh feed in the new year, and I fell victim, just a little bit though, I didn't have it as bad as the other two.

Now I always get into trouble when I comment on current events, happenings and politics. But apparently now people are saying that they are Charlie and that irks me.
By now you should know that I am cynical.

Also, I get it that people want to standup for the events that happened in Paris. And no one should be killed for expressing themselves. But by saying that you're Charlie, in French, you're telling me that you absolutely support freedom of expression to the point that you will not be offended if someone calls you an asshole and also, that you speak French. See cynical.

But that's what it is about isn't it? So if have changed the status on your social networking site claiming that you are Charlie, in French (you're forgiven if you actually speak the language, but just a tad) and you don't have a problem if someone expresses themselves and implies that you are in fact an opening at the end of a digestive tract, the dodgy end, then fine; that or if you have published a provocative controversial article. Then go ahead and call yourself Charlie, in French or Swahili or Arabic (irony), because you're a true supporter of freedom of expression.
Else, please stop this charade, it's downright annoying.

I don't even want to go down the road of the whole 'Freedom of Expression' thing, at least not now. May be in another blog. In short, it's a myth. Unless we all shed our prejudices, egos, delusions of morality and other factors, which will result in a long list, we're not going to have our 'Freedom of Expression' in a very long time

And now there's another name doing the rounds, which is Ahmed. If you haven't stood up and protected someone when there has been impending danger that you knew about, you get the drift. Stop calling yourself a national hero, for Ahmed's sake.

Food for Thought

We decided to eat out today at this small place called Smalhans, yeah the name has nothing to do with being small but a little googling and going to the restaurant's website revealed that Smalhans is a derived German word which is now interpreted as 'a bit low on cash'. Low on cash after you've eaten there may be?

Eating out in Norway, especially Oslo will leave you 'low on cash' by quite a bit. The math I did was this, if we'd resist the temptation to eat out say ten times and put away the money in a little piggy bank, we could take that little piggy to an apple store and buy a MacBook Pro.

But in defence of Smalhans I must say that this place was really not very highly priced. Ambience was great and the food was excellent. Simple baked fish with yummy sides, and we were happy. Though I did knock my glass of wine which deprived me of a third of my drink. That should teach me not to drink on a school night.

My five year old though, who also loves to eat out, seemed to have suffered from a sudden loss of appetite, until her plate was taken away (by the server). Then she was all ready to order dessert. Of course!

Post dinner conversation, initiated by my five year old, was around 'how old is the earth'. That reminded me of a video that recently went viral. There was this girl (who was at least 20 years old) telling, rather pleading, people to be good to the earth, since she (the earth) was so old, quote like two thousand and fourteen years old unquote! I'm not sure where she's getting her information from. Also, don't they mention these things in school, at least in passing, if there aren't already huge charts illustrating the earth's timeline.
Recently Neil deGrasse Tyson has been hogging airtime talking about the Cosmos, a lot; you are bound to catch it at least once while browsing channels.
I hope her friends have broken the whole truth about the earth to her. And that there were no dinosaurs present at Jesus's birth.
The thing with technology is, if you're stupid, people will now 'KNOW' you're stupid. This line I read somewhere, and cannot take credit for.

Coming back to the five year old and her very factual questions, luckily for me the husband can produce factual data and retell it in a very 'Mrs.Doubtfire' way, without the cross dressing, then it would turn into a horror show damaging the kid, just a wee bit.
'How long ago did Dinosaurs live on the earth', I am not sure she completely comprehends exactly what the word 'millions' means, but she knows it's larger than thousand.

So there is a sliver of hope that in another 15 years there won't be viral videos, exemplifying non-existent IQ levels, originating from our part of the town (if she hasn't already moved out by then *keeping fingers crossed*).

Funky Smells and The Green Movement

Disclaimer: My mention of The Green Movement has nothing to with politics or political parties in certain countries, I am just a girl who is quite environmental friendly talking about garbage.

When I got home today there was this funky smell; which was also there yesterday but thought I had gotten rid of by taking out the trash. Yes some women do take out the trash, in the cold mind you, at the risk of frost bite, shuffling through the heavy snow, breaking through the chilling wind (That was my drama queen moment of the day)

Since I had gotten rid of the incorrect source (of the funky smell) I had to investigate a little more. So I started (and stopped) by looking in my fridge. Now I am not sure how bad smell can get out of the refrigerator if the damned thing is closed, but there were a number of items that could have collectively caused the aforesaid smell.

Investigation revealed 2 chicken fillets in an opened packet, with suspicious spots which looked a lot like acne, on a teenager who had just broken out. These I think were opened a week ago and in official terms were unfit for consumption. Couldn't risk a curry with them, so in the green bin they went. Yes we recycle food waste.

When I dug a little more I found half a cucumber. In its decomposed state, it looked like The Hulk had done his business in my refrigerator. Into the green bin it went too.

