SMELLING THE HAIR OF A YOUNG LADY

No, this post is not about halacha. Nor shall I speculate on the contortions a yeshiva bocher on the bus would have to perform in order to get a whiff of a sweet young thing's fragrant head-hair....... Given the sheitels and tichels that would have to be "accidentally" knocked aside or disarrayed, who knows what absurd motions and pretexts would be required. Besides, as you can imagine, on a mehadrin bus our bocher would also need to experiment with cross-dressing in order to even get near the young lady, and that begs the question: 'Are his tzitzis showing?' Siz a shverre shailoh, as of course even desperate perverts must remain shomer mitzvos.

Or at least, we hope they remain so. Personally we do not know any desperate perverts, nor expect to ever meet any, so their shomeric status is purely academic.


Onwards to better things.

[There's a recipe at the end of this post, if you're impatient.]

Instead, this post will touch upon the intellectual (meaning that I've hardly ever had the experience) conceit of being on a San Francisco bus filled with brilliant teenage females after class at Lowell High School has let out. For those new to this blog I should explain that years ago Lowell High School was nicknamed 'The Finishing School For Nice Intellectual Jewish Girls', but because of the changing demographic in the city, it is now known as 'The Finishing School For Nice Intellectual Chinese Girls'. It has extremely high academic standards, and students struggle mightily to get admitted.

[As an aside, let me kvell - Savage Kitten is a Lowell girl, and has not one but TWO university degrees (graduated magna cum laude). In addition to several gold and silver medals for martial arts (which the stuffed animals tend to steal and wear - they think the things are bling, and I must admit that the vampyre hamster looks like a stylish gangsta rapper wearing them).]

Imagine yourself on the number one California heading home to Chinatown. The back of the vehicle is filled with four-foot-six inch tall female seventeen year olds, squealing and screeching. School is out, adults are at work (which is why the experience is hardly familiar to me), the afternoon is still young; these girls are full of piss and vinegar, feisty, spirited, high octane, and they must vent.
They are, because of their energy level, 'delicately' bedewed with sweat - their hair wafts a heady blend of aromas and perfumes. Is that Alfred Sung I smell? Joy by Jean Patou? A whiff of lime and tangerine? Jessamine from Himalayan foothills? Hmmmmmmm!

Inhale deeply. Hold. Let an imaginary tongue taste the roundness of the smells in your nasal cavity.
Now slide to the floor of the bus as your knees give way.


Yes, some of them are wearing Hello Kitty Perfume. It does not matter.


Please contrast the above with the disgusting perversion which is chocolate sauce. Some people cover their lovers (one hesitates to use the word lover - victim may be more appropriate) with such things as chocolate sauce. Or raspberry syrup. It boggles the mind. How can they even notice the fragrance of clean hair under those circumstances? Is the hair itself even clean under the chocolate sauce or raspberry syrup? And then adding whipped cream. That's insult to injury. All of these degenerate behaviours negate the exquisite whuft of fine clean hair, soft and raven hued. Sauce trolls, we must have none of these. We have no fetishes. Mmmmmmmmmh, perfume.


Heh heh heh.


Now, having thoroughly awakened your minds, I wish to mention two things:

1. One out of sixteen (one million) Dutch people are diabetic. I suspect I know why. I'm guessing chocolate sauce or raspberry syrup.

2. Several years ago, the nasty South Indian woman who worked at the Indian restaurant where I was the cashier-bookkeeper got into a screaming match with the Punjabi headwaiter. Not unusual. Except that this time she grabbed a bucket of rice pudding and dumped it over his head. In front of a full house - it was a busy evening. Over a hundred and fifty people stared, mesmerized, at what appeared to be a yeti made out of creamy white goo. The headwaiter clearly did not know what to do - "should I ice her? Should I throw her against the wall? Smack her? Which of these?".
He stood immobilized.

While he tried to figure out his next move, I noticed, over the general spice fragrance of the restaurant, the distinct aroma of the saffron in the rice pudding, mixed with the faint musky perfume of his hair oil..........

Had I been female, it could have turned me on no end.


I now rather wonder if any of the women customers wanted to lick him.


Chocolate sauce, or raspberry syrup, would've spoiled the moment.


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NOTE: Went to an Indian restaurant with Savage Kitten yesterday evening. It was very good. We did NOT have any rice pudding.

CHAWAL KI KHEER

[Indian Rice pudding]

One cup milk.
One cup heavy cream.
One cup cooked rice.
Half a cup cane sugar.
Four or five green cardamom, seeds only.
A generous pinch of saffron.
Sliced almonds and golden raisins as you see fit.

Gently heat rice and milk to a barely boiling state. Add sugar, turn low and simmer, stirring, till much thickened. Now add the cream, cardamom seeds, the saffron, and the almonds and raisins. Simmer stirring till again thickened. Cool.
Serve garnished with a sprinkling of crushed pistachio.

A few fresh rose petals on top are also a nice edible touch of colour.


The term 'kheer' refers to the thickened sweetened milk preparation. One can also have sevian (fried thin vermicelli) in kheer, or Sabudana (tapioca) ki kheer. But most often it will be long-grain rice. It is a dish with many affectionate and ritualistic connotations.
None of which involve soggy Punjabis.


No chocolate or raspberries were harmed in the making of this post.