- Al_is_on
- Sydney, Australia
- My musings and meanderings on childhood - mine juxtaposed with that of my kids'. Everyday incidents and images from our life in Sydney turn my thoughts towards my own wonder years growing up in Bandra, Bombay, India.
07 February 2015
27 July 2013
I Just Call to Say...
“Mum, was Apatosaurus a meat-eating dinosaur like T-Rex or a plant-eating dinosaur like Diplodocus?” questioned C2 who is into all things 'dinosaur' these days (with “rrrr-oars” for sound effects).
“I’m not sure,” I replied, a bit distracted by the arrival of our ferry.
“Just look it up on your phone, Mum,” instructed C1. “The ferries have free wi-fi.”
If I had a dollar for every time my kids’ tell me to “Google” something on my iPhone...
My phone. It contains (and controls?) my life.
It rouses me from my slumber. It maps my morning run. It keeps track of my calorie-intake. It 'pings' reminders of all my daily tasks/birthdays/appointments. It captures moments of my kids’ lives as they live it. It keeps me connected through email and texts...
So imagine my total disconnect when it “drowned” in a puddle of split water.
It was eventually resuscitated by a bag of Basmati rice (rice acts as a desiccant – who knew?). Thank God for small mercies – and for those even smaller grains of rice – because even one day without my phone made me realise how much I depend on it.
Remember the days when a phone was just a phone? You made calls. You received calls. The end. No apps or maps, no texting or gaming, no camera or calendar.
If you told your friends you’d be at New Talkies cinema for the 12noon matinee, you’d jolly well be there. No calling from the rickshaw to say you were running late. No receiving texts saying, “Where r u?” As we used to say, back in the day, “Be there or be square.” (cringe).
It’s a novelty for C1 and C2 to speak on a phone “with wires attached to it”. I showed them pictures of “olden day” phones – on my phone. I remember my aunts having those shiny black rotary dial phones where you had to spin the numbers on the dial with your index finger to make a call. No redial, no speed dial, no caller ID, no answering machine...
My family skipped this stage. When we got our first phone in 1991, it was a push-button dark-red one (or so my mum tells me). The initial excitement was palpable; when it would ring, (just the standard “tring, tring, tring!” ringtone), everybody would rush to answer it. God forbid if the person on the other end was a secret crush; all ears were on your conversation. There was no cordless extension to take to another room, so I’d be glued to the spot, nervously wrapping the curly-wurly cord around my finger, trying not to say too much while still trying to sound fascinating.
And any thoughts of having long heart-to-hearts with my best girl friends were always thwarted. Dad would be pacing up and down our hall: “You’ve just been with your friends all day at school/college; what more do you need to talk about now???”
So it’s funny how the phone is the best way my dad and I connect across the continents nowadays...
Do you remember the first phone your family had or your first mobile phone? Would you be able to survive without your mobile phone? Or would you rather your right arm be cut off?
“I’m not sure,” I replied, a bit distracted by the arrival of our ferry.
“Just look it up on your phone, Mum,” instructed C1. “The ferries have free wi-fi.”
If I had a dollar for every time my kids’ tell me to “Google” something on my iPhone...
My phone. It contains (and controls?) my life.
It rouses me from my slumber. It maps my morning run. It keeps track of my calorie-intake. It 'pings' reminders of all my daily tasks/birthdays/appointments. It captures moments of my kids’ lives as they live it. It keeps me connected through email and texts...
So imagine my total disconnect when it “drowned” in a puddle of split water.
It was eventually resuscitated by a bag of Basmati rice (rice acts as a desiccant – who knew?). Thank God for small mercies – and for those even smaller grains of rice – because even one day without my phone made me realise how much I depend on it.
Remember the days when a phone was just a phone? You made calls. You received calls. The end. No apps or maps, no texting or gaming, no camera or calendar.
If you told your friends you’d be at New Talkies cinema for the 12noon matinee, you’d jolly well be there. No calling from the rickshaw to say you were running late. No receiving texts saying, “Where r u?” As we used to say, back in the day, “Be there or be square.” (cringe).
It’s a novelty for C1 and C2 to speak on a phone “with wires attached to it”. I showed them pictures of “olden day” phones – on my phone. I remember my aunts having those shiny black rotary dial phones where you had to spin the numbers on the dial with your index finger to make a call. No redial, no speed dial, no caller ID, no answering machine...
My family skipped this stage. When we got our first phone in 1991, it was a push-button dark-red one (or so my mum tells me). The initial excitement was palpable; when it would ring, (just the standard “tring, tring, tring!” ringtone), everybody would rush to answer it. God forbid if the person on the other end was a secret crush; all ears were on your conversation. There was no cordless extension to take to another room, so I’d be glued to the spot, nervously wrapping the curly-wurly cord around my finger, trying not to say too much while still trying to sound fascinating.
And any thoughts of having long heart-to-hearts with my best girl friends were always thwarted. Dad would be pacing up and down our hall: “You’ve just been with your friends all day at school/college; what more do you need to talk about now???”
So it’s funny how the phone is the best way my dad and I connect across the continents nowadays...
Do you remember the first phone your family had or your first mobile phone? Would you be able to survive without your mobile phone? Or would you rather your right arm be cut off?
24 July 2013
Magic Socks
C2 was in tears last evening. "My legs are hurting," he wailed...
I don't know if it was a case of "growing pains", or if he was missing B who's away in London (for the birth of the Royal Baby – not!), or if he was over-tired from all those pre-school activities – or a combination of all three.
By bed-time, the whingeing and whimpering had escalated to full-on crying with copious tears streaming down C2's face. What to do? There are no local GPs on duty at 7pm in Sydney and I had no home remedies for achy-breaky calves.
I was about to tell him to put a sock in it when the word hit me – "sock". I would steal an idea from B's childhood: the Magic Socks.
B’s cousins, aunts and siblings gleefully recount this story at many a family gathering:
B must have been around five years old. Much like his son, he used to complain non-stop about his aching legs. Being the youngest of three boys, he had mastered the art of getting everyone's attention, especially his poor Nana whom, I’m sure, he managed to coax into massaging his legs with Iodex. Perhaps he asked her for a hot water bottle, too.
Days rolled into months. No sign of the "growing pains” subsiding...
Then B's dad had an idea. An idea I think he should have patented.
"Go get the Magic Socks," B's dad told his wife.
After putting a pair of socks on little B's feet, he advised, "Now go to sleep. The Magic Socks will take away all your pain during the night and you'll be fine by morning."
Lo and behold! Those super-powered socks did the trick. Well, they were magic, after all...
Thirty years down the track, they have worked their magic on C2 once again. He woke up this morning, fit and fine. Bless his cotton socks!
From now on, "Get the Magic Socks" will be the catch-cry for every possible ailment that afflicts C1 and C2: headache, earache, backache, tummy ache... The socks will mysteriously channel all the pain from any body part straight to the wearer's feet where the Magic Socks will suck it away...
Wish I could get an adult-sized pair of Magic Socks myself!
P.S.: If you're ever in the need for a pair of Magic Socks, make sure they are a nondescript pair, say plain black or white, which can be easily replaced for a larger pair as your kids grow up!
Did your parents ever have to resort to "magic"? What cure-all do you, as a parent, have for your kids' problems? What's the best way to stop your children from crying? Do you have a favourite pair of socks?
I don't know if it was a case of "growing pains", or if he was missing B who's away in London (for the birth of the Royal Baby – not!), or if he was over-tired from all those pre-school activities – or a combination of all three.
By bed-time, the whingeing and whimpering had escalated to full-on crying with copious tears streaming down C2's face. What to do? There are no local GPs on duty at 7pm in Sydney and I had no home remedies for achy-breaky calves.
I was about to tell him to put a sock in it when the word hit me – "sock". I would steal an idea from B's childhood: the Magic Socks.
 |
| C2 wears the Magic Socks |
B must have been around five years old. Much like his son, he used to complain non-stop about his aching legs. Being the youngest of three boys, he had mastered the art of getting everyone's attention, especially his poor Nana whom, I’m sure, he managed to coax into massaging his legs with Iodex. Perhaps he asked her for a hot water bottle, too.
Days rolled into months. No sign of the "growing pains” subsiding...
Then B's dad had an idea. An idea I think he should have patented.
"Go get the Magic Socks," B's dad told his wife.
After putting a pair of socks on little B's feet, he advised, "Now go to sleep. The Magic Socks will take away all your pain during the night and you'll be fine by morning."
Lo and behold! Those super-powered socks did the trick. Well, they were magic, after all...
