On holiday, will cook

 There is no better way of immersing yourself in local culture than cooking on vacation

Last night, over dinner with some friends, I happened to mention how much I enjoyed cooking dinner during my recent vacation in London because of the freshness and quality of the produce. My announcement was met with astonishment, with the general consensus being that I was a glutton for punishment if I spent my evenings cooking while I was on holiday.

 

Well, what can I say? There is nothing I enjoy more than cooking when I am abroad, trying out new varieties of mushrooms, buying cuts of meat that I never find in India, and using condiments I haven’t even heard of before. I enjoy eating out at lunch – and occasionally at dinner as well – but there is nothing I find more satisfying than rustling up a tasty meal for my husband and myself on our nights in (when we are staying in a service apartment rather than a hotel room).

 

It all started many decades ago, when as a young journalist I spent a few weeks working in a media house in London. Not having enough money to eat out every day meant that I had to learn to feed myself using the tiny kitchen in the apartment I was staying in. I began by buying ready-meals and popping them into the microwave, graduated to boiling some pasta and eating it with bottled sauces, and when I got bored with my tiny repertoire of dishes, I began experimenting with fresh produce. 

 

I would fry up some mushrooms with onions and garlic and pile them on buttered toast. I would boil some potatoes and make a nice German-style salad to go with sausages. I would buy vine-fresh tomatoes, slice them open, pour some olive oil over them, season with fresh herbs and Maldon salt and enjoy them with a nice piece of fish. I didn’t make too much effort because I was often tired after a day’s work, but even with minimal work, my meals became more memorable the more thought I put into them.

 

Ever since then, whenever I go abroad, my first stop is always the grocery store. If I don’t have a kitchen then I stock up on cold cuts and some Kettle chips and make a picnic of it in my hotel room. If I do have a kitchen, well then, I let my inner Domestic Goddess run wild. 

 

I still remember one memorable trip to Tuscany, when I had just started learning Italian. My husband and I would spend days trawling through the vineyards sampling the wares on offer, but in the evenings, we would settle in the cosy kitchen of the villa we were staying in and cook our evening meal together. I still believe I learnt more Italian talking to the local stall-owners about artichokes, peppers, prawns, mozzarella and other ingredients and discussing how best to use them than I did in my regular evening Italian classes back home.

 

I still apply some of those lessons when I cook while on holiday. Last fortnight, in London, for example, I oven-roasted some colourful peppers with garlic, herbs and lots of olive oil, par-boiled some potatoes and quickly stir-fried them till they were golden and glorious. We ate them with Spanish-style sausages, washed down with red wine. 

 

And that, to me, was the true taste of what a vacation should be like.

Don't worry, be happy!

 How to go through life if you are a worrier

The world is divided into two sorts of people: the worriers and the non-worriers. The worriers have it bad by any standard. Rare is the situation that does not leave them worrying about how — and if at all — it will be resolved. If they are meant to do a task, they will worry about how well they will perform it. If they are expected to do something for someone else — no matter how trivial — they will lie awake at night wondering if they will mess it up. Every life situation they encounter will come with its own set of worries. They will worry about how their kids will turn out. They will agonise about dying alone. And sometimes they will worry for no good reason at all. 

The non-worriers are the blessed among us. They are so insouciant by nature that nothing leaves them in the least bit frazzled. Not for them the incessant worry about whether they have packed their passport as they drive to the airport. At work they may do their best but you won’t catch them torturing themselves about whether the boss likes them or not. And they certainly don’t worry about silly things like long-term life plans — in fact, they are barely aware that they even need one. 

Just in case you’re wondering, I fall squarely into the first category. In fact, you could even say that I am a world-class worrier. I have yet to encounter any situation that doesn’t send my brain whizzing into overload. It could be a routine medical test that leaves me traumatised till I get the results. It could be the task of packing enough medicines for a trip abroad (I keep feeling that I have missed out on something!) It could be something as innocuous as wondering if the roast potatoes I have made for my dinner party guests will turn out right. Or even just torturing myself with the thought that I might have inadvertently offended someone. 

