Thursday, July 30, 2020


Regarding Parsee cookery, which I mentioned a few times recently, a dear friend and correspondent rebuked me sharply as follows: "the Chhota Peg is still nowhere to be seen in your writings. Not even a fleeting mention. You disappoint me. Oh, and by the bloody way, we don’t, not ever, “dump” our sali on the boti - we sprinkle it - lovingly, tenderly, and evenly, on those delicious, succulent botis." Well okay then. A chhota peg is a half measure of Scotch whisky, rarely rum or gin. A small peg. Maybe with soda pani or regular water added. It is for all the times after tea, when daddy-ji has returned from the daftar khanna or prasasanik kendre, tired and takit, and needs to relax. Or mummy-ji. Whoever works administratively. It is also a sacred ritual. And one might have several chhota pegs before retiring.

The soldiery would drink a rum peg every morning with lime and quinine, which was thought to prevent malaria. But for the higher castes, pegs, whether bara or chhota, were whisky, mostly afternoon, mostly male prerogative.

My mother would have me fix her a genever chhota peg before dinner to ease her pains during the last few years of her life. And for me, a chhota peg is a small shot of Scotch, with very little water, and no ice cubes.

Which of course I cannot have. Because of medical reasons.

Chhota peg: greatest British contribution to India.

Parsees would be poorer without it.

Yesterday evening, my apartment mate went full Aspergers, analyzing what sex with daemons would entail. Both the mechanics of it, and the chromosomes involved. Pursuant Trump's current favourite doctor, who is batshit crazy. She then speculated wildly and at length about fundy Christians and mental instability among the faithful, plus their ridiculous theology, and lizard aliens within the body of the church. That church. Seemingly for hours. I could have used a chhota peg at that moment.

Sadly, there wasn't a drop of single malt in the house.

I was a captive, and couldn't go out and get it.

By the time I was free the store was shut.

Thank you, Doctor Daemon Sperm.

"As I looked into his innocent green eyes I knew that my womanly presence was arousing his taut testicles: that with every little gasping breath they vibrated against each other, firm and plump beneath his starched trousers. And he blushed as he knew that I knew."
------ Genevieve Cogman

"Cassandra woke up to the rays of the sun streaming through the slats on her blinds, cascading over her naked chest. She stretched, her breasts lifting with her arms as she greeted the sun. She rolled out of bed and put on a shirt, her nipples prominently showing through the thin fabric. She breasted boobily to the stairs, and titted downwards."
------ Unknown Internet Genius

The two lyrical texts above are examples of literary smut. The top one shows what would happen if women wrote about sex the same way men did, the bottom one is male smut writing spoofed. Both of them are almost Shakespearean in their beauty, neither one of them are glandularly stimulating. They are not meant to be.

Personally, I find recipes and food descriptions far more interesting.
But I realize that I'm in the minority on this.
If you're reading here, you too.

Over the years I've said an inordinate amount about food, mentioned Scotch and Irish whisky several times, and been a total Asperger about pipes and tobacco. Besides some political opinions and sneering at Christianity. That will continue. Aside from speculating that Doctor Stella Emmanuel desperately needs some daemon sex, and that if there weren't so many reptile space aliens in the Trump cabinet, that would be the perfect source, and a solution to her psychological problems.

Now, should I start the day with tea, coffee, or a peg?
I think I'll have a smoke before I decide.

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