Thirty years down the track, they have worked their magic on C2 once again. He woke up this morning, fit and fine. Bless his cotton socks!
From now on, "Get the Magic Socks" will be the catch-cry for every possible ailment that afflicts C1 and C2: headache, earache, backache, tummy ache... The socks will mysteriously channel all the pain from any body part straight to the wearer's feet where the Magic Socks will suck it away...
Wish I could get an adult-sized pair of Magic Socks myself!
P.S.: If you're ever in the need for a pair of Magic Socks, make sure they are a nondescript pair, say plain black or white, which can be easily replaced for a larger pair as your kids grow up!
Did your parents ever have to resort to "magic"? What cure-all do you, as a parent, have for your kids' problems? What's the best way to stop your children from crying? Do you have a favourite pair of socks?
20 July 2013
Let Us Eat Cake
It was B’s birthday on the Monday gone by. Alas, there was no celebration; a little matter of spending the previous three nights at hospital due to C2’s scary asthma attack was enough to be a party pooper. This was much to B’s relief; unlike me, he shies away from big shindigs. But there had to be cake. After all, aren’t birthdays the Universe’s way of telling us to eat more cake??
So after a weary return home on Sunday evening, I baked him a flourless orange and almond cake (see pics). Two hours to make; two minutes to devour!
It’s amazing what memories a single word can conjure up. Say the word "cake", and I'm in a happy mood instantaneously; salivating even, if it's chocolate mud! Then again, I’m happy to devour every scrumptious crumb of pineapple upside-down cake, bundt cake, tea cake, cheesecake, wedding cake, carrot cake, pound cake, sponge cake...
Anyone from Bombay reading this? Have you been to Venus Bakery near Mount Carmel’s Church, Bandra, recently? Do they still sell the cake with the four coloured squares? Back in the ’80s, these cake bars (their version of a Battenberg cake, I think) were sliced and served at every party. A favourite with the kids thanks to the four squares of chocolate (brown), strawberry (pink), pistachio (green) and vanilla (yellow). The only quandary: which tempting square to taste first?
And of course, I can’t forget the Christmas cake. Strangely enough, Christmas cakes were never baked at home – everybody took theirs to the local bakery. Till today, I have no idea why! On December 23rd evening every year, Nana Evelyn and Mum would measure and mix the ingredients – candied peel, dry fruit, semolina, spice, flour, eggs, butter... On Christmas Eve, dad would take it to the Bazaar Road bakery with our name and address (no telephone number in the 1980s!) centred on the cake batter. In a couple of hours, the Christmas cake was collected. The heady aroma of spice and brandy wafted through the entire D’Monte Street house. But only after returning from Midnight Mass on St. Peter’s grounds, was the Christmas cake cut. Every slice bejewelled with glace cherries, candied peel and plump sultanas. Delicious!
Last but definitely not least is the Birthday Cake.
The“family party” was a cacophonous celebration of cousins, candles, and of course, cake! Unlike nowadays when parties culminate with the cake-cutting, our parties kicked off with cutting the birthday cake to a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday”. After that, the snacks were served: chips (crisps), and boiled gram (chickpeas), ribbon sandwiches and samoas all washed down with a glass of kala khatta Rasna (cola-flavoured cordial). Then, party games of Musical Chairs, Statues and Pass the Parcel (where only one winner got a prize) followed by some "doof-doof" disco dancing till we dropped. And the party was deemed a success!
How were birthdays celebrated when you were a child? Does any particular birthday stand out in your memory? Do you like to bake your cake and eat it too? Which kind of cake is your favourite?
So after a weary return home on Sunday evening, I baked him a flourless orange and almond cake (see pics). Two hours to make; two minutes to devour!
It’s amazing what memories a single word can conjure up. Say the word "cake", and I'm in a happy mood instantaneously; salivating even, if it's chocolate mud! Then again, I’m happy to devour every scrumptious crumb of pineapple upside-down cake, bundt cake, tea cake, cheesecake, wedding cake, carrot cake, pound cake, sponge cake...
When I was little, my favourite tea cake was the one my (other) Nana Violet used to bake for us. She would painstakingly skim the cream off the top of the boiled milk each morning, and when her stockpile had reached the desired amount, she would use this cream to bake a melt-in-your mouth cream cake. Perfect with a cuppa! I wish my mum had coaxed the recipe out of her...
Anyone from Bombay reading this? Have you been to Venus Bakery near Mount Carmel’s Church, Bandra, recently? Do they still sell the cake with the four coloured squares? Back in the ’80s, these cake bars (their version of a Battenberg cake, I think) were sliced and served at every party. A favourite with the kids thanks to the four squares of chocolate (brown), strawberry (pink), pistachio (green) and vanilla (yellow). The only quandary: which tempting square to taste first?
And of course, I can’t forget the Christmas cake. Strangely enough, Christmas cakes were never baked at home – everybody took theirs to the local bakery. Till today, I have no idea why! On December 23rd evening every year, Nana Evelyn and Mum would measure and mix the ingredients – candied peel, dry fruit, semolina, spice, flour, eggs, butter... On Christmas Eve, dad would take it to the Bazaar Road bakery with our name and address (no telephone number in the 1980s!) centred on the cake batter. In a couple of hours, the Christmas cake was collected. The heady aroma of spice and brandy wafted through the entire D’Monte Street house. But only after returning from Midnight Mass on St. Peter’s grounds, was the Christmas cake cut. Every slice bejewelled with glace cherries, candied peel and plump sultanas. Delicious!
Last but definitely not least is the Birthday Cake.
 |
| C1 blowing out the candles on her Princess cake |
 |
| C1's Ladybird cake (3rd Birthday) |
 |
| C2 with his Choo-Choo Train cake |
 |
| C1's Spring-theme cake (4th Birthday) |
Nowadays, I get a kick out of making fancy 3D cakes for C1 and C2 on their birthdays (see pics above) but I have no memory of such elaborately-themed parties when my brother Jason and I were growing up.
Our birthday parties went a little something like this: Dad would place an order with Mrs Baptista, the local cake-maker, and when D-day, or should I say ‘B-day’ arrived, we would drool in anticipation as the cake was revealed. I always asked for a pink marzipan cake decorated with white sugar-paste flowers.
The“family party” was a cacophonous celebration of cousins, candles, and of course, cake! Unlike nowadays when parties culminate with the cake-cutting, our parties kicked off with cutting the birthday cake to a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday”. After that, the snacks were served: chips (crisps), and boiled gram (chickpeas), ribbon sandwiches and samoas all washed down with a glass of kala khatta Rasna (cola-flavoured cordial). Then, party games of Musical Chairs, Statues and Pass the Parcel (where only one winner got a prize) followed by some "doof-doof" disco dancing till we dropped. And the party was deemed a success!
How were birthdays celebrated when you were a child? Does any particular birthday stand out in your memory? Do you like to bake your cake and eat it too? Which kind of cake is your favourite?
19 July 2013
CTFD!
http://www.thedaddycomplex.com/post/55268573331/latest-parenting-trend-the-ctfd-method
The universe was definitely trying to tell me something today.
In the space of an hour, I got sent the above link THREE times!!!
Go on, have a read.
The post by David Vienna who blogs at The Daddy Complex has a pithy message for all parents: When parenting matters make you want to throw a toddler-like tantrum or curl up in the foetal position, just take a deep breath and Calm The F%#k Down (CTFD)!
While I’m averse to cursing out aloud (thank you, convent-education!), it was a timely reminder to take note of the CTFD message. B routinely tells me I’ll give myself a heart-attack if I don’t relax with the kids (as he blithely carries on with his PS2 game!).
So I thought I'd road-test the advice this evening.
Here's what transpired:
The kids were supposed to be eating their stir-fry noodles for dinner. Instead, they jabbered non-stop, their topics seemingly schizophrenic: Koala bears. Kettle bells. Karate. Knitting. Kisses. I think they covered every ‘K’ word in the dictionary.
‘CT*D!’ I told myself.
Then the petty squabbling started.
“You just sat on my craft and ruined it!”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Well, you didn’t say ‘Sorry’.”
“I don’t need to say Sorry if it was an accident.”
“Yes, you do. Mummmmmmmy...”
‘CT*D!!’ I told myself.
They then proceed to dissect and dismiss every single vegetable I put on their plates.
"Why did you cut the carrots length-ways? I prefer them cut round."
"Mum, you know I don't eat red capsicum."
"Mushrooms. Yuck!"
"Bok choi is too slimy."
"Why are they called 'snow peas'? They're not even white!"
‘CTFD!!!’ I told myself.
I think I lasted for about 18 minutes before I exploded.