Needless to say I can’t help but envy the non-worriers among us who go through life whizzing along with minimal or zero mental strain. How remarkable it must be to live like that! To live each day with nary a care, and no fear or what lies beyond. I wish I could rewire my brain to become a non-worrier but I think at this late stage in life, that kind of character change is out of the question. 

So, I have done the next best thing. I have decided to cope by what can only be described as ‘catastrophising’. That means that whenever I begin worrying about a situation (which is nearly all the time) I ask myself: “Okay, what is the worst that could happen?” I then run the worst-case scenarios through my mind and try and convince myself that I could — at a pinch — live with them. 

On most occasions, this works for me. If you are also one of life’s worriers, you might like to give this a try. God knows it’s better than the alternative! 

When things go wrong...

 Try these trusted remedies to get you through

It happens to all of us at one time or another. Everything around us seems to be going wrong. The weather is terrible; the water supply is erratic; your child has a toothache that is keeping him up all night; your demanding boss insists that you come in to work even when the city roads are flooded after a thunderstorm. 

In addition to all these domestic travails, the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket. There is no sign that the war in Ukraine will end anytime soon; the Israel-Gaza conflict goes from bad to worse; the next President of the United States — and leader of the free world — will be a doddering old man not in complete charge of his faculties no matter which of the two candidates is elected. 

Who would not feel depressed and despondent at a moment in time like this? Well, I certainly do. And my only recourse in this situation is to try and take solace in small pleasures, looking for teeny-tiny things that will bring me cheer - no matter how momentary. Here is just a small sample of things that help me get through the day.

• A comfort read: This is not the time to start a complicated or demanding book that requires all my powers of concentration. So I fall back on the books that have brought me joy over the years. Jane Austen always does the trick as does Georgette Heyer. And Agatha Christie is another trusty standby that I take recourse to on days that leave me drained. 
• Pottering around in the kitchen: I find that after a long day there is nothing quite as de-stressing as putting a simple meal together. Just cutting the vegetables for a stir fry or stirring the rice for a risotto can be a meditative exercise that exerts a calming influence on my mind. (Word of caution: don’t mess around with too ambitious a recipe; it will leave you more stressed than ever!)
• Spending time with toddlers: I am fortunate enough to have a couple in my immediate family and there is nothing more relaxing that watching them laugh, play and interact with one another, forging bonds that will hopefully last them a lifetime. 
• The weather is Delhi is so vicious these days that there is no question of spending time in parks (which is one of my favourite things to do). So I do the next best thing. Instead of watching such series as Bridgerton and Heeramandi, I spend my evening watching travel shows. I have traipsed across the Mediterranean with Jamie Oliver; wandered down the Silk Route with Joanna Lumley; and marvelled at the beauty of south India with Rick Stein. There is nothing quite like losing yourself in another world when your own seems to be in a state of collapse. 
• And finally, the biggest stress-buster of all before I end my day is the 10 minutes or so I spent on doing my nightly Wordle. The rush I get when I can guess the word in three tries or less is enough to get me in the right mood for a good night’s sleep. And tomorrow, as they say, is another day! 

At your service

A true measure of a person is how they treat their domestic staff 

The papers have recently been full of reports about a prominent Indian-origin family settled abroad, whose treatment of their household staff has led them to being handed prison sentences. Their crimes include grossly underpaying their staff, making them work all hours, confiscating their passports, and so on.

 

Reading these reports, I must confess that while I was shocked, I was not surprised. This particular family may have caught the attention of the law, but what they did is all too common among Indian households, both within this country and abroad. As a people, we tend to treat our household staff like our personal slaves, with no personal lives of their own. We make them work night and day, they are forever on call depending on our whims and fancies, and we grudge them even an annual pay rise no matter how hard they work. If they happen to live with us, they spend their nights on the floor in dingy, airless rooms, with scarcely any ventilation. And if they live on their own, the salaries we pay them don’t enable them to rent even a two-room set on their own.

 

I know what you’re muttering to yourself as you read this: this is a gross generalization; not every Indian family behaves like this; my servants are paid handsomely and treated like family; and so on. And perhaps you are right. But my essential point remains: even if there are some exceptions among us, the general standard of behaviour towards household staff remains abysmal in India. And if the law were to be applied equally, there would be many other Indian families who would also be headed to jail.

