Okay, you like waffles, and you believe that there can be nothing unlikable about them. However, the reality is different. There are plenty of folks like me who just cannot get their mind around what seems like a rehash of pancakes, baked cake-like stuff, and crusty pies. Waffles remain elusive to me in terms of having a taste, an individual flavor that separates them from the rest. Competitors here include many types of bread and bakery essentials like biscotti or cookies. A waffle is supposed to have a crusty exterior, and the insides are supposed to be warmer and softer. However, the manner in which waffles are served these days means that the outer surfaces are already overwhelmed with many sauces and flavoring bits. The outside crust is already lost. The more you try to dice and mix up the fruits and creams, the more waffles are likely to lose its individuality, not that it really have a unique identity to preserve.

I recall this scene from Kill Bill, where Daryl Hannah is visiting one of her former kill squad members. I think his real name is some Madse,n and I recall the guy from Reservoir Dogs and the Species franchise. This is not about how macho he looks or how the one-eyed portrayal of Hannah was very realistic. This is about them drinking some sort of alcoholic concoction in what seemed like glass jars with handles or without handles, really don’t remember now. But if you look closely, the guy was living in a trailer parked in the middle of some God-forsaken landscape and had nothing in terms of lifestyle goods or accessories.

These days, my wife has started a morning ritual of swallowing a bit of aloe vera juice as soon as I get out of bed. She remembers it, pours it, reminds me about it, and then follows up as to whether I consumed the supposed Digestive tract soothing agent or not. Notwithstanding, discussing her affection for me, this adds one more thing to what I consume every day, to a list that is dominated by Honey. For some reason, I have been having that sticky, amber-colored stuff for years now. I love to spread it on hot, toasted slices along with butter. I dip my digestive biscuits in it. It is also the SOS when sugar cravings hit me badly, and I don’t have the good stuff to satiate the cravings. Other inclusions to the daily regimen include honey in hot water, infused with herbal tea extracts that I carry to the office. I might put some on vanilla ice cream served with almonds and cornflakes. What makes it so good?

The other day, I was at Burger Place, Rajouri Garden,  and I ordered the double-egg burger. Here, the burger patty was really big. It had been filled with poached eggs and lots of green veggies. The result was a true gastronomic delight. The eggs were slightly mushy and, when pressed slightly, almost hung tightly to either side of the burger buns like some industrial adhesive, and the flowy sauces and cheese things were equally warm and orgasmic. However, I had a small issue. I just couldn’t eat the burger like a burger. It was too big. It was oozing too much of the good stuff. I could not afford to press and kill my vulnerable Patty. And I hate when the cheese starts to drip. So, the solution was finding refuge in a plastic fork and slowly eating away at the hand-sized burger. Did this ruin the taste? Not really. I should say not at all. In fact, having a burger like a plateful of the meal was a refreshing experience. Now, when I compare this with some of the sandwiches I come across in Delhi’s cheese-based eat-out locations, it seems that eating these sandwiches, held up like the traditional way of eating your bread, is not really practical.

I was watching some unknown movie when surfing movie channels and came across this scene of a typical corporate guy, with bow ties and suit, rushing to the terrace of the office building, panting, trying to catch his breath. For a moment, I paused and thought about the overwhelming sense of anxiety that this scene was trying to create. I realized that this dramatic scenario actually presented a reality-check—we are all bitching about the skyscrapers but there are times when these monstrous buildings actually do something rather well. I live on the fifth floor of a residential high-rise and the windiness is still very palpable. Just imagine someone on the 20th+ floor or terrace. The wind must be cutting through with God's speed. Perhaps, these few moments, bent over the rail of a typical skyscraper are akin to catching deep breaths and regathering—something most of us have done at our workplaces. The view from the top is equally breathtaking as long as you don’t hit the terrace every day.

One of our overseas migrant friends has been restoring a classic set of four wheels and sharing the images. As expected, there is a lot of automobile wisdom pouring out in response to the data published on social channels. The love for classics and vintage seems to have no boundaries. But when I say this, I must confess that despite my love for cars that were bigger, heavier, and made with the heart, I am not that big on everything that is retro-themed. My love for the bygone era of automobiles stems from the large-scale use of metal, and that is it! There is nothing more, though I like the rich leathers and plenty of glasswork and curvaceous lines.

I keep watching these foods shows about the Mediterranean way of eating and always have borderline dreams that touch upon the idea of at least tasting all these delicacies at least once during one of my dreamy vacations. But the reality? I am a true Punjabi in most ways and the chances of actually biting into stuff that looks half-dead or still has a layer of its actual, wilderness or ocean life are very, very remote. This comes with being a Delhi-bred Punjabi. Our logic with food is rather simple. If you have killed it, roast it to the extent that it loses its identity. I mean the French preparation of marine being is such that sometimes you must get fish that stares right back at you. The other end of the story – if you have pulled it from the ground or plucked it from a tree then undress, cut, slice, dice, fry, simmer, re-fry, and re-heat it until what was once from the plant kingdom now seems like a serving of something mixed in a highly enthusiastic mix of onions and tomatoes. Not doing this every day of your life, not staying true to this way of interpreting food, and not passing judgement on food that hasn’t been prepared in this way is unbecoming of a Delhi-ka-Punjabi.

I was watching reruns of That '70s Show, and I realized that, unlike the hippie-loving, herbally-explorative folks on the sitcom, I really cannot say that I know the feeling when you are doped to the extent that it seems like metaphysics and the afterlife have mated to create a realm of the unknown. I have had days of Valium excesses, many years back, and some instances of drinking silly, but largely, I have always been in control. Laughing or smirking a lot more than usual, driving a bit crazy, having that dreamy-eyed look – these are things that come close for me. When people talk about being high or having progressed into an alternate universe after doing joints, I am a true alien to the real feeling they are talking about.

The first impressions I had about roads during my childhood years did not come from my parents complaining about the civic apathy when it came to how the city roads are paved or maintained. My impressions were borrowed from the opening sequence of a Sherlock Holmes TV series adapted for a 40-minute show on Sunday mornings. This was during the late 80s, and I was still ascending towards middle school. This sequence had horse-pulled carts and policemen with big, shiny leather boots walking around on stone-paved roads. At this point, I did not know what a cobblestone is or how many European cities maintain their heritage of cobbled streets. This impression has stayed with me, the images still very vivid. The love for stoned roads did not go away, even when I traveled to other cities in India that are doing a lot better than Delhi. Over the years, lots of TV watching helped me realize that the cobble-stoned street is somewhat of a legacy that our European cousins have consciously tried to sustain.

I am the definition of a greenhorn when it comes to anything related to being artsy or doing tile-work, but this time around, I found the courage and the gumption to start something that could be potentially disastrous if not done properly. So, I am taking a few minutes to describe what this DIY project is going to be about, and will keep dropping in regular updates:

WE are in a bit of disarray and indecision when it comes to refurbishing the bathroom. Our new home is somewhat prone to moisture seepage. There have been repeated rounds of arguments in the building as to how this issue should be tackled. The expenses would be huge, and invariably, all inhabitants of the apartment building would need to contribute a lot more than what they are paying as the monthly security and maintenance amount. This is the biggest issue, too, when it comes to setting up the scaffolding and starting the critical, structural re-strengthening repairs.

Please understand that this is not about the Papa Bear paradox that my teammates once invented - the image and the discussion is not about me in any way. It is about an image along with some childhood moments that flashed in my mind, and I had to blog about it - needless to say, am a chronic thinker and writer of sorts. I remember this picture of a big family of animals and birds seated together, getting ready for supper. However, the most welcoming, warm vibes that I could feel were coming from a big, pokey bear. Why is that?

There was something very likable, very identifiable with the original – Guess Who Is Coming To Dinner has been repeatedly referred to as a classic. My wife really loved it, while I just liked the movie. In parts, the movie is brilliant. The cast seems like the ideal fit for the story that is really just about a very friction-heavy evening with conversations and arguments explaining everything, leaving very little to doubt. What has been referred to as Sidney Poitier’s best can be remade, but the remake has to be really good—Guess Who comes close to being a remake, but it seems like a more contemporary, spicier version of the original, borrowing the basic plot and keeping the overall treatment very different. Thanks to Ashton Kutcher, the laughs are not contrived. His future father-in-law is Black and dominant in a very literal way, but the performance is rather good.

Being new to Amazon Prime, we have been somewhat selective in choosing movies, as if the membership is going to hold us guilty for watching too many. We are slowly evolving into a couple that can watch TV for a longer duration, happily seated together, almost stuck like a plug in the socket. For some reason, I want to watch more horror flicks and thrillers, and my Wife wants more Rom-coms. I am discovering a new side to me where I can actually see and appreciate some seriously feminist-ridden stuff. However, this is not the case with Gurgaon—this is not a thriller or a romantic comedy in any way. This movie uses a sadistic plot to say something in the most subtle, almost passive way. It is a cinematic commentary on what transpires among the lives of those who have suddenly found riches around the suburbs of a cosmopolitan, people who knew how to grab, kill, and conquer but seem clueless when it comes to fully utilizing what they have gathered.

Two black families with very different cultural setups getting together because their children are about to tie the knot – it seems inspired by Guess Who Is Coming to Dinner in some way? Not really, if you are watching Jumping the Broom. The movie is not dramatic, and the emotional plays are reasonable. Not trying to enforce itself as a romantic comedy, this movie is without the rhetoric.