I gave them the "there-are-millions-of-starving-children-in-India-who-would-love-to-eat-your-food" speech. Sheesh!
When did parenting get so complicated? Why do we put so much pressure on ourselves to be perfect parents? Why did we allow it to become a competitive sport with everyone vying for the Bestest Parent in the Whole Wide World prize?
Every decision we make is fraught with anxiety. We decide on something, then rethink our decision, then ask our 327 Facebook 'friends' if we've made the right decision...
When's the right age to have kids?
Single child v/s siblings?
Breast- or bottle-feeding?
Should I be a SAHM or return to work?
Co-sleeping or control crying?
Free-range or helicopter parenting?
Public or private school?
Decisions! Decisions!! Decisions!!!
Here's my cliché-laden two cents' worth.
Be alert but not alarmed: Yes, it is your duty to be aware of what's going on in your child's life and make certain decisions for them, but don't go batty over the 'what-ifs' and 'maybes'.
Don't sweat the small stuff: Of course you will stuff up – probably at an inopportune moment. Go easy on yourself when you make a mistake and let go of the guilt. Take a step back and ask yourself, ‘How important is this in the grand scheme of things?’
Trust your instinct: You've got an edge over the plethora of parenting guides – it’s your instinct. So if something tells you things are not quite right, go with your gut instinct.
When all else fails, blame your partner! ; ).
What sort of person are you – calm and collected or full-on frantic? What do you do to CTFD?
The universe was definitely trying to tell me something today.
In the space of an hour, I got sent the above link THREE times!!!
Go on, have a read.
The post by David Vienna who blogs at The Daddy Complex has a pithy message for all parents: When parenting matters make you want to throw a toddler-like tantrum or curl up in the foetal position, just take a deep breath and Calm The F%#k Down (CTFD)!
 |
| Enough said! |
While I’m averse to cursing out aloud (thank you, convent-education!), it was a timely reminder to take note of the CTFD message. B routinely tells me I’ll give myself a heart-attack if I don’t relax with the kids (as he blithely carries on with his PS2 game!).
So I thought I'd road-test the advice this evening.
Here's what transpired:
The kids were supposed to be eating their stir-fry noodles for dinner. Instead, they jabbered non-stop, their topics seemingly schizophrenic: Koala bears. Kettle bells. Karate. Knitting. Kisses. I think they covered every ‘K’ word in the dictionary.
‘CT*D!’ I told myself.
Then the petty squabbling started.
“You just sat on my craft and ruined it!”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Well, you didn’t say ‘Sorry’.”
“I don’t need to say Sorry if it was an accident.”
“Yes, you do. Mummmmmmmy...”
‘CT*D!!’ I told myself.
They then proceed to dissect and dismiss every single vegetable I put on their plates.
"Why did you cut the carrots length-ways? I prefer them cut round."
"Mum, you know I don't eat red capsicum."
"Mushrooms. Yuck!"
"Bok choi is too slimy."
"Why are they called 'snow peas'? They're not even white!"
‘CTFD!!!’ I told myself.
I think I lasted for about 18 minutes before I exploded.
I gave them the "there-are-millions-of-starving-children-in-India-who-would-love-to-eat-your-food" speech. Sheesh!
When did parenting get so complicated? Why do we put so much pressure on ourselves to be perfect parents? Why did we allow it to become a competitive sport with everyone vying for the Bestest Parent in the Whole Wide World prize?
Every decision we make is fraught with anxiety. We decide on something, then rethink our decision, then ask our 327 Facebook 'friends' if we've made the right decision...
 |
| A dose of parenting prose at my local library |
Single child v/s siblings?
Breast- or bottle-feeding?
Should I be a SAHM or return to work?
Co-sleeping or control crying?
Free-range or helicopter parenting?
Public or private school?
Decisions! Decisions!! Decisions!!!
Here's my cliché-laden two cents' worth.
Be alert but not alarmed: Yes, it is your duty to be aware of what's going on in your child's life and make certain decisions for them, but don't go batty over the 'what-ifs' and 'maybes'.
Don't sweat the small stuff: Of course you will stuff up – probably at an inopportune moment. Go easy on yourself when you make a mistake and let go of the guilt. Take a step back and ask yourself, ‘How important is this in the grand scheme of things?’
Trust your instinct: You've got an edge over the plethora of parenting guides – it’s your instinct. So if something tells you things are not quite right, go with your gut instinct.
When all else fails, blame your partner! ; ).
What sort of person are you – calm and collected or full-on frantic? What do you do to CTFD?
03 July 2013
Pedal Pushers
I want to ride my bicycle/ I want to ride my bike.
I want to ride my bicycle/ I want to ride it where I like...
Took C1 and C2 to, what they call, the “Bike Park” today. This piece of turf has a purpose-built cycle path for our wee ones to learn to use their tricycles/scooters/bicycles safely. With two click-clacks of their helmets, they were off!
They say you never forget how to ride a bicycle. To that I’ll add: you never forget your first cycle.
I got my first bicycle when I was around five years old. It was a hand-me-down from my older cousins, so Dad gave it a fresh lick of paint. (I have no idea why he chose black! The saving grace was the pink seat.) Training wheels attached, Dad began Cycling 101 classes at the start of the summer holidays. Holding onto the back of the seat, he first walked, then trotted, then jogged, then ran beside me as I progressed with my pedalling.
So picture this:
The stifling May heat has made way for June who makes a grand entrance with claps of thunder for applause. It’s the monsoon season in Bombay. The roads are slick with rain. I’m gripped with cycling fever; I want to cycle morning, noon and night. Dad takes off the training wheels but still holds onto me for good measure. I’m proud as punch.
I’m dressed up in a pretty frock (perhaps, we were going to visit an aunt) but I want to take my bike out for a spin.
“Dad, you’re holding on, right?” I call out to my father who is running to keep pace.
“Don’t worry,” he answers.
I’m flying...
Then I make the mistake of turning back. Dad is distant speck a good 30 metres behind me.
I’ve been cycling by myself.
Excitement! Elation!! Ecstasy!!!
Then, crippling fear...
I crash straight into a pile of chikkal (muck) right in front of Nana’s front steps.
My dress – and ego – in tatters.
But in the Bombay of my childhood, a bicycle, as the song goes, was built for two.
It was the perfect mode of transport for courting couples before they moved up a gear to Vespas, Lambrettas and Enfields. The pair went “doubles” – the lissome lass sat side-saddle on the cross bar while her roving Romeo pedalled her across town, breathing in the scent of her freshly-shampooed hair. No helmets, no worries!
Emboldened, he would lean in to nuzzle the sweet spot behind her delicate neck. But that’s as far as the PDAs went, just in case Gertie, the neighbourhood goss, told Old Joe who told Virginia-aunty who told Mrs. Baptista that she saw Michael on the cycle kiss Tulip on her two lips!
So tell me, do you remember your first cycle? Who taught you to ride? Did you have training wheels? And what’s your opinion on PDAs (public displays of affection)?
I want to ride my bicycle/ I want to ride it where I like...
Bicycle Race, Queen
 |
| The bike park with its kiddy cycle path |
I got my first bicycle when I was around five years old. It was a hand-me-down from my older cousins, so Dad gave it a fresh lick of paint. (I have no idea why he chose black! The saving grace was the pink seat.) Training wheels attached, Dad began Cycling 101 classes at the start of the summer holidays. Holding onto the back of the seat, he first walked, then trotted, then jogged, then ran beside me as I progressed with my pedalling.
The stifling May heat has made way for June who makes a grand entrance with claps of thunder for applause. It’s the monsoon season in Bombay. The roads are slick with rain. I’m gripped with cycling fever; I want to cycle morning, noon and night. Dad takes off the training wheels but still holds onto me for good measure. I’m proud as punch.
I’m dressed up in a pretty frock (perhaps, we were going to visit an aunt) but I want to take my bike out for a spin.
“Dad, you’re holding on, right?” I call out to my father who is running to keep pace.
“Don’t worry,” he answers.
I’m flying...
Then I make the mistake of turning back. Dad is distant speck a good 30 metres behind me.
I’ve been cycling by myself.
Excitement! Elation!! Ecstasy!!!
Then, crippling fear...
I crash straight into a pile of chikkal (muck) right in front of Nana’s front steps.
My dress – and ego – in tatters.
 |
| C1 and her cycle |
But in the Bombay of my childhood, a bicycle, as the song goes, was built for two.
It was the perfect mode of transport for courting couples before they moved up a gear to Vespas, Lambrettas and Enfields. The pair went “doubles” – the lissome lass sat side-saddle on the cross bar while her roving Romeo pedalled her across town, breathing in the scent of her freshly-shampooed hair. No helmets, no worries!