 

But, as we all know, that will never happen in India. It is this sense of security that enables so many of us to treat our staff with casual cruelty or simply throwaway thoughtlessness. And since we get away with it, we see no incentive in changing our behaviour and granting them a living wage, basic dignity and self-respect.

 

One easy way of gauging if we are treating our household staff with compassion and empathy is to ask ourselves how we would react if our bosses at work treated us in the same way. Would we be happy working a 16 to 18-hour day and then getting up the next day to do it all over again, seven days of the week, without any respite in sight? How would we react if we took a day off and had our pay cut as a consequence? What would our reaction be if we weren’t paid for our annual leave? How incentivized would we be to work if we didn’t get a raise for years on end?

 

My guess is that if we had to work like this, it wouldn’t be long before we began looking for another job that put a fair price on our work and treated us as valued employees. And yet, too many of us expect our household staff to just suck it up and be grateful to have a roof over their head, a mattress to sleep on, three square meals a day, and a tiny pay cheque at the end of the month.

 

And that, surely, is a crime that deserves punishment.

 

A home of my own

It's what I always wanted -- except I didn't know it came with a catch

Careful what you wish for, they say. And they may well have a point. Ever since I can remember, my ambition was to grow up and earn enough money to have a house of my own. A house that was mine alone; a house in which I didn’t have to adhere to anyone else’s rules; a house where I could come and go as I pleased, without anyone asking me a dozen questions.

 

Well, gentle reader, I achieved that ambition when I moved to Delhi and my then-employers very kindly rented a lovely flat for me. At the beginning, there was no containing my excitement. I set up the kitchen just as I wanted, I chose furniture according to my taste (and budget), I devised different colour schemes for different rooms, and I spent more than I could afford on a fancy mattress to get a good night’s sleep. 

 

But as the charm and novelty of the new address wore off, my new responsibilities as a homeowner (or rentor, if you want to get pedantic about it) began to jar. It wasn’t the day-to-day cleaning and dusting that weighed upon me – mostly because I had help with that. It was the other admin stuff: getting the ACs serviced twice a year; making sure all the utility bills were paid on time; calling in the electrician and plumber to deal with bust bulbs and choked drains; dealing with damp patches after every monsoon; the list went on and on.

 

It wasn’t long before I realized that life as a grown-up meant just one thing: an endless round of chores – and not all of them house-related either. It’s been a few decades since I moved into my new home in Delhi to live on my own, and since then I have shifted house more times than I care to remember, but the responsibilities have only grown with every passing year. 

 

There is the normal everyday stuff: thinking about what to cook for every meal; shopping for the ingredients; meal prep and the actual cooking; making sure laundry is done; keeping your plants well-tended; and so on.  

 

And then, there is the big stuff that everyone has to deal with. Making sure that you book yourself in for a medical check-up every year (and renew your medical insurance); that your young children have had all the shots they need; regularly monitoring your parents’ health to make sure that they have medical support as they age. 

In fact, as your children grow and your parents age, it can often feel like you’re being squeezed from both ends (no wonder people in this situation are called the sandwich generation). Teenage children need more supervision and care than toddlers to ensure that they don’t go off the rails. And it doesn’t help that around this time, the tables turn in such a way that you end up parenting your own mum and dad as they cope with the infirmities of growing old. 

 

And it is then that you look back on the halcyon days of your youth when your mom and dad were everything from your alarm clock, your chauffeur, your cook, and your emotional support. And you realize that growing up is not all that it is cracked up to be.

Travelling light

How do our fictional heroes and heroines manage to holiday with just one tiny carry-on?

 

There are many things that are completely unrealistic about movies and TV shows: how the hero/heroine always finds a cab cruising by conveniently when they need to follow someone; how all the women wake up with perfect hair; how the children never ever get truly messed up no matter how long they play in the garden.

 

But the one thing that strikes me as most unrealistic of all is when I see people packing to go on vacation. Without fail, they take one small wheelie bag and a tiny carry-on, which in itself is not worthy of comment. But once they get to their destination, they unveil a wardrobe that could not possibly fit into even two large suitcases. They never repeat an outfit; they have matching shoes and bags with every change; they show off more costume jewelry that you can shake a cocktail ring at. And if it is winter, they manage to pack more than one overcoat and a range of jackets, thus defying the very laws of physics. 

