Simmerin'

I'm sitting on the periphery of my kitchen watching a pot of channa masala bubble on the stove, scared to touch it lest it becomes any worse. This is the only Indian dish I know how to make without a recipe book, and now that my family dinner is looking pretty weak, I might have to take it off the short list (pasta, omelette, grilled cheese).

And then I start wondering (because it has rained for four days and what else can you do?) if this is the channa masala metaphor of my life. By my age my mom was seeing suitors, taking care of her sister's children, and making several much more elaborate dishes by hand. Now she can feed an army (seriously...and if it's a family of four, the same amount of food will be made) in such a way that every heaping teaspoon of turmeric or coriander seed is perfect down to the grain. And even if she's a fellow vegetarian, her chicken biryani rivals the pit stops in Charminar.

Not that I want to feed the troops. Or get married by 23, or cook any more than my future husband will.

But is this diluted version of the delectable favorite a sign that my generation is destined to be just as watered down with culture? If my Hindi is, excuse me for this, "ghetto", will my kids be pronouncing their own names wrong? And while I can recite a few mantras and do pooja, my grandfather can recite scriptures for four hours without glancing down at a book.

This is what happens when it rains, and remains grey and the clouds are so burdened they almost touchdown to the river -- you hypothesize and dramatize all sorts of worldly things that are so irrelevant in Tarpon Springs.

In just a few weeks I'll be strapping on my Tevas and backpack and coursing through villages in North India without internet, cell phone or shaved legs. I will grow vegetables, treat sick children and touch the soil of villages my parents haven't even heard of before. And then, maybe, I will tell you, whether the channa masala metaphor stands.

Good Newsweek

In the last issue (or maybe one before) of Newsweek, there was an article tucked in the middle about how they plan to fight the fading away of ink.

Since every journalism class, conference and confidante has been pretty morose about the industry's direction, it was refreshing to hear a woman stand up for the publication and its place in the market.

The article said that despite how quickly and freely one can access news online and on IPhones etc., there is something lacking from the mobile uploading and twittering, and that is INSIGHT.

Newsweek's stars like Farheed Zakharia can offer a story well beyond 140 words (tweet), and well worth a few bucks. While any journalist can quickly offer up a blurb and snapshot of Swat Valley in Pakistan, someone with a PhD in Political Science and more than two decades of intense study can surely provide a deeper look at the Taliban in a powder keg country.

So while I plan to swim hard and fast with the current that is multimedia and fresh and innovative, I am happy to hear that our coffee tables will remain covered in essays and speculation as long as possible.

Suburban Blues (and Browns and Greys)

Yesterday I found myself at the checkout line at the grocery store about to cry.

Because I had forgotten my reusable bag. Because the lady put one item in each plastic bag even though I told her it could fit more. Because my sister kept telling me, you are such a freak, it is not a big deal. All you have to do is worry about yourself.

I overreact. It wasn't about the plastic bags. But I've spent more time in a car in the past three days than I do in a month in Gainesville. I've been forced to carry a cell phone when I bike ride because my parents worry (and worry). I've wandered Target like a zombie from the sensory overload. And I can't go anywhere on foot because of US 19.

"I hate the suburbs," I told my sister as we wheeled out the cart to the car. She told me to move to NYC.

I know that freedom is in the mind, and not just in the caves and the hills. But it seems hard to find peace in the aisles of a super Wal-Mart. Coming back home just reminds me that my future must be different. That it isn't crazy of me to look for a job that will drop-kick strip malls and hubcap-sized hamburgers out of my daily routine.

Epilogue:

At the end of the day I bike a few miles, and come back and float in my pool while my dad plays Peter Gabriel and grills chicken. My dog sits on the brick and watches me lazily backstroke. And then we all set the dinner table together and eat and clean up and digest on our living room couches as the last track comes to an end.