Emboldened, he would lean in to nuzzle the sweet spot behind her delicate neck. But that’s as far as the PDAs went, just in case Gertie, the neighbourhood goss, told Old Joe who told Virginia-aunty who told Mrs. Baptista that she saw Michael on the cycle kiss Tulip on her two lips!
So tell me, do you remember your first cycle? Who taught you to ride? Did you have training wheels? And what’s your opinion on PDAs (public displays of affection)?
30 June 2013
Dirty Linen and the Dhobi
I think we ought to build ourselves an ark, Noah-style. It's been raining cats and dogs (yes, they're allowed on the ark) for the past nine days in Sydney. Not Bombay-style "thunderbolts and lightning; very, very frightening" type of monsoonal rain (I wrote all about that here) but incessant rain that vacillates from downpour to drizzle, and drizzle to downpour with no silver lining in sight.
Which brings me to the awful truth that our house resembles a dhobi ghat. Everywhere I look, I see socks/singlets/sweaters hanging out forlornly to dry.
Remember those days before we had washing machines and dryers?
Back in the Bombay of my childhood, we had a maid who came to do the "top-work" i.e. sweeping and swabbing the floor and washing our clothes. But big bulky items like bedsheets, towels and blankets were reserved for the dhobi (washerman).
After our beds were stripped each week, mum and my aunt would shove the linen into the Dirty Clothes Box (DCB). This DCB came as standard in all Bombay homes. Ours was a tall wooden rectangular one with a small door at the bottom and slats on the side. The slats allowed us to literally 'air our dirty linen' without them turning musty. Inexplicably, the altar with the Cross, holy water and statues of various saints rested directly above it.
My cousins and I thought the DCB made the perfect hidey-hole for pint-sized people like us when a game of 'Hide and Seek' was in progress. The wooden slats allowed you a glimpse outside as the Seeker looked all around for us Hiders. And if you got the giggles, they were muffled by layers of bed sheets and towels.
Getting back to the dhobi: Every Saturday, our dhobi would turn up for the weekly give-and-take; he would give us the previous week's linen all freshly laundered and ironed and take this week's batch.
Like most families, we kept a tally of the INs and OUTs in an old notebook - an olden-day Excel spreadsheet if you will. Invariably, one item would be MIA.
The following conversation would ensue, with Nana speaking in her version of "Hindoostani" and the dhobi in his shudd Hindi:
"Where's the yellow pillowcase set with the purple embroidered flowers?" my Nana would ask the dhobi.
"Memsahib, I returned them last week," he would hesitatingly offer.
"No, I haven't checked them off in my book. Make sure you get them next week."
The laundry bundled up in a big bedspread, the dhobi would then secure this onto his bhaiya bicycle carrier, and set off to the neighbours' houses. Then to Carter Road or Bandstand where the linen would get a wash and wallop on the craggy rocks before they were wrung and spread out to dry there.
Next week, same time, same story.
Week after week, year after year...
...until my Uncle C went and bought a twin-tub washing machine.
Then, the dhobi's days were numbered.
So tell me, who does the laundry in your house? Do you separate your whites/brights/darks/linen? Or have a specific method of hanging out the washing? Do special items go to the laundry? And, in your opinion, what's the best way to spend rainy day?
Which brings me to the awful truth that our house resembles a dhobi ghat. Everywhere I look, I see socks/singlets/sweaters hanging out forlornly to dry.
Remember those days before we had washing machines and dryers?
Back in the Bombay of my childhood, we had a maid who came to do the "top-work" i.e. sweeping and swabbing the floor and washing our clothes. But big bulky items like bedsheets, towels and blankets were reserved for the dhobi (washerman).
After our beds were stripped each week, mum and my aunt would shove the linen into the Dirty Clothes Box (DCB). This DCB came as standard in all Bombay homes. Ours was a tall wooden rectangular one with a small door at the bottom and slats on the side. The slats allowed us to literally 'air our dirty linen' without them turning musty. Inexplicably, the altar with the Cross, holy water and statues of various saints rested directly above it.
My cousins and I thought the DCB made the perfect hidey-hole for pint-sized people like us when a game of 'Hide and Seek' was in progress. The wooden slats allowed you a glimpse outside as the Seeker looked all around for us Hiders. And if you got the giggles, they were muffled by layers of bed sheets and towels.
Getting back to the dhobi: Every Saturday, our dhobi would turn up for the weekly give-and-take; he would give us the previous week's linen all freshly laundered and ironed and take this week's batch.
Like most families, we kept a tally of the INs and OUTs in an old notebook - an olden-day Excel spreadsheet if you will. Invariably, one item would be MIA.
The following conversation would ensue, with Nana speaking in her version of "Hindoostani" and the dhobi in his shudd Hindi:
"Where's the yellow pillowcase set with the purple embroidered flowers?" my Nana would ask the dhobi.
"Memsahib, I returned them last week," he would hesitatingly offer.
"No, I haven't checked them off in my book. Make sure you get them next week."
The laundry bundled up in a big bedspread, the dhobi would then secure this onto his bhaiya bicycle carrier, and set off to the neighbours' houses. Then to Carter Road or Bandstand where the linen would get a wash and wallop on the craggy rocks before they were wrung and spread out to dry there.
Next week, same time, same story.
Week after week, year after year...
...until my Uncle C went and bought a twin-tub washing machine.
Then, the dhobi's days were numbered.
So tell me, who does the laundry in your house? Do you separate your whites/brights/darks/linen? Or have a specific method of hanging out the washing? Do special items go to the laundry? And, in your opinion, what's the best way to spend rainy day?
27 June 2013
En Mass(e)
By God, church ain't what it used to be. Today, kids are allowed to colour in their books, chomp down snacks and – gasp – talk(!!) while the priest preaches from the pulpit.
Thirty-odd years ago, things were a hol(y) lot different.
For one, going to the Saturday evening service would not suffice in my dad's (holy) book; he insisted that the best way to start a Sunday was by attending morning Mass.
So our Sundays started bright and early – no sleep-ins and definitely no breakfast; we were expected to abstain from food for at least an hour before mass.
First things first: dressing in our Sunday best. No jeans or sneakers in the house of the Lord.
Those were the days of petticoats (trimmed with lace) and puff sleeves. Of frocks stitched by over-zealous mums who dressed their dolly-girls in frothy frills and lavender lace.
A sweltering 35-degree day meant for nought; the girls were made to wear said dress, that too, with said petticoat under it. The boys suffered in silence, tugging at their stiffly starched shirt collars below their altar-boy vestments.
Mummy powder puffed your face with Yardley talcum powder (gifted by an uncle working in the Gulf) and slicked back your brother's puff with Parachute coconut oil. Then, with two clicks of your Mary Janes (polished by dad the previous night), you were good to go.
We always got to church with ten minutes to spare. So while mum and dad knelt on the wooden pews, my brother and I watched the spectacle unfold before us.
I would spy the usual suspects, er, churchgoers. "Her Sunday is longer than her Monday," I would half-giggle, half-whisper to my brother, while mum shushed us. If you're saying, "Sunday what the..?", it simply means her petticoat was longer than her dress. Don't ask!
One by one, the 'church aunties' would make a solemn entrance, first “crossing” themselves with Holy Water. Tucked within their ample bosoms was the money for their Sunday Collection, tied up in a floral handkerchief. They would genuflect at a particular pew where they sat each and every Sunday. God forbid, you unwittingly took their seat.
The vaulted church ceilings meant that the fans above were for appearances only. So dad tried to sit us next to a widow (black veil in place) who invariably carried a pretty hand-held fan. You prayed that some breeze would miraculously blow your way and stop the trickle of sweat in its tracks.
We watched and tried to keep up as the congregation rose, sat and knelt through the Mass. (During mum and dad's time, the Mass was said in Latin.) No fussing or fidgeting, no giggling or gesticulating, and definitely no talking during that hour of Mass. If the Mass was a ‘High Mass’, my brother and I would be rewarded for our good behaviour with a Ravalgaon hard-boiled sweet from dad.
The readings always filled us with awe: about Eve being created from one of Adam's ribs; about pestilent plagues and prodigal sons, about parting seas and walking on water, about Jesus and His many miracles; about loss and love, about forgiveness and faith.
After the final hymn was sung and the congregation had dispersed, we would badger the parish sacristan for some unblessed hosts as we were too young to receive Holy Communion. And once in a while, our prayers would be answered when mum and dad would say, "Let's go to Hindu Hotel (a tiny Udipi cafe on Hill Road, alas, not in existence anymore) for sheera and medu wadas."
Amen to that!
Did your family have a particular Sunday routine? Did it involve church? Or a Sunday Roast? Do you remember any special outfit from your childhood? When do you dress up in your 'Sunday best' now, if ever?
Thirty-odd years ago, things were a hol(y) lot different.
For one, going to the Saturday evening service would not suffice in my dad's (holy) book; he insisted that the best way to start a Sunday was by attending morning Mass.
So our Sundays started bright and early – no sleep-ins and definitely no breakfast; we were expected to abstain from food for at least an hour before mass.
First things first: dressing in our Sunday best. No jeans or sneakers in the house of the Lord.
Those were the days of petticoats (trimmed with lace) and puff sleeves. Of frocks stitched by over-zealous mums who dressed their dolly-girls in frothy frills and lavender lace.
A sweltering 35-degree day meant for nought; the girls were made to wear said dress, that too, with said petticoat under it. The boys suffered in silence, tugging at their stiffly starched shirt collars below their altar-boy vestments.
Mummy powder puffed your face with Yardley talcum powder (gifted by an uncle working in the Gulf) and slicked back your brother's puff with Parachute coconut oil. Then, with two clicks of your Mary Janes (polished by dad the previous night), you were good to go.
We always got to church with ten minutes to spare. So while mum and dad knelt on the wooden pews, my brother and I watched the spectacle unfold before us.
I would spy the usual suspects, er, churchgoers. "Her Sunday is longer than her Monday," I would half-giggle, half-whisper to my brother, while mum shushed us. If you're saying, "Sunday what the..?", it simply means her petticoat was longer than her dress. Don't ask!
One by one, the 'church aunties' would make a solemn entrance, first “crossing” themselves with Holy Water. Tucked within their ample bosoms was the money for their Sunday Collection, tied up in a floral handkerchief. They would genuflect at a particular pew where they sat each and every Sunday. God forbid, you unwittingly took their seat.
The vaulted church ceilings meant that the fans above were for appearances only. So dad tried to sit us next to a widow (black veil in place) who invariably carried a pretty hand-held fan. You prayed that some breeze would miraculously blow your way and stop the trickle of sweat in its tracks.
We watched and tried to keep up as the congregation rose, sat and knelt through the Mass. (During mum and dad's time, the Mass was said in Latin.) No fussing or fidgeting, no giggling or gesticulating, and definitely no talking during that hour of Mass. If the Mass was a ‘High Mass’, my brother and I would be rewarded for our good behaviour with a Ravalgaon hard-boiled sweet from dad.
The readings always filled us with awe: about Eve being created from one of Adam's ribs; about pestilent plagues and prodigal sons, about parting seas and walking on water, about Jesus and His many miracles; about loss and love, about forgiveness and faith.
After the final hymn was sung and the congregation had dispersed, we would badger the parish sacristan for some unblessed hosts as we were too young to receive Holy Communion. And once in a while, our prayers would be answered when mum and dad would say, "Let's go to Hindu Hotel (a tiny Udipi cafe on Hill Road, alas, not in existence anymore) for sheera and medu wadas."
Amen to that!
Did your family have a particular Sunday routine? Did it involve church? Or a Sunday Roast? Do you remember any special outfit from your childhood? When do you dress up in your 'Sunday best' now, if ever?
24 June 2013
Milking it for All it's Worth
"Don't forget to boil the rice for lunch while I take C1 to her piano class," I told B as I rushed out the door.
B boiled the rice, alright! He boiled enough rice to feed a starving multitude. He boiled it so much, I could picture the long Basmati grains gathering together en masse for protection, pleading, “Save us!” as they congealed in a gluggy mess... Safety in numbers and all that.
I must clarify that B can cook a Masterchef-style three-course French meal, but a simple dal and rice will leave him stumped.
So, instead of having to force-feed the family rice for a week, I decided to make kheer (Indian rice pudding). As I stood in front of the stove, stirring the fragrant cardamom seeds into the scalding milk, chopping up the almonds, cashews and pistachios, my thoughts turned to my Uncle C and his 'milk moment' that has gone down in Pereira clan history...
Thanks to my Nana living at our D'monte Street cottage, the house always welcomed a steady stream of visitors. An aunt dropping in for a chit-chat, a neighbour coming across for a chinwag, cousins with their boy/girlfriends dropping in on their way home from college to say hello...
They would all sit around the square table in the "middle room" (not the hall) and one story would flow into another. This particular afternoon, Uncle C, back home from his early morning shift at GKW, had put the milk on the stove. (These were the days when milk was delivered to your front door in glass bottles with stripey alfoil covers and had to be boiled before use.) Knowing that a watched pot never boils, he returned to the middle room to join in the conversation with the rellies. The hands of the clock tick-tocked along...
Long after everyone had said their goodbyes, Nana and Uncle C went into the kitchen to find that not only had the milk boiled over ages ago, the a milk chatty (vessel) had a big, fat hole burnt right through it! While he thought there's was no point crying over spilt milk, the family has never let him forget the time he forgot about the milk.
Are you – or anyone in your family – noted for burning your meals? Any kitchen catastrophes? Have you ever made any version of rice pudding? What’s your favourite rice dish?
B boiled the rice, alright! He boiled enough rice to feed a starving multitude. He boiled it so much, I could picture the long Basmati grains gathering together en masse for protection, pleading, “Save us!” as they congealed in a gluggy mess... Safety in numbers and all that.
I must clarify that B can cook a Masterchef-style three-course French meal, but a simple dal and rice will leave him stumped.
So, instead of having to force-feed the family rice for a week, I decided to make kheer (Indian rice pudding). As I stood in front of the stove, stirring the fragrant cardamom seeds into the scalding milk, chopping up the almonds, cashews and pistachios, my thoughts turned to my Uncle C and his 'milk moment' that has gone down in Pereira clan history...
 |
| A bowl of Kheer hits the sweet spot for an afternoon treat |
They would all sit around the square table in the "middle room" (not the hall) and one story would flow into another. This particular afternoon, Uncle C, back home from his early morning shift at GKW, had put the milk on the stove. (These were the days when milk was delivered to your front door in glass bottles with stripey alfoil covers and had to be boiled before use.) Knowing that a watched pot never boils, he returned to the middle room to join in the conversation with the rellies. The hands of the clock tick-tocked along...
Long after everyone had said their goodbyes, Nana and Uncle C went into the kitchen to find that not only had the milk boiled over ages ago, the a milk chatty (vessel) had a big, fat hole burnt right through it! While he thought there's was no point crying over spilt milk, the family has never let him forget the time he forgot about the milk.
Are you – or anyone in your family – noted for burning your meals? Any kitchen catastrophes? Have you ever made any version of rice pudding? What’s your favourite rice dish?
"Fried Farts and Dried Onions"
"Mum, what's for breakfast?"
We'd look at each other a tad uncertain; a bit incredulous...
After all, Nana was the matriarch of the Pereira family who was very strict with our manners and morals. She went to church everyday while she still had her eyesight; she watched our Ps and Qs; she said five rosaries a day; she never had an ill word to say about anyone...
And then we'd see the twinkle in her eye and all dissolve in fits of giddy giggles.
And it even after 30-odd years, "fried farts and dried onions" still had the same effect on my kids this morning...
This is the first thing C2 says to me each and every morning as he and his sister slip into our bed for Family Cuddles before the frenetic pace of the daily grind overtakes us. Now, my kids eat like sparrows, so their interest in the breakfast menu baffles me. Anyhow, depending on what day of the week it is, my reply is:
- Bircher muesli
- Cereal
- Soojee (semolina porridge)
- Toast with butter and jam (for C1) or Nutella (for C2)
- Baked beans on toast
- Quinoa porridge with dates and walnuts
- Eggs with the works (weekends)
- French toast (weekends)
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| What's for brekkie? French Toast with Rhubarb Compote |
However, today I took a page out of my Nana Evelyn's book...
You see, when I was little and lived under my Nana's roof, my cousins and I would often ask Nana about lunch as she chopped and stirred in the kitchen. Our interest was piqued earlier on when the maid arrived to grind the masala for the curry. Sitting on our haunches besides her, we'd watch the ginger-garlic-chillies and assortment of spices and herbs being slowing but systematically being pulverised to a smooth paste on the black paata (grinding stone); mesmerised by the rhythmic back and forth, back and forth, back and forth motion....
“What's for lunch, Nana?” we’d inquire.
- Kichidi with vindaloo mince
- Potato chops with pea pulao
- Beef pepper curry
- Chowli (black eyed peas) with cutlets
- Pomfret or prawn curry (it had to be fish on Fridays as we adhered to the 'abstinence from meat' rule)...
But, once in a blue moon, just when we'd least expect it, Nana, in a deadpan voice would say, "Fried farts and dried onions."
And return to her cooking.
We'd look at each other a tad uncertain; a bit incredulous...
Had too much wax clogged our eardrums? Had our Nana just said "fart" out loud?? How could this be???
This coming from her was almost... blasphemous!
So tell me, what do you usually eat for breakfast – is it same-same everyday or do you crave variety like my family does? Do you recall anything about your grandma's cooking – good, bad or funny? Does your family have secret family recipes? Do you cuddle up with your kids before the day begins or while tucking them into bed at night?
19 June 2013
Vege (under the) table
Made a Bill Granger recipe of Chicken, Eggplant and Cherry Tomatoes for dinner last night. While the chicken went down a treat, C1 and C2 refused to eat their veggies.
"Finish your vegetables," I kept admonishing them.
“Do you ever wonder if you’re starting to sound like your mother...?" asked B.
Well, if the truth be told, my mum NEVER forced my brother and me to eat our vegetables.
In fact, she could be accused of aiding and abetting my crimes against greens.
Living in our D'monte Street cottage was my Nana Evelyn, my dad's eldest brother, Uncle Chris and his family, and my dad and his family. Nana Evelyn, the matriarch of the Pereira Clan, ruled over her household with a loving but firm hand. When she laid down the law, you had jolly well obey.
Usually, dinner was at 9pm (remember, this is India; 9pm is relatively early for dinner!) after the family rosary.
While the kids laid the table, my mum and my aunt Cissy got dinner piping hot. Nana sat at the centre of the table (opposite the altar) and each brother's family sat on either side of her. I can clearly remember this table with its Formica table top and extendable sides that were pulled out to accommodate all ten of us. After Grace was said, dinner was served. It usually comprised of a main dish (mostly a meat curry), a side dish of pulses or vegetables, and melt-in-your-mouth chappatis.
Now, at the best of times, I was a fussy eater. And when it came to vegetables, almost all of them were vetoed. Ladyfingers (okra) and brinjal (eggplant)? Too sticky.
Bitter gourd (karela) and radish? Too bitter.
Pumpkin? Too orange.
You get the picture...
But my ‘least favourite’ of them all was a vegetable called 'gavar'. I don't even know what it's called in English and, thank God, we don't get it here in Sydney.
These beans were skinnier than green beans and were cooked with freshly grated coconut. Despite its sweet taste, I disliked gavar with a passion.
So my six- or seven-year-old self concocted a plan to get rid of the gavar every time it was dished up... While the family chatted about this and that, I would surreptitiously chuck the gavar vegetable under the dining table, little by little.
Unbeknownst to everyone (myself included), my mum was fully aware of her daughter's diabolical scheme. But rather than tell on me, and let me face the fire and brimstone that my Dad and Nana were sure to unleash, mum kept mum.
Once the household had gone to bed, she would sweep away all traces of evidence from the crime scene...
Thanks, mum!
So whenever I complain to my mum about C & C not eating their veggies, she promptly reminds me of my vege(under the)table misdemeanours.
So tell me, is there any food you flat-out refuse to eat (even today)? Do you ‘disguise’ vegetables when cooking for your kids? Did you have strict parents or grandparents?
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| C2 checking out the corn at the Veggie Garden in our local park |
"Finish your vegetables," I kept admonishing them.
“Do you ever wonder if you’re starting to sound like your mother...?" asked B.
Well, if the truth be told, my mum NEVER forced my brother and me to eat our vegetables.
In fact, she could be accused of aiding and abetting my crimes against greens.
Living in our D'monte Street cottage was my Nana Evelyn, my dad's eldest brother, Uncle Chris and his family, and my dad and his family. Nana Evelyn, the matriarch of the Pereira Clan, ruled over her household with a loving but firm hand. When she laid down the law, you had jolly well obey.
Usually, dinner was at 9pm (remember, this is India; 9pm is relatively early for dinner!) after the family rosary.
While the kids laid the table, my mum and my aunt Cissy got dinner piping hot. Nana sat at the centre of the table (opposite the altar) and each brother's family sat on either side of her. I can clearly remember this table with its Formica table top and extendable sides that were pulled out to accommodate all ten of us. After Grace was said, dinner was served. It usually comprised of a main dish (mostly a meat curry), a side dish of pulses or vegetables, and melt-in-your-mouth chappatis.
Vegetables from our Farmers' Markets - minus the gavar!
Now, at the best of times, I was a fussy eater. And when it came to vegetables, almost all of them were vetoed. Ladyfingers (okra) and brinjal (eggplant)? Too sticky.
Bitter gourd (karela) and radish? Too bitter.
Pumpkin? Too orange.
You get the picture...
But my ‘least favourite’ of them all was a vegetable called 'gavar'. I don't even know what it's called in English and, thank God, we don't get it here in Sydney.
These beans were skinnier than green beans and were cooked with freshly grated coconut. Despite its sweet taste, I disliked gavar with a passion.
So my six- or seven-year-old self concocted a plan to get rid of the gavar every time it was dished up... While the family chatted about this and that, I would surreptitiously chuck the gavar vegetable under the dining table, little by little.
Unbeknownst to everyone (myself included), my mum was fully aware of her daughter's diabolical scheme. But rather than tell on me, and let me face the fire and brimstone that my Dad and Nana were sure to unleash, mum kept mum.
Once the household had gone to bed, she would sweep away all traces of evidence from the crime scene...
Thanks, mum!
So whenever I complain to my mum about C & C not eating their veggies, she promptly reminds me of my vege(under the)table misdemeanours.
So tell me, is there any food you flat-out refuse to eat (even today)? Do you ‘disguise’ vegetables when cooking for your kids? Did you have strict parents or grandparents?
14 June 2013
Guava Jelly in my Belly
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| Breakfast time: Guava Jelly on sourdough |
In India, guavas (perus) have a far more humble status where street vendors sell them piled high on pushcarts. When we were kids, as soon as the school bell rang at the end of day, us school girls would make a beeline for the guavawalla outside our convent gates (not heading the nuns’ dire warnings!). Guava selected, he would quarter it and then sprinkle salt and chilli powder. Ta-da! You had an afternoon snack to perk you up as you trundled all the way back home.
So these memories only heightened my anticipation as I unpacked my groceries and then sliced a guava in half...
...only to find that while these guavas may look all pretty and PINK inside (Indian guavas have white pulp), they aren’t as fleshy or as sweet as their Indian counterparts. So what was I to do with half a dozen guavas sitting solemnly on our bench top?
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| Tickled pink by Aussie guavas |
I didn't want to chuck them in the bin (I had paid top dollar, remember?). A (guava?) seed of an idea began to germinate...
I could make Guava Cheese! Or how about Guava Jelly?
First things first – guava cheese is NOT a cheese. It’s a sweet that’s more akin to quince paste (which, coincidently, is the best accompaniment to a cheese platter). And, Guava Jelly – you guessed it – is not jelly. It's jam.
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| The guava paste, bubbling away |
While my Nana/mum/aunt went into the kitchen to fetch the jam jars and money, he would proffer slivers of guava cheese to us kids milling around the hallway.
Not a word was spoken between the guava cheesewalla and kids; I didn't know Hindi and he didn't know English, but his kind gesture spoke volumes.
After adjusting the brass weights on his vintage weighing scale, he’d carefully ladled the viscous, translucent red guava jelly into the waiting glass jars. Mmmm! Gooey goodness. Then, the guava cheese was weighed, sliced and wrapped in parchment paper. Dad's sweet tooth would ensure that it didn't last very long. And I went to bed with sweet dreams of guava jelly on toast for breakfast the next morning...
Do you remember any particular shop keeper or corner store from your childhood? Have you ever eaten a guava? Or cooked them? What’s your favourite fruit or, conversely, which fruit makes you want to gag?
03 June 2013
To a T(ea)
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| Pic courtesy: Amanda M. |
"What's a tea cosy, mum?" asked Caitlyn.
"A tea cosy is a cover for a teapot. It keeps the tea inside from getting cold," I answered, showing her pictures of them on (where else?) Google Images.
"Ohhhh, it's like a blankie or jacket for the teapot!" she exclaimed.
It then struck me that Caitlyn - like most kids of her generation - has never seen people around her use a teapot, let alone a tea cosy.
After all, her mum is one of those strange people who doesn't drink tea or coffee. And when B wants his morning cuppa, he just boils water in the electric kettle, scoops some loose-leaf tea into a tea ball (none of that teabag nonsense for this Indian!) and lets it steep in a cup. A splash of milk later, and it's tea-time...