 

Given that we mere mortals could never do that, I think we should give up aspiring to travel as ‘light’ as our fictional heroes and heroines do. Yes, I know, all the fashion magazines never tire of running articles on how you can travel with just one bag by packing clothes that go effortlessly “from day to night” with the addition of a sparkly scarf or a pair of glittery heels. Well, if you can do that, then you are a better person than me. I am afraid I can’t manage without cramming a giant suitcase to the brim and then stuffing in a hold-all that I break out on the return journey for my dirty laundry and any new purchases I make.

 

Of late, though, I have been shamed into packing a bit lighter, after a particularly embarrassing episode when I couldn’t quite lift my suitcase off the carousel and needed the help of two able-bodied men to help me wrestle it onto my trolley. So, just in case you need the tips, here’s how I managed to lighten my load.

 

·       I know it’s a bit of a palaver to wear boots at the airport and have to take them off at security, but given that they weigh down your suitcase, it’s best to keep them on when you travel. Ditto, heavy jackets and overcoats.

·       I can’t do without my brand of shampoo and conditioner, not to mention my various lotions and potions. But instead of carrying the full bottles, I make do with sachets or small bottles into which I decant tiny amounts that will last my trip.

·       No physical books go into my bag; instead I download all I want to read on my Kindle. I leave my laptop behind, carrying just a lightweight tablet just in case I need to do some writing.

·       Sticking to one colour palette when packing clothes is a huge help because you only need to carry one pair of shoes and one handbag that will go with everything.

·       I can’t do without my Dyson airwrap entirely but I have pared down the number of accessories I travel with. And my portable steamer stays home; a few wrinkles are a small price to pay for a lighter bag.

 

The Dinner Party Pest

Here is how you identify him -- or her 

 

I am not a great one for dinner parties but, of late, I have ended up going to quite a few on the trot. And on each and every one occasion, I have encountered the bane of my existence: the Dinner Party Pest (DPP). You know who I am talking about, don’t you. Well, in case you don’t, here’s a quick checklist to help you identify him or her next time you are out and about. 

 

·       There is always that one person who ruins your mood the moment you enter by asking, with faux concern, “You are looking a bit tired, everything okay?” There is nothing more demoralizing than being told that you look ‘tired’ when you are anything but – and when you have spent time and energy on trying to look your best. I find this kind of opening even worse than that other great standard that DPPs often use: “Gosh, you’ve lost so much weight! You must tell me your secret.” The secret, of course, is that you weigh exactly the same as you did the last time you met them; but now you know they think you are fat. Charming!

·       The DPP always tries to suss out your social standing by asking within the first few minutes of meeting you: “Where do you live?” And then, depending on your answer he or she decides if you are worth his or her time. If you’re lucky, you won’t make the cut. If you are not, then you are in for a long and tedious conversation that will leave you gagging for another drink.

·       I often turn down offers of second and third helpings with the explanation that I am diabetic and need to watch what I am eating. That announcement is usually enough to make even the most generous host back off. But sadly, it propels the DPP in attendance into action. This person (who has no medical expertise, whatsoever) now thinks that it is entirely acceptable to lecture me on how to “reverse my diabetes” through diet and exercise and give up on the medicines that have been prescribed by my (highly regarded) doctor who actually knows a thing or two about endocrinology. Honestly, it’s enough to make me want to drown my annoyance in a vat of ice-cream.

·       The DPP also has an interesting line in intrusive questions. It could range from asking if you have had Botox to asking how much your house is worth in the current market. Women of a certain age will be asked why they aren’t married yet, or if they are married, why they haven’t had children yet. It doesn’t matter how slight your acquaintance is, the probing questions will keep coming, with no topic being off-limits.

·       The most lethal sample of this breed is the person who combines the worst qualities of the DPP with that of the Dinner Party Bore (DPB). This person will buttonhole you to bore you death with his or her views on every conceivable topic under the sun, completely oblivious of the fact that your eyes began glazing over with boredom a good half an hour ago. If you are stuck with one of these, good luck with trying to extricate yourself from the conversation. You will need it!