There was a bag of spinach which I made the mistake of opening. When you open sealed bags of 'what's on its way of becoming organic waste', my advice, get rid of them in their sealed state. Now that the questionable bag of spinach was opened, it joined the others in the green bin.

I also found a lonely stick of lemon grass and a handful of mushrooms, in a very 'unfit for consumption' state. With all the things I put in the green bin, I could concoct a very dubious chicken stew. Just saying.

Now you would think that vegetables which reside in the vegetable basket of the refrigerator would remain fresh forever. When I looked in there, there was a cauliflower wrapped in cellophane (to maintain freshness I'm guessing). Since I was throwing out most of the items in my refrigerator, the discovery of this ingredient was thriving with prospects.With hopes of turning this into a dish, I unwrapped the sad bastard, to find that certain micro-organisms had taken a liking to my cauliflower and seemed to have built an association with it. Really? Fungus on a cauliflower? At first it looked superficial so I thought I could still have my dish by salvaging the good parts. But the fungus had gone deep, so into the green bin this went too.

I think I have now finally gotten rid of the funky smell. My refrigerator is definitely cleaner and leaner. And with my substantial contribution to the organic energy movement, I can tick off my good deed for the day.

PS: I managed to make an egg curry, and guess where the eggshells went. Yes, more to the green movement.

Dawn of the Dead

Getting back to work today after the Christmas break was something I was actually looking forward to. Yes surprise surprise.
That would also mean getting back to our routine, which had disappeared with a ho-ho-ho during these holidays.

No more watching movies until 3 am and waking up at 11. Kicky woke up this morning and said 'But Mama it's still night' I told her we've been waking up quite late these past days and that's why had been greeted with bright sunshine; until winter we're not going to see a hint of dawn till 9 am.
We're still getting used to the whole darkness thing and the minimal sighting of the sun during winters.

No more late night snacks. They don't call it holiday weight for nothing.

No more slacking in front of the TV. Our TV has been so overworked these past two weeks, it's having withdrawal symptoms now. And the sofa has developed a strange dent.

So in order to get back to our routine we all went to bed early last night. But then it turned into what I can only call the dawn of the dead.
Kicky wakes up at 11 pm complaining of it being too hot. And it didn't seem like she went back to her deep slumber after that. Also she hopped into our bed in between us, which makes for a very comfortable sleeping arrangement; NOT.
In my anxiety that I would oversleep and not get to work in time, I was waking up almost every hour to check the time. And when my alarm actually went off I snoozed it twice, because, of course I needed more sleep. In between my constant time checking I saw that Santhosh had also woken up and was reading something (probably very interesting) on his phone. And yes Kicky seemed to be awake at all these times too.
Some time in between Santhosh and Kicky swapped places. So instead of a small arm and leg flung over me I was now in a tight embrace with loud snoring in my right ear.

The morning saw three zombies showered and dressed automatically, or by some divine intervention.

However, I think even the kid was relieved to get dropped off at kindergarten because there was just a 'Bye' from her, none of the usual 'love you, miss you' litany.

Oh well, looks like we're slowly getting back. Kicky was out by 8 tonight, alleluia! And I am almost ready to drop too.
Let's hope this night passes uneventfully. No more zombie mode for me.

Our Søndags Tur

River walk. Awesome. Exhausted. Indian Food. Too full. Can't walk. Happy. Sleepy. Dopey.
Ok now it looks like I'm naming dwarves. When you've eaten too much, even talking in sentences can be painful. But I'll try.

So the whole family (Headcount:3) miraculously managed to get out of the house today into the cold (-1 degree centigrade) and go for a walk.
It was a lovely sunny day, it's been like that for a few days now, meaning this has melted all the Christmas snow and we have nasty patches of ice waiting for you to slip on, break a hip and provide comic relief, probably also shock some passers-by (have you seen me fall?). I didn't fall today but the nasty ice got the better of me before Christmas. Luckily my hip was protected by, I'm guessing cellulite? Also it helped that my jacket was heavily padded.

So we went walking along this river called Akerselva (google will give you the facts) and though being winter was still a beautiful walking path.
And it shows how often we go out on walks like this, because my 5 year old's incessant question throughout the walk was 'When are we getting to the restaurant?!'
We had to tell her that we were in fact going for a walk and yes the restaurant would come, but later. She then feigned sleepiness and when questioned how would she go to the restaurant if she was sleepy, the sleep disappeared instantly.

It's customary, actually a tradition for Norwegian families to go out on a Sunday. They call it søndags tur which means Sunday trip (in a way). Apparently if you don't go for a søndags tur every Sunday with your kids, you're quickly losing points on that best parent award.
One parent I spoke to said she would feel very guilty if she was home on a Sunday and missed søndags tur with her son. The whole concept of staying home on a Sunday is frowned upon. Our Sunday tur backlog is so much that, let's just say if there was a police for this sort of thing we would be serving a life sentence and not even be let out for good behaviour.

