Some say the world will end in fire
some say in ice
some call him a poet,
some call him lunatic
consulting he thinks he does
pissing people off as he goes
he’d seem so stern
and make you yearn
he’d tread smooth as shadow
but looks more like a strut
he’s a bot, a robot, a heartless wretch
just give him his violin to shut him up
he’d pull his collar up sans reason
show off his scarf whatever season
stands straight the slender snowman
scoffs at the opinions of other men
he’d play with criminal minds
break hearts as the game goes
The friend calls him drama queen
it’s Sherlock, obviously, he’s mean.
Tag: friends
Boating in Cochin
I once visited Cochin during school. It was a hazy three-day trip of which I only recall hot days and cold nights.
Oh, and the boat ride.
Like most tourists in Kerala, we took a boat ride too. And the best part of it is that we had to walk through numerous boats to get to the one we’d ride in. We stepped onto the first boat in the lake, and from there onto another, and another, and then another. After walking through about 6 or 7 boats, our teacher called out saying we had found our boat at last.
It was the largest mass of wood I had seen that floated on water. And on it was a hood-like structure that kept the rain and sun away. As soon as we embarked the boat, it began to rain. We filed into the “hood,” and saw our jaws drop. There were about 50 chairs placed around the interior of the boat, with glass windows to make us feel like an island.
A little adventurous, I stepped out of the hood and onto the dock. There were some wooden poles to hold on to, and the cold monsoon breeze kissed my face. I peered down from the boat, to see clear water in some places, and muddy patches in some other places. Little islands of seaweed flowed here and there, breaking the vast, rippling water.
And as our boat thrust forward, concentrated salt water gushed from the boat’s edges like swimmers racing in opposite directions.
I leaned in with my camera to get a better shot at the flowing water when another, much smaller boat made its way toward us. Two men stood on that boat, one of them handling the sail while the other blew his shrill whistle signalling to our guide.
They seemed to me like challengers daring us to race them. And I was all game before I saw the print on the boat: Coast Guard.
Huh?
We heard it later: According to government rules, every passenger on the boat should have a life jacket, and none of us adhered. We were just a bunch of over-excited school kids being kids. Besides, what’s the point of taking “security measures” when you’re at the mercy of nature?
A Hunting I Will Go
It’s wrong, I know.
I shouldn’t be so addicted to one food in particular.
I mean momos.
I’ve been a fan ever since a friend shared her homemade momos with me. She’s from Tibet, the home of the momo. And she mentioned once that that was her favourite dish.
What’s so great about that, I had asked. My friend must’ve noticed my dismissive tone, for a few days later, she came back with fresh, crunchy-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside momos. In three varieties: beef, chicken, and vegetable.
After that day, everywhere I went, I began to hunt for momos. We went on a trip to Sikkim, where I found steamed momos. And unlike the fried ones my friend gave me, these had patterns in them. Frail and smooth curves hemmed the dumpling, sealing it to keep the stuffing stuffed.
They looked and squished like a familiar South Indian sweet, but inside the mouth, if felt nothing like that. It was soft, springy, and doughy. Something Joey would love.
I bit into a momo, and steam smacked my lips as sautéed onions and vegetables filled into my mouth.
I was hooked.
Even after I returned, I longed to hold another momo between my fingers. Lucky for me, I live near a big university, home to plenty of north Indian students. And it was easy to find hundreds of little authentic food shops in the area. I’ve made it a mission to find the best momo shop I could find.
One shop I went to with my team had a different pattern in their momos. These flaunted a less curvy sealing, but the taste lived up to my expectation. And when I bit into one of these momos, fresh chicken and cabbage surprised me.
As for the vegetarian momos, they had a different shape altogether. These were like little fish, with a more fold-like hemming than curves; they were smaller than the non-veg ones too.
A street vendor once gave me “twisted” momos. It seemed like he had shaped the dough around a stick to form its circular shape. But the onions and vegetables were the same, and as good as ever.
After looking at so many varieties, I’m confused as to what’s the right way to shape a momo. Or if there’s even one right way to do it.
I guess the only way to find out is to eat them all. One thing I know for sure, though, is that no matter the size or the shape, nothing beats momos.
And no, that’s not addiction. Momos are too beautiful to resist. Call it appreciation, instead.
I’m sharing this post on Our Growing Edge, a blogging event that connects food bloggers and inspires us to try new things. This month’s host is Sophie from Cooking Trips. Thanks for the invite, Genie.
When Truth Hits
Friendships
Grew up together,
promised to keep in touch,
grew old touching screens.
The Chaos Within 