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| B's tea this morning |
But in the olden days, tea was brewed the old-fashioned way.
Since my dad always woke up at cock crow, his job was to make the tea before the rest of the household arose. There was a separate 'tea chatty' (vessel) in which he would bring the water to a vigourous boil. Then he would add the tea leaves (Orange Pekoe from 'Coin Tea') and sugar. Once it had steeped for a few minutes, the milk was added. (Milk came in glass bottles with silver and blue striped aluminium foil covers - but that's another story.)
Dad then poured this tea into a teapot which was covered with a blue tea cosy - one that had been hand-embroidered by my Nana.
I like to think the aroma of freshly brewed tea wafting through the house woke up my Nana, mum and the rest of the Pereira household. Well, except for my cousin, Wen - nothing, not even his incessantly ringing alarm clock, could rouse him out of his slumber.
We would all sit around the old wooden table in the 'back room', eating gutlis or chappatis slathered with jam and Amul butter - and the teapot with its tea cosy would take pride of place at the centre of it all.
Are you a tea- or coffee-drinker? What's your favourite brew - chai? mocha? latte? herbal tea? Did your family ever use a teapot or tea cosy?
09 April 2013
Keep it Up!
C1 was awarded a Principal’s Certificate at her school assembly today. It was, as the photo shows, for her good handwriting. ‘I’m so proud of you,” I told her. “Keep it up!”
'Keep it up'. Three little words that take me back three decades to recall an incident from my childhood. Thanks to my parents who make sure they recount this story at every chance they get, it’s hard to forget...
I must have been in Year 1. It was the end of the school term and I had returned home with my report card. A stellar one at that. A+ in every subject. Five stars all over. My six-year-old self was bursting with pride.
Once everyone in the D’monte Street household (Nana, my parents, my uncle and aunt and cousins) had ooh-ed and aah-ed over said report card, it was placed up on the altar. Now, this altar held pride of place in our sitting room. It was the receptacle for not just the expected statues of Jesus and Mary, and other religious paraphernalia like candles (in their shiny brass holders) and an array of rosaries, but also for some unfathomable reason, all “important” documents – recently received letters, electricity bills, etc. Even more strange, below it was our “dirty clothes box” – a place where all our linen was shoved, ready to be handed over to the dhobi, but that’s another story...
So of course, the report card was kept in its lofty spot with Jesus, Mary and Joseph for company.
Later that evening, dad’s older sister, my aunt Vilma, dropped in to visit Nana who told her of my achievement. “Well done, Alison! Keep it up, my girl!” she said, slipping a fiver into my hand. (Yes, 30 years ago, Rs. 5 could buy you the world!)
“But Aunty Vilma, I’ve already kept it up,” I replied, pointing to the altar.
Amen!
Do you have any incidents from your childhood that make you laugh or squirm? What kind of a student were you – a goody two-shoes or an up-to-no-good one?
18 March 2013
Double Wee?
On Monday mornings, you'll find me at Caitlyn's school, helping the kids with their literacy.
'Let's see what they learn in class,' I thought.
Well, today I learnt something new - I learnt what a "double wee" is.
What's a "double wee", you ask?
Let me explain: a double wee is not to be confused with a double U (W).
Enter Boy 1, "Excuse me, Miss K, Boy 2 made a double wee in the toilet with me."
Huh??
The penny dropped a full six seconds later...
A "double wee" is when two boys decide to pee into the same toilet bowl simultaneously.
Saves time. Saves water.
Ingenious!
'Let's see what they learn in class,' I thought.
Well, today I learnt something new - I learnt what a "double wee" is.
What's a "double wee", you ask?
Let me explain: a double wee is not to be confused with a double U (W).
Enter Boy 1, "Excuse me, Miss K, Boy 2 made a double wee in the toilet with me."
Huh??
The penny dropped a full six seconds later...
A "double wee" is when two boys decide to pee into the same toilet bowl simultaneously.
Saves time. Saves water.
Ingenious!
05 March 2013
Walk this Way
I’ve succumbed. Capitulated. Relented.
My kids and I no longer walk to school. We either take the bus or I drive. With drop-offs at two different schools with only ten minutes to spare, I just don’t have time for a leisurely stroll. It’s all rush, rush, rush.
Of course, there’s a traffic jam every single day near every single school because every single school mum in her four-wheel-drive is trying to squeeze into a parking bay. “Kids don't walk anymore; no wonder there's an obesity epidemic," laments my bus driver tells me as he waits for the lollipop lady to let him pass. "When I was a child, we used to walk two kilometres to school everyday.” I think back and reply,“You know what? So did I.”
When I lived in my Nana’s house, my cousins Wen and Sharry and I would walk to school together. “Please don’t walk so fast,” I’d plead, my little legs trying to keep up with their strides. Wen, being a good seven years older (and a good ‘big cousin’), would proceed to carry my bag all the way to school, while Sharry and I would yak-yak-yakkity-yak away. No adult supervision; just a steady stream of neighbourhood kids all winding our way to school, come rain or shine. Although burdened by our school bags bursting with books and lunchboxes, the boys would engage in a game of ‘kick-the-stone-all-the-way-to-school’ and the girls would chat about this and that, until the school gates loomed large.
And in the afternoon, we’d retrace our steps all the way back home. No need for any extra-curricular activities; the 30-minute walk home was enough to tire us out – and work up an appetite for Marie biscuits dunked in tea...
Did you walk to school as a child? Do you “chauffeur” your kids everywhere nowadays instead of walking?
My kids and I no longer walk to school. We either take the bus or I drive. With drop-offs at two different schools with only ten minutes to spare, I just don’t have time for a leisurely stroll. It’s all rush, rush, rush.
Of course, there’s a traffic jam every single day near every single school because every single school mum in her four-wheel-drive is trying to squeeze into a parking bay. “Kids don't walk anymore; no wonder there's an obesity epidemic," laments my bus driver tells me as he waits for the lollipop lady to let him pass. "When I was a child, we used to walk two kilometres to school everyday.” I think back and reply,“You know what? So did I.”
 |
| C1 on her way to kindy |
And in the afternoon, we’d retrace our steps all the way back home. No need for any extra-curricular activities; the 30-minute walk home was enough to tire us out – and work up an appetite for Marie biscuits dunked in tea...
Did you walk to school as a child? Do you “chauffeur” your kids everywhere nowadays instead of walking?
31 January 2013
Toy Guns: would you allow your kids to play with them?
I recently read Lionel Shriver’s We Need to Talk about Kevin and then went on to watch the movie. Gripping. Disturbing. Chilling. Especially in light of the high school massacre in Newtown, Connecticut. The story is told by a mother whose son went on a high school killing spree; a mother who wonders if her son was inherently a sociopath, or if it was her antagonistic relationship with him that brought on such violence. The age-old, but still unsolved, Nature v/s Nurture debate.
Which led me to my quandary. Is it okay for our children to play with toy guns?
Ask any seven-year-old boy what was on top of his Christmas wish-list and the answer was sure to be a Nerf gun. In fact, the kids and I had access to one on Christmas Day. “Gum! Gum!! Gum!!” said Caleb, pointing the Nerf gun at Caitlyn. I guess I should have been relieved that he didn’t even know it was called a gun; not “gum”. Or that a gun actually makes a “Bang! Bang! Bang!” or “Rat-a-tat-tat” noise. But where did he learn to "point and shoot"? We’ve never spoken about guns at home. We don’t even watch the news when the kids are awake. “Mum, most of the boys in school pretend to shoot the girls,” explained Caitlyn...
Enough said to get those alarm bells in my head ringing wildly. I’m sure the day is going to come when Caleb asks for a toy gun. And I wonder what I’m going to do about it. I know what you're thinking: guns = violence, therefore, guns are bad. That was my initial knee-jerk reaction, too.
But I don’t want to have my kids wrapped up in cotton wool, shielded from the real world. I don't want them to grow up into adults who turn into blubbering messes every time reality is ten shades too dark.
And, I rationalise, didn’t my brother and my cousins race around in my Nana’s house, “shooting” each other with their “machine guns”? One day they were soldiers in the army; the next day, pretend Arnold Schwarzeneggers and Sylvester Stallones (this was the 1980s, remember?). The sound effects were always pretty spectacular. Have their gun-totting childhood games resulted in any psychological trauma today? No, they’re all quite well-adjusted, thankyouverymuch.