Our reward however for going out on a walk today was some good Indian food. North Indian food. Because I make 'my good Indian food' at home, its probably just not another Indian's good Indian food. Mangalorean cuisine is a bit unique, not everyone can get over the amount of coconut we use, and I guess we use our spices differently. Contrary to popular belief, I do cook at home, but we love to eat out too and that hasn't changed from being in India to here.
Also, if I want to eat Gosht Jalfrezi  (this is not the one that haunts you, its what Lamb is called in Hindi? probably a borrowed word from Urdu) the easiest way to do it is to hop in to your nearest Indian Restaurant (even in India).

Ok, before I start naming dwarves again, until tomorrow, vi ses! (translate from norwegian to english)

The New Year II

Since I had to shift allegiance to Bruce Willis last night and abruptly abandon my blog here I am now, trying to keep my resolution, just barely though.

I can see why Die Hard was so popular, how many people do we know can defy death like John McClane, even in Hollywood. It was quite amazing. There were some gasping moments (for me) where I was sure he was going to die, but having seen Die Hard 4, of course he wasn't going anywhere.

And then the aha moment, of why this movie was named Die Hard, call me slow, must've been the time I fell off the bed when I was little (9 years old). This guy was coming back like a bad habit, annoying mostly everyone, the bad guys, the cops and the FBI.

Also during the holiday season I love watching Christmas movies and this movie ticked that box too, with a Christmas miracle and all. What miracle you ask, for one he didn't die and then he also reconciled with his separated wife. So actually without the 'Yippee-kai-yay MF' line this could qualify as a family Christmas movie.

Talking of Christmas movies, I unintentionally put my friends and their kids and myself through an ordeal of a Christmas movie called Christmas Angel, where does Netflix find this stuff. The ratings on IMDB (you let me down buddy) were fairly high so we thought we were in for some magical Christmas fun instead it put one audience member to sleep and four of them just walked out right in the middle of the movie. I knew we were in for quite a snore fest after ten minutes into the movie and even offered to change to something else. But you would think, 'how boring can a Christmas movie really be'. One half of my brain stopped functioning boring...if you ask me. 

The final three of us still had some hope of some magical Christmas miracle, which we got, just not the Home Alone way. 

Next time, we're just going to play Home Alone, even though we watch it every Christmas at least three times in two weeks thanks to the TV channels trying to spread Christmas cheer and eager 5 year olds who don't really care if they've seen it before, like just yesterday.

The New Year

I am already lagging behind on my new year's resolution, or probably not since I actually resolved yesterday to make an entry into my blog everyday from yesterday on. This blog has been ignored for more than a year now and I do feel bad. I might have to abandon ship in about 7 minutes cause Die Hard is showing on TV and I have never seen it before. Oh don't judge me!
John McClane's fabulous histrionics in Die Hard 4 which I happened to catch on TV over the holiday season got me wanting for more. And I have just been informed (in Norwegian) that this going to be a Die Hard weekend from Friday to Sunday, at 22:00. OK, there is 20th Century Fox's signal.
Gotta go.

The Day I Almost Died, Slowly

I probably kill myself a little everyday by dipping my hand into that bag of chips, but today watching this movie called 'Ishk in Paris' I actually felt I was dying slowly, very slowly.

I was browsing youtube and came across Preity Zinta's new movie called 'Ishk in Paris'. There are some movies, not promoted as much, not really mainstream cinema but can be exceptionally brilliant. I thought this movie was one of those. But while watching the movie I realised why no one was talking about it. There was a risk of a pandemic death, a slow one at that. Millions of Indians would be at risk and so this movie was brushed under the carpet or to be more current sucked into the vacuum cleaner, it's bag discarded into the hazardous waste bin.
Now I love a good romantic movie, ask my husband the number of times he's caught me watching Notting Hill. And 'You've got mail', is oh so romantic. Close your mouth, don't be so shocked, I like to watch chick flicks, well not all of them, but I do watch them. 
So when I saw that Preity was starring in a movie set in Paris, which was not talked much about, I had high hopes. And then there she was, this French woman, speaking in Hindi, with an Indian accent narrating this love story. I knew I should've just shut my computer and gone back to my book just then, but hope kept me going.

The skeleton of the movie is something like this:
Boy meets girl. They don't fall in love. They spend a whole night together, totally platonic. They part ways, meet again. Then the inevitable sleeping together, which is now shown in a rather awkward manner in our Bollywood movies; the progression from rustling bushes and roses making out has been quite hard. After that the realisation of falling in love which is followed by an argument and results in one party leaving, the boy. The other party, the girl, then realises what a fool she is and chases the boy. They profess their love and get married and are all happy together.

Most Bollywood movies have worked wonders with this concoction, not this one though. The clichés were so many they should've named the movie Clichéd in Paris. Now I tried memorising a few:
Example 1 : The 'I hate goodbyes' person; This person went out of style at least two decades ago and that line should be banned in all movies all over the world.
Example 2:  The 'I never want to get married' person; yes, it's now more common for women to say this, now that we're independent, make loads of money and want to support the whole feminist movement. Also, to be on up on the guy before he crushes your ego. 
Example 3: I don't remember, please don't make me go back and watch the movie, the second time might actually kill me.

And when there were no clichés, it was the predictability. Now I like predictability when it's like a puzzle, not when it's staring you in the face.
Example 1: Boy delivers a judgemental speech berating the girl, while she's walking away. Girl turns around, walks towards him and slap! See, predictable.
Example 2: Boy and girl go into museum. Boy sees a portrait of girl's mum, tells her she should also get a portrait done by that artist. Girl storms out of museum and guess what. That portrait was painted by her father, who left them while she was little. If you watched the movie from the beginning, you would make that prediction as well.
Example 3: Wedding takes place in India. French mother all dressed in Indian attire looking very beautiful, then enter the Indian father who left when girl was little. Scene ends with a group hug and happy family picture.

I'm still not sure why I watched this whole movie, thank goodness it was only about 90 minutes long. Some of my brain cells must've involuntarily shut down because they couldn't take the torture that was this movie. And they were probably the brain cells which controlled by ability to shut down the laptop and stop the picture. 
Another revelation, Preity Zinta can be a terrible actor. How a girl who lives with her French mother, in Paris manages to speak Hindi, English and French in an Indian accent is a wonder. Like the Austrian nun turned governess speaking in a crisp British accent. Haven't people heard of Meryl Streep?
And I almost forgot, there was this dice. A dice that told you what to do in an evening. I think the sides were Party, Drink, Movie, Coffee, Sex,... don't know the 6th one. And conveniently they all turn up in sequence very nicely, not messing with current events where they'd otherwise have to drink coffee at a nightclub. Of course Sex being the elusive one doesn't show up at all, though the boy fervently hopes it does.

Allegedly, the release of this movie was delayed twice, that should've been taken as a sign to burn up the reels and pretend nothing ever happened.

So now having watched this movie, I can tell people of my near death experience, slowly. 

The Pregnancy Diaries - The Miracle of Birth

If my previous post scared you, I suggest you don't proceed further to read this one. 

I think there is a reason why most mothers tell their daughters "Oh you'll forget the pain once the baby comes" when posed with the inevitable "Does having a baby hurt?".
Take it from me, it's a pain you'll never forget, never ever. And how do some girls go through all that again, knowing the facts and experiencing everything first hand, is beyond my understanding. There must be some divine intervention that clouds your judgement. 
The Chinese are the compassionate ones, "You poor thing, you've been to hell and back, you should not be put through that ordeal again." Go China!

I wanted to have a normal birth, I mean who wants to drug their baby right? But knowing that I had a very low threshold for pain I had an anaesthetist on standby. And a lousy one at that, who gave me a frigging 75% dosage so that I would be able to cooperate with the birthing team when it was time to pop the baby. If you're taking the drugs, take them right, don't settle. Or else like me you'll end up with a 100% pain concentrated in about 25% of your labour area and will probably pop out other things along with the baby. 

So to continue from where I left off, I got the drugs that I was begging for and they worked beautifully for two hours. Then I felt this wrenching pain in the left side of my stomach. Something evil was having a rave party in there. I asked for the drugs again, and by now you should know the response; a big fat no. 

Their apathetic rebuttals to my pleas triggered the following:
- I cursed the anaesthetist
- asked the nurses to give him a call that very minute
- told the nurses that I wanted to talk to him on the phone 
- told them that the fellow was an idiot for not giving me a dose enough to keep me out of pain
- doubted whether he was a doctor at all and posed that question rather loudly to everyone in the labour room
- screamed my head off

And then magically I felt another cool thing down my spine; they had just administered another dose, of course not 100% because I was still in pain. But I guess the screaming had some effect.

In between all that they had hooked me with a catheter because I refused to pee on the bed; I was not going to do something that I had tried so hard to kick off millions of years ago. 
There was a nurse asking me to breathe, and believe me I was trying. All that I learnt during the pre-natal classes took a flying-'the thing you have to do to make a baby'. 
I was doing the hee hee - hoo hoo breathing which didn't do a damn thing to ease the pain but made me look like a runaway from the psycho ward.

By then I am sure that the whole scene in the delivery room was reminiscent of the Exorcist. My obstetrician made an appearance, I imagine with a bible and holy water and stood at the bloody end of my bed. The nurse was holding my hand, mumbling to herself; she might have been asking god to save her from this vicious thing that had possession of her hand. 

And then it was time to get the baby out. I was told to push
But I had no clue what to do, what do I push, how do I push. I made the sounds and faces that I saw on TV but they were not pushing anything out. Then the nurse said, "bikki, bikki". This was not the time to improve my vocabulary in the local language. I told her, not very politely that I didn't understand. And she, to rid herself of me told me I had push in a way to stimulate bowel movement; of course she didn't tell me in so many nice words. They were all in the local language, said in a tone as you may to a child when they are being toilet trained. Once I received clear instructions I started doing what I had to do. I pushed and I pushed and I pushed some more. 

And then she came out, looking more like a reptile than a human, but she was my little baby. So tiny and screaming her lungs out, I forgot the damned pain for a second, but only a second, we had made a baby, a real live baby. It was a frigging miracle!

The Pregnancy Diaries - The Truth About Labour

I've been promising to write this post for a long time now. Just to clear any doubts, I am not pregnant again, I am still recovering from the first one.

Disclaimer: Extreme content, reading of which may cause shock, blackouts and a possible gut wrench.
Double Disclaimer for the Pregnant Girls: Don't read this. If you're still reading this, beware, content may induce labour; keep your emergency contact informed.

It's been about four years since I found out I was pregnant, was a hormonal bitch, ate anything and everything that came my way, grew from being a huge cow to an enormous whale and then finally popped. I wish the popping bit was just as easy but no, here come the gory details. Have I mentioned before that I remember everything about my delivery? And no amount of watching birthing videos and burying your head in 'what to expect' can prepare you for this. For one, 'what to expect' makes childbirth sound easy and never tells you about the bitching pain that is labour. You'd think popping the baby would be the most difficult part right? Newsflash, it isn't.

Let me take you through what happened that day.
At about 11:30 at night, on the 15th of Dec, I felt an acute pain. But it came like a flash and was gone. When you read so much about pregnancy, you automatically analyse symptoms and then come to the conclusion that it is false labour and there is no need to panic or rush to the hospital. It could also be gas and to save yourself embarrassment you call it false labour and stay put at home.  Half an hour later the pain came again, don't worry I won't be taking you through a half hourly tour of my ordeal. From about one in the morning (16th Dec) it became a little more frequent, so I decided to go to the hospital, just in case. I was very sure that the nurse would send me away saying it was false labour, but instead I was given a hospital gown, after being thoroughly prodded. 

I thought,'This is not bad, the baby should be coming out maybe in another hour or two, tops'. Wrong again! The pains were now getting rough to handle and I was crouching like somebody had punched me in the stomach. I heard a few women in the labour ward screaming, like they were having Rosemary's baby and not their own.
I decided to remain calm, not cry, not scream and have a dignified birthing process. All of those things when right out of the window when the doctor decided to induce me with a drug from hell. You see it was twelve o clock in the afternoon, I was supposedly having frequent contractions since one o clock that morning and nothing really had progressed in eleven hours. That means, the doctor saw that I was not in 'enough' pain and decided to give me some more. 
After twelve o clock, I am sure I was in hell and all the nurses and doctors were the minions of the devil doing his bidding, by ignoring my cries and pleas for the epidural. I actually begged for it, I am not making this up. Every time I asked for the drugs, my sheet would go up, there would be some prodding and a curt 'Now is not the time'. I think they were waiting for the time of the Blood Moon, the reverse eclipse, to offer me as a sacrifice. I kind of knew that at some time during my labour I would be reduced to a crying and screaming state, but begging, that too for drugs, now that was the low point.

And then there was this lady in a bed next to mine, who was moaning; the sounds were like sex noises but the labour ward, if anything, can definitely not turn you on. After about 20 minutes of some more moaning she was whisked away to the delivery room to have a baby! Here I was, the screaming, begging lunatic, with no sign of a baby coming out in the near future watching a slightly moaning lady being taken to the delivery room. 'She needs to be in more pain', I thought.

Anyway, at four o clock, after four hours of relentless labour, and still no baby, I heard the word,'epidural'. I was taken to the delivery room and pricked in the spine, but was way too exhausted to feel any pain. Then I felt this cool flow throughout my spine and the pain was magically disappearing. The doctor then tells me, that I would not be receiving a 100% epidural only 75% so that I would be able to cooperate with the nurses when it was time to push the baby out. I thought, 'Oh 75% can't be that bad, what is 25% of pain, should be alright.' Wrong yet again! This party keeps getting better.

The epidural gave me some relief though and I was feeling better. Of course, being in no pain is always a wonderful feeling. Santhosh came in around that time, he drove from Bangalore and came straight to the hospital; When he saw me all the blood drained from his face. It probably looked like the hell hounds got me but I was actually now relaxed and feeling rested, some drugs are just wonderful. I don't think he would've lasted even one minute if he had seen me in the state I had just come out of. If he stayed longer I am sure he would be in a hospital bed being treated for extreme shock and probably nausea.

Now that the idiot doctor had given me only 75% of the epidural, after 2 hours the pain was back. That pain was now concentrated on the left side of my hip, because it was supposedly reduced to 25%. It was so terrible that I thought my pancreas and left kidney would be coming out along with the baby. The screaming, crying and begging started all over again and went on for another three and a half hours.

What happened in those three and a half hours and the miracle that is birth, in my next post.

Coffee Shop Talk

Just when I thought I'd be posting regularly here. Oh well, old habits die hard. Also, I think this old blog needs a new look. It's oh so coffee shop, all beige and warm and so cosy that you can sit there all day lost in a book drinking a large cup of extra hot coffee that will last you long enough to keep you contained in the chair which is actually a mini couch. Err, I'm sorry, I guess I am in love with coffee shops and small cafes and that is why I haven't had the heart to change the way this page looks. And these kind of ruminations give rise to uncomfortably long sentences.

Do you enjoy your melancholy time in a coffee shop or have had that now lost pleasure and miss it? I know I have and do I miss it. Come to think of it, my daughter and husband are both gone during the day, I can brew myself a mean cup of coffee, I have a fairly comfortable couch and books all around. Why then do I not get that "feeling". Do you know what I'm talking about or is this just nonsensical babble to you. I know I'd be happier reading my book in that coffee shop than at home. But nowadays, that coffee shop is a far cry even though one just opened next door (I'm not making this up) and the majority of my reading is done in the public transport and my comfortable bed which puts me to sleep before I have read two pages, ok maybe fifteen, but that's not enough reading for a day.

One year, which was a long time ago, I was at Starbucks almost every weekend, eyeing my favourite chair while I waited to get my coffee and sandwich. I didn't think Starbucks made the best coffee, but it provided me with the most suitable ambience. It had the lovely smells, the best couches, tiny enough to be cosy and large enough not to be stamped on while the new guy goes scouting for a seat.

Have you heard about the "Starbucks Posers", apparently they are the ones who bring their work to the coffee shop, drinking their coffee and pretending to work. I hope we bookworms are not on that list. 

Today as I was just getting out of the mall, I saw the familiar lady against the green background. I know there is no Starbucks in Oslo, but there was no mistaking this lady. I had to make a choice between picking up Kicky from kindergarten and checking out the newly opened coffee place. Of course, I was going to pick Kicky. I checked the Internet once I got home and it was true. Starbucks was here. 

Does that mean I am going to be have a tryst every weekend with a tall, extra hot, cappuccino? Not likely, but it warrants one visit for old time's sake.

Running in Slow Motion

I have started running again. Yes again. Believe me, if I had a fancy phone that would track my runs and publish it on Facebook, you would be getting my progress report complete with miles run, calories burnt, average speed and how far I've travelled around the world with my running; Kavisha has now travelled from Oslo to Timbuktu in 18 days, 23 hours and 57 seconds. That's just an illustration I don't run that fast. And why Timbuktu, for one it has a nice (read funny) ring to its name, don't you think so. I'm sure it's a lovely place and all, but I'm ashamed to admit that in my younger days I thought it was a make belief land. I can't be totally blamed though, if we were annoyed with someone we'd tell them to take a flight (actually a "flying + profanity rhyming with duck") to Timbuktu. "Timbuktu" was the new "Hell"; so can you now see the logic of it being mistaken for a make belief place.

So yes I was running for about four months till it got too cold to run outside; I am a master at making up excuses. At -15 degrees and slippery ice, people are still running outside here, I say their brains need to go under the scanner.
About 5 months ago when I heard the couch groaning and the phrase "I have nothing to wear" was fast becoming a prophecy about to come true, I got desperate. I was not yet ready to give up on my gastronomic indulgences, so when I stumbled on a running plan that promised to get me running for 30 minutes at the end of nine weeks, I thought, this is what I need. There were so many podcasts for this programme, I was getting dizzy with choices. Do I pick Laura with the nice and encouraging voice, or Dmitri who made a certain dictator from the world war 2 look like an angel. Yeah, I picked sweet Laura who understood my pain and urged me to keep going even though my legs were on fire and there were paramedics on standby thinking I was going to have a heart attack.

It was almost the end of summer when I started running; of course we have summers here, for a whole two months! My first run was, obviously, excruciating; I had to run for a whole minute at a stretch, followed by seven more of these minutes with recovery walks in between. And if your behind has been as much on the couch as mine has, that minute can be the worst minute of your life. But sweet Laura egged me on and told me that everything was going to be alright; I had no choice but to believe her.
Did I mention summers here are not always sun and hay, there is rain too, lots of it. And guess what, yes people here run in the rain too. I was inspired, and ran in the rain as well and was soaked right down to the last piece of clothing on my body. But I kept on, along with Laura, feeling exhilarated with the rain in my face and literally every inch of me (err... are the Laura references getting a little too gay, I'll stop)

While I was running outside I was under the illusion that I was running like the wind. And why wouldn't I, my heart was almost beating out of my chest, and my legs were just short of going up in flames (coyote and roadrunner style). But when temperatures started to drop I took to running inside a stadium, which has featured in an Olympics (yes, winter Olympics) and is about less than half a sprint away from my apartment. It was in there that I realised I wasn't actually "running". My "running" was at best "jogging", that too in slow motion. Inside the stadium which has a circular track, there were some people going past me more than three times in one lap. Either they were three spawns of the same mother or it was one person just running "fast". Not to be disheartened I told myself that I was still a newbie runner, with extra baggage, which is a huge slowing down factor.

There will be a time when I will run like the wind; if that's even possible, but isn't it oh so poetic.
So for now, I am going to pretend to be the fastest runner there ever was, for the half an hour I run for, breaking my own small records and probably a little bit of the ground I run on too.

Spring Cleaning

So two days ago I decided to do a little bit of spring cleaning. Well it's not spring yet, it's just that I decided to spring right off the couch, in what seemed like months, and decided to clean. Hey I clean my house, superficially, whatever meets the eye and my damned allergies. You can't lie to your allergies, they know when you haven't got the vacuum cleaner running for a while. Also, the couch doesn't lie, talk about truth fairies. That deep imprint in one of the cushions, what I like to call the warm spot, is going to stay a while; you can say the couch is now probably scarred for life.

I was actually missing a few things, like my old phone; which I am keeping alive (barely) only because it has all my contacts on it; and I haven't managed (that means too lazy) to transfer them to my new phone. Ah my new phone, touch screen and all. If you've been an owner of a touch screen phone for a while now don't feel bad for me, my phone is new (that means better), so let me enjoy the sweet taste of technology.
But my old phone is the damned epitome of 'superhero can't die'. Fallen down the stairs, on the road, flung against the wall, which now has a dent, and in a pot of boiling water (don't try it, that's a sure shot way of killing your phone); also the last bit didn't happen to my phone I just added it for dramatic effect. But you get the picture, the incredible hulk of phones, only blue.

Like I was saying, my incredible hulk phone was missing. If you're thinking, I could've just called it and found out, wrong answer. There was no SIM in it and so untraceable. Among other things I was missing writing instruments too. I don't know if it has happened to you, but no matter how many pens and pencils we bring into the house they always, I mean always go missing. Do the elves now need them for their paperwork? Or is there another fairy for these things, who's just taking them and not leaving us any change.
Also, Kicky has been asking me for a week now, "Mama, where is my lemon? Have you seen my lemon?" Apparently she wanted to cook it for me, in her kitchen, yum. Of course its plastic, I am not eating cooked lemons for dessert.

Now if you have so many things missing and a 3 year old's incessant questions about her lemon, something needs to be done. Best place to look, in and under the couch. I moved the couch first, with my bare hands and feeling a bit like Mr.Incredible, and well what do you know. There was my phone, still charged and working; I mean I could view my contacts and set it up as a timer for when I'm baking, old phone = new kitchen timer. Along with it I found, Kicky's lemon, a little dusty but with one good wipe was good to go into the pot. There was also a very dry ball of blue fondant, which was now definitely past its expiration date and not on my list of missing things. Once the dust bunnies under the couch were exterminated, it was time to look into the couch. It's probably a bit like a prostrate exam, which I have just heard about btw, you strip the couch naked and poke and prod the insides till you find something. And yes, I did find pens, pencils, change (there must be fairy after all), crayons, hair clips (which also always go missing in our house) and dried fruits and nuts (something was having a party in there).

After cleaning and solving the case of the missing things (talk about two birds), it was time to get back on to the couch. The cushions switched places, so I could sit where I always sit, do what I always do and also give the underused cushion a "face lift", now that's ironic.

And Another Resurrection

This blog could start a whole new religion at the rate it keeps being resurrected. Oh, I am allowed to say things like that. I have braved Sunday masses, dissected conspiratorial sermons and endured so called charismatic retreats, the ones where people start talking (read insanely babbling) in spiritual tongues.

So my attempt to start a food blog was not very successful; that means I have been too lazy to write, but I will call it lack of inspiration. I still cook though, I have to, I have a family to feed i.e my husband and toddler. The latter though will hardly touch anything I bake and most Indian food gets a suspicious look and a condescending sniff; sometimes it comes with a "What is that?" asked with a crinkled nose. But meat is devoured devoutly whatever the cuisine.

The last time I was here, I was telling you about my wonderful pregnant adventure. It's been 3 years since I was last pregnant, and no, I don't miss being in that state. In fact, I was supposed to write about the whole baby being born thing and I will. But if you are pregnant or planning to have a baby, I suggest you don't put it on your reading list. I do not fall into the category of women who has forgotten the birthing ordeal or who believes in the divine miracle that is birth. In a way it is a miracle, but far from being divine. If my husband was strong enough to be in the birthing room with a video camera I am sure some of the scenes would be reminiscent of The Exorcist, complete with the spitting and swearing and the rest of the gooey stuff.

And here are some facts for the record, even though my facebook page tells my life story:
1. Kicky is now 3 and going to school - I know she was just a baby when you last saw her.
2. Kicky is Innika, and if I haven't yet told you the story of why we call her that, I'll just post it as an entry on this blog.
3. I am yet to shed the weight I put on during my childbearing months, all 20 kilos of it.
4. We moved, yet again; but countries this time. We have been in Oslo for about a year now and have learnt to enjoy ourselves at -15 degrees.
5. Also 22 degrees is now hot, not warm, hot.
6. I watched 3 Bollywood movies in the cinema in 2012 in Oslo; an all time high over the past 10 years. People change.
7. Ek Tha Tiger was on that list of movies; no, I didn't have a lobotomy.
8. Resurrecting this blog was not a new year's resolution. I don't remember the last time I made a new year's resolution, and I haven't resolved not to make new year's resolutions.

I think that's quite enough facts, any more and I am going to sound like a self indulgent female canine; but isn't that the whole point of blogs. Until next time, ta!

The Pregnancy Diaries: The Cookie Monster

Did you know that when you're pregnant you mysteriously turn into the cookie monster? I lived in denial for a few months but when my doctor told me that I needed to go on a diet, that too while pregnant, I had to admit it. On the pretext of "cravings" and "I have to eat for two people now", the cookie monster demanded chocolate chip cookies at midnight and BLT Sandwiches for breakfast; of course it all depended on what the baby was asking for at the time, I couldn't ignore that could I. Now if you think the cookie monster was just being a complete ravenous pig and randomly stuffing its face, you're wrong. There were phases, like on some full moons the monster had to have its steak 'blue'.

Up until two months I had no cravings at all; well it was already a month before I found out I was preggers and the month following that the fact that I was preggers was just sinking in. So when you're starting your 3rd month it's perfect for cravings because now everyone's been given the "good news" and with the hormones working full time everyone's just better off doing what they're told i.e supplying the monster food everyday.

It started one day with a bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut, which was innocently picked up during grocery shopping. The next day another one mysteriously found its way into my handbag; it must've hopped in at the bakery while I was not looking. These bars then started showing up at my house and to destroy all evidence of its existence were promptly devoured. Then when I would run out of stock (these bars sometimes got lazy and just stopped showing up) the husband would get a call to pick up some on his way back.
This phase lasted about 3 weeks and then I went cold turkey on the Fruit & Nut bars; no more chocolate for me, it was time to bring on the meat. In the month following the Fruit & Nut phase, the demographics of domestic herbivores reported a sharp downward trend. Before 'Vegetarians R Us' and PETA could stage a demonstration in front of my house I switched to Biriyanis, mostly Chicken but since the fowl was also consumed with huge amounts of rice I didn't look so bad. I didn't eat the biriyanis everyday though I wanted them. One night I had cooked soggy dal for dinner, yet again, (When all you want to do is sleep after getting back from work, soggy dal it is. I didn't sprout an extra pair of hands that looked like ladles when no one was looking) and of course one look at it made me crave for my new found love, biriyani. So hubby gets a call to pick up biriyani on his way back from work. So while he was eating the soggy dal that I had so lovingly prepared I was wolfing down the biriyani. I did save him some leftovers though.

If anyone knows what you want to eat when you're pregnant, its Mama. Without my asking I would receive parcels of the yummiest Mangalorean food. She would generously send enough to feed even my neighbours, but we all know where that went. There were 'Garios', fried balls made of primarily jackfruit pulp and rice flour; 'Patholis' which are steamed rolls that come in two versions, one out jackfuit pulp, rice flour and coconut and the other out of jaggery and coconut wrapped in a rice flour paste. Also, Mangalorean preparations of Pork and beef were sent my way every other week; there was PETA ready to strike again. Everyday the cookie monster religiously raided her fridge and made sure that these parcels of love (and loads of calories) fulfilled their purpose.

But all of your pregnancy cannot be one huge gastronomical party. Enter the husband. Though I was taken out for gelatos (double the cost of an ice cream but healthier and less fat you see) at night and Italian whenever I heard Pavarotti on the radio, I was made to eat my fruits. Now bananas and oranges are the low maintenance ones, you take the whole fruit to work, wash, peel and eat, done. I had no qualms about these, these I would put into my lunch bag with a song. And if you're thinking what else can piss off this old gal, I'll tell you, its the Pomegranate. For everyday of my pregnant life I have eaten on an average two pomegranates, not because I loved them but because my husband made me. And no, he was not the one painstakingly peeling the damn things and packing them into the tupperware. One morning I went to work with what I thought was my pristine white shirt, not realising that my shirt looked like it had got the measles, there were pomegranate juice squirts all over it. After that I had to wake up an hour earlier than normal because you have to peel these things with either no clothes on, which would prompt my maid to run away from the job with no notice at all or at a meter's distance which made the peeling process quite impossible. Almost everyday I had nightmares of a giant pomegranate shooting its arils (yes thats what the things inside are called) at me in a white shirt. At the rate I was eating this fruit there was a slight chance that I would be giving birth to a baby covered with arils and would have to later explain them as birthmarks. That year pomegranate sales were at an all time high and my local fruit vendor apparently built a mansion and bought himself a Harley.

You'd think a person can eat only so much and I probably broke records which I didn't know of. But what better time to do that without feeling guilty eh? Now if I ask for ice cream at midnight it'll be received with an incoherent mumble and a possible kick in the shins.