NY Chili Fest 2013

New York City is a series of theme parties. There's the frat-guy theme, the wealthy-democrat theme, the American-perception-of-China theme, and all three of these parties, Murray Hill, the Upper West Side, and China Town, have their own drink specials. There is also the idealist student theme, the impoverished theme, the forcibly indifferent dumpster diving theme. There's the theme of homogenous Brooklyn, of overpriced Manhattan, of fearing Staten Island.

And then there's the food theme(s).

New York City has a delicious infatuation with theme eateries. It's only in this city that a mac & cheese craving can be satisfied with a "masala mac & cheese," a "Parisienne mac & cheese" and "all-American mac & cheese," all under one roof. It's only in this city that a rice pudding break becomes an overwhelming endeavor, as "coconut coma" and "fluent in French" are among dozens of choices. And it's only in this city that hundreds of hipsters join together to consume voraciously endless bowls of chili.

Sunday, January 27th, was New York City's Chili Fest, a celebration of comfort food for chili connoisseurs from all boroughs. Tureens of steaming chili line the corridors of Chelsea Market, while chives and chips and steel spoons seem to be thrown about in frenzy. Those tabling and representing their restaurant, while seemingly cordial, are actually fiercely competing with each other for the Golden Chili Mug 2013 title. To witness this historic event (and to be immersed in beans and beer), my friend spontaneously purchased tickets, and I began rummaging through my closet to find my flannel.

There is always that one girl who interrupts the flow of buffets or dinner parties to ask what is in the food. She's always the one with a deathly allergy to an obscure Brazilian fall grain or with the religious restrictions on certain meats or with neurotic fear of the waiter's thumb grazing her soup. And then there's that one girl who is a vegetarian by choice.

Competition was so cutthroat for the Golden Chili Mug 2013 title, that restaurants could not compromise unique recipes for the registered meatless. We asked volunteers, chefs, support staff if there was even one restaurant with a vegetarian version of their chili. The response was the same. Everyone would initially stare blankly, and then open their mouths as if to say, "Alas! You're that girl," but would instead say, "I'm sure there is. But the bar is over there. Why don't you start with beer, first?"

There were all types of chili. There was chili with Thai spices, chili with beef and tofu, chili with Mexican flair. But the one ingredient they all had in common was beer. And so, the only way I could have vegetarian chili, that is, chili stripped of its meat, was to consume its most fundamental component.

And I obliged.

By the end of the night, chili fest had become a dance. Underscoring the perception of unity on to which each so desperately held, a wave of flannel and beards, a spectrum of different colors and sizes, swayed in unison.

There is no such thing as "classic New York," for it is only a series of theme parties, pockets of authenticity wrapped up and sold to the consuming mainstream (you, me, the rest of the world). But if there were such a thing, New York Chili Fest might come close.

young & wild & free

For the last several weeks, I've been chained to my bed, unable to look left or right, up or down, and I still cannot touch my ears to my shoulders. In fact, I cannot even remember if touching your ears to your shoulders is a normal bodily function. (I'll be trying till the death.)

My body rejected the idea of 24, and so a disc popped out in my spine and the part of my buttocks that was double jointed has been making an ominous screechy noise. Oh, and some man on the street thought I was pregnant. (I reassured him I was not.)

As always, Patrick was there to help me move back into the city, to make my bed, to bake me apples, while I sat on the couch with my heating pad, pink snuggie, & fistful of pills, my head frozen in his direction. I thought, I actually have grown old with this boy. And then the part of my buttocks which is double jointed screeched again, so I shifted weight to my thighs.

Patrick looked over at the microwave, which bore the weight of my painkillers, steroids, vitamins, fish oil, anti-inflammatories, and the homeopathic remedies from my father. I offered him some painkillers and homeopathic paste, and we quietly sat on the dining table eating the baked fruit with Greek yogurt.

"I feel sore." Patrick cracked his neck.

"Want a fish oil?"

"No, I had mine today," he replied, and licked vestiges of the homeopathic paste off his fingers.

We continued to chew silently.

"Patrick, careful with that paste, it will burn your skin if you have too much. Oh, also, did I tell you about my white hair?"

Patrick looked alarmed. "What? Where?"

I pulled back the hair from my right ear. "See? I'm not making this up!"

Patrick's face visibly contorted with fear. "Why don't you pull it out?!"

"I don't know, maybe I'll dye it purple. I wanted to do that when I turned 70, anyways."

"True."

We continued eating.

I think I've actually grown decrepit with this boy, but I don't mind it much.

"Rucha, what was that your father used to look younger? Turmeric?"

Chin up, darling

I walk past the same street vendor every morning on my way to Oren's. I never stop; I get my coffee,  I sip, I walk back to work, head down, lipstick smearing on the white plastic lid.


Thursday, I stopped. I was parched, exhausted, and saw the cooler filled with slightly muddied Poland Spring bottles as an oasis.


I picked one out. "How much?"


The vendor, an older balding Indian man with a dark maroon shirt, had been in deep conversation with the guy who hands out flyers for Cafe Basil. He started, and looked down at me. "One and one quarter."


With coffee in hand, I tried to balance my open wallet and water bottle, and after some fishing around handed him the money.


I smiled weakly, and turned to walk away, and he called out: "So, where you from?"


I expected the question. It's a standard greeting, the response to which can make or break your inclusion into the diaspora. I still hadn't yet had a sip of my coffee. I looked down at the brown cup, looked back up at his brown face, and then resigned. "India."


(I usually respond, "New Jersey," just to be a brat, but my brain had not yet thawed [it was 89 degrees out].)


"Oh!" And then he stopped speaking English and told me he saw me walking every day, back and forth, to and fro.


I was a bit lost, and almost dizzy. "Yes, well, um, I understand Hindi perfectly, I just cannot speak it very well."


He stopped. "I was speaking in Gujarati," which is the language my mother speaks. I blanched, took a few sips of my coffee, and could finally understand what he was saying.


He told me where he was from, where he grew up, asked me where I was from, what my father did for a living, what I did for a living. When I explained my job, he asked to confirm: "So, you can help people?"


I took another sip. "Yes."


His eyes widened. "Do you have card?"


"Yes," and I proceeded to balance once again my water, open wallet, and with coffee in one hand, handed him a business card.


"You know," he said in Gujarati, "I see you everyday. Every day you walk by fast, and you never see anyone."


I nodded politely.


"Too many thoughts," he said in English, "sometimes, too many thoughts so you cannot see around you."


I stopped nodding. 


"Sometimes, try to look up. Nothing to see on ground." He smiled. "See the world."

GroupThink

New York City is typically considered a metropolis of individuals, a community of distinct entities, each defined by a specific reservoir of values, perspectives, and frozen yogurt preferences (I like green tea and original swirl Pinkberry with mochi, mango, strawberry, and lychee, if it's summer).

However, New Yorkers may actually be subject to a psychological phenomenon that undermines the very notion of cosmopolitan individualism.

This morning, when I crossed over 42nd street on my way to work, I noticed an older, slightly greasy man with a large blue jacket racing to the other corner of the street. I double checked the walking sign, and saw that the "white man walking" or pedestrian green light was on, and that there was still another minute or so to leisurely cross the street. