PUFFED UP WITH HOT GREASY GOODNESS

There are times when I re-read something I wrote years ago and am quite delighted by what I find. Gosh, what a clever little dick I am, I think to myself, as I lick my chops in faint self-pleasedness.
Surely that's normal? Doesn't everybody do that?

Actually, no. Most people don't.

They read other people's stuff.

And if they lick themselves appreciatively, what they read was probably internet porn.

[Internet Porn: most easily available smut is now electronic. There are three main types, those being American, produced largely in seedy hotel rooms in Orange County and featuring the skankiest males and females imaginable, in hues which suggest that the coroner's office is moonlighting for drugs and extra booze money; Japanese, which employs extremely presentable people, filmed by food photographers and fetishists with keenly honed aesthetic sensibilities; and Dutch smut, often bestiality and perversions even more unimaginable, produced on location in Latin America or Dordrecht.]

Please do not picture me licking myself at this point.

Assume that I am a very clean man.

Of temperate habit.


At the time of this writing I am wearing pajamas and a bathrobe, sitting in a rickety cane chair with a computer on my lap. I am considering a second cup of strong coffee. The ashtray next to me shows that despite my apartment mate being an avid non-smoker, I have sinned.

There is a tray with about two dozen briar pipes just beyond arm's reach. There are several tins of tobacco closer than that.
Good lord, this place is a mess.


I really should get dressed and go out for lunch. I've come over all esurient.

Especially after discussing food most of the morning on Facebook. Which was accidental, but not entirely unpredictable. Specifically, Indian food. More than a decade after his passing, I still miss Jeet Singh, who was the chef at Maharani for several years. Potato chunks with ghee, toasted cumin, coriander, chilies. Lamb in a rubicund sauce. Butter chicken. Pistewala murgh.

A good man. And, incidental thereto, a great cook.

I do not miss that frightful Tamil who also worked there.
Or the woman with breasts like ripe mangoes.
Cheese dhokla, perhaps.
It's iffy.

No, I am not going to head out in search of pooris and lentil curry (small dish of aam achar on the side), or flaky kulcha and gosht masala. I seldom eat Indian food nowadays, because there is no one to eat it with, and it is laden with memory.

Things have changed, it is all different now.
I am single. Indian food must be shared.




Except undhiyu; it should be thrown out.
Along with the mithi dal.
Bhayanaka.




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