I wore my new FabIndian outfit to the cooking class I took this afternoon, and on the way over I have never felt so silly and out of place. A number of Indian teenagers in western dress openly pointed laughed at me. So much for being culturally appropriate and blending. However, it did make an impression on the right people....
So, the cooking class... it couldn't have been in a more different world from the ancient Bazaar of Old Delhi. It was run by a very affluent, glamorous woman who once was a very successful caterer, then changed careers when she became a mother. She now runs several swanky guest houses in the ritzy area and teaches Indian cooking classes to lonely, hungry travellers. Madame Puri totally knows how to cook, which consists of imperially ordering around 4 little guys (her house staff) to execute her tasty designs. So they would chop when she said chop, and fry when she said fry, and then turn to me and say, see, this is how we do it here.
I was, at first, the only one who called about the class. She balked, then said she would have me even if no one else showed interest. Turned out a Swede came. Said Swede was a social worker volunteering for an aid organization that runs a house for orphan girls. She's house mother to 56 little wayward souls who otherwise would be living on the side of the road, and I know now exactly what that means now. We all decided she had earned a rich, celebratory style meal, and that we were going to be the earthly deliverers of the karma she has earned. God help your belly if an Indian woman wants to celebrate you. Madame Puri pulled out the heavy cream, the Plugra (extra fatted butter) and a gallon jar of ghee. We made some beautiful food. {Teaser for Steph, layered stuffed paranthas, creamed black gram dahl, peas and paneer (we made the paneer right there from raw milk) and deep fried spiced cheese balls.} Oh god, it hurts. Its the next day and it still hurts.
She had an adorable 10 year old daughter who regalled me with stories of meeting Bollywood actors at holiday parties in her perfect colonial English, and fashionable designer jeans. I told them about Lucy, and how we had recently seen high school muscial 3 which made me "Auntie Number One!" with this rich little Indian girl. Turns out 3 isn't here yet, so I had to tell her the whole story, which according to her mother, sounded exactly like the last 2. The difference btwn this little girl's life and the girls the Swede was living with must have been all too intense for her, because she begged off early. I imagine the psychic equivalent of the belly ache I still have. I gave her a hug and told her thank you from all of Spirit for the work that she is doing, and she said that I am a born house mother to little girls. (but we knew that)
Then my fabulous outfit inspired the glorious Madame, who I can now call Parul because we are first name basis best friends, to have her driver take me the 40 minute drive home, saving me from the autorickshaws ( a whole nother story) and being a woman alone on the street.
No more stories for awhile because it's time to go up to the mountains and study Sanskrit, live in simple unheated ashrams, and meditate alot, which likely won't inspire much ebullence (sp?)