But just because it was done in the past, doesn’t make it right, does it? I mean, our parents’ generation smoked, ate and drank their way through the 1970s and it was all considered “hip”. Today, these things just spell lung cancer, diabetes and liver problems. We have so much more information these days. So how do we use this knowledge to guide our parenting decisions?
My stand is this: so long as your son engages in all sorts of role-play – think superhero/fire-fighter/astronaut – and is not fixated on only killing people, it should be okay. It can be a part of his imaginative play so long as he is aware that reality is a different story. After all, you wouldn’t stop your daughter from playing dress-ups as a ballerina/fairy princess/doctor now, would you? For now, I’m holding my breath that my son never asks Santa for a toy “gum”.
Is it okay for children to play with guns? What rules do you have when it comes to kids’ toys? How do you teach them to differentiate between reality and their imagination?
Which led me to my quandary. Is it okay for our children to play with toy guns?
 |
| Nerf Guns on display in the toys section at Target |
Ask any seven-year-old boy what was on top of his Christmas wish-list and the answer was sure to be a Nerf gun. In fact, the kids and I had access to one on Christmas Day. “Gum! Gum!! Gum!!” said Caleb, pointing the Nerf gun at Caitlyn. I guess I should have been relieved that he didn’t even know it was called a gun; not “gum”. Or that a gun actually makes a “Bang! Bang! Bang!” or “Rat-a-tat-tat” noise. But where did he learn to "point and shoot"? We’ve never spoken about guns at home. We don’t even watch the news when the kids are awake. “Mum, most of the boys in school pretend to shoot the girls,” explained Caitlyn...
Enough said to get those alarm bells in my head ringing wildly. I’m sure the day is going to come when Caleb asks for a toy gun. And I wonder what I’m going to do about it. I know what you're thinking: guns = violence, therefore, guns are bad. That was my initial knee-jerk reaction, too.
But I don’t want to have my kids wrapped up in cotton wool, shielded from the real world. I don't want them to grow up into adults who turn into blubbering messes every time reality is ten shades too dark.
And, I rationalise, didn’t my brother and my cousins race around in my Nana’s house, “shooting” each other with their “machine guns”? One day they were soldiers in the army; the next day, pretend Arnold Schwarzeneggers and Sylvester Stallones (this was the 1980s, remember?). The sound effects were always pretty spectacular. Have their gun-totting childhood games resulted in any psychological trauma today? No, they’re all quite well-adjusted, thankyouverymuch.
But just because it was done in the past, doesn’t make it right, does it? I mean, our parents’ generation smoked, ate and drank their way through the 1970s and it was all considered “hip”. Today, these things just spell lung cancer, diabetes and liver problems. We have so much more information these days. So how do we use this knowledge to guide our parenting decisions?
My stand is this: so long as your son engages in all sorts of role-play – think superhero/fire-fighter/astronaut – and is not fixated on only killing people, it should be okay. It can be a part of his imaginative play so long as he is aware that reality is a different story. After all, you wouldn’t stop your daughter from playing dress-ups as a ballerina/fairy princess/doctor now, would you? For now, I’m holding my breath that my son never asks Santa for a toy “gum”.
Is it okay for children to play with guns? What rules do you have when it comes to kids’ toys? How do you teach them to differentiate between reality and their imagination?
18 January 2013
Picture Perfect
We were at three kiddie parties last weekend (I know, I know, my kids have better social lives than I do!) when a thought struck me: kids nowadays are excellent ‘posers’. They are used to us paparazzi-parents who chase their every move – click, click, clicking away as they do anything from licking a lollipop to sliding down a slippery dip. Picture-perfect grins in place, heads turned at just the right angle, they preen and pose for the camera. No awkwardness, no shying away from the lens. And straight after the photo is clicked, they chorus, “Can we see the photo, please?” Instant gratification.
Remember those days when cameras – point-and-shoot or SLRs – were reserved for special occasions? Birthdays, family picnics, Christmases, prize day at school... There was no digital-anything, so we played the waiting game. Wait patiently (cheeks hurting from all that forced grinning!) while the person clicking the photo positioned everyone just so, wait until the roll of film – 24 or 36 shots – was finished, wait for dad to take it to the Kodak photo lab (remember Studio Perfecta or Hill Studio?) to get developed, wait in anticipation for a week before we could collect the snaps...
And then prepare yourself for whatever you got: a cousin picking her nose; your brother making “horns” above your head; over-exposed photos; under-exposed photos; blurry shots, red-eye... and some truly picture perfect ones. These were put into their plastic sleeves of a photo album and pored over, year after year after year...
Right now, I’m picturing the beautiful black & white photos of my parents’ wedding album and my own sepia-toned baby photos. And who can forget those family photos taken at make-shift “photo studios” at the Bandra Fair with their cheesy backdrops of tulips and alpine mountains? Memories and magic.
The only photos I print out these days are the few I post to my mum and dad of my kids every few months. The remaining six million-trillion-gazillion are idling in various hard-drives, USBs and memory cards, eating up space.
What’s with our need to capture every nanosecond of our lives on camera? Is it just because it’s so easy thanks to our smartphones? Or does our technology make us feel compelled to click? It’s almost as if, if you’ve not recorded it, it never happened.
So this year, I’ve decided to go easy on the photos; enjoy the actual moment as it unfolds in front of me. And to print six million-trillion-gazillion photos I’ve accumulated. It may take me the better part of the year, but I’m just going to grin and bear it.
What do you remember most about photos from the "olden days"? Do you ever print out your digital photos?
Remember those days when cameras – point-and-shoot or SLRs – were reserved for special occasions? Birthdays, family picnics, Christmases, prize day at school... There was no digital-anything, so we played the waiting game. Wait patiently (cheeks hurting from all that forced grinning!) while the person clicking the photo positioned everyone just so, wait until the roll of film – 24 or 36 shots – was finished, wait for dad to take it to the Kodak photo lab (remember Studio Perfecta or Hill Studio?) to get developed, wait in anticipation for a week before we could collect the snaps...
And then prepare yourself for whatever you got: a cousin picking her nose; your brother making “horns” above your head; over-exposed photos; under-exposed photos; blurry shots, red-eye... and some truly picture perfect ones. These were put into their plastic sleeves of a photo album and pored over, year after year after year...
 |
| 14 Feb 1978: Dad & Mum all dressed up for my uncle's wedding |
Right now, I’m picturing the beautiful black & white photos of my parents’ wedding album and my own sepia-toned baby photos. And who can forget those family photos taken at make-shift “photo studios” at the Bandra Fair with their cheesy backdrops of tulips and alpine mountains? Memories and magic.
 |
| Dad, Jason, me and Mum; circa mid-1980s around Christmas (hence the long sleeves) |
The only photos I print out these days are the few I post to my mum and dad of my kids every few months. The remaining six million-trillion-gazillion are idling in various hard-drives, USBs and memory cards, eating up space.
What’s with our need to capture every nanosecond of our lives on camera? Is it just because it’s so easy thanks to our smartphones? Or does our technology make us feel compelled to click? It’s almost as if, if you’ve not recorded it, it never happened.
So this year, I’ve decided to go easy on the photos; enjoy the actual moment as it unfolds in front of me. And to print six million-trillion-gazillion photos I’ve accumulated. It may take me the better part of the year, but I’m just going to grin and bear it.
What do you remember most about photos from the "olden days"? Do you ever print out your digital photos?
24 December 2012
23 December 2012
Festive feast
When you think of Christmas, what food comes to mind?
I think of:
So this year, I decided to give marzipan a crack. I also tried my hand at date rolls, dal sweet and X’mas cookies, but, let’s face it, the piece de resistance was always going to be the marzipan. I’m quite chuffed with the fruits of my labour:
Fingers crossed, we’re going to have at least one of these festive foods this Christmas...
So tell me, what food springs to mind when you think of Christmas?
And what’s on your Christmas menu this year?
I think of:
- Christmas sweets: marzipan, kulkuls, date rolls and milk-cream all painstakingly crafted after hours of tricep-building stirring.
So this year, I decided to give marzipan a crack. I also tried my hand at date rolls, dal sweet and X’mas cookies, but, let’s face it, the piece de resistance was always going to be the marzipan. I’m quite chuffed with the fruits of my labour:
- Christmas cake: warm and spicy, bursting with sultanas and dried fruit that have been plumped up in brandy for over a month.
- Christmas lunch: there HAS to be roast chicken with stuffing and trifle for dessert. I’m not fussed if there’s no glazed ham and, confession time, I’ve NEVER tasted turkey!
Fingers crossed, we’re going to have at least one of these festive foods this Christmas...
So tell me, what food springs to mind when you think of Christmas?
And what’s on your Christmas menu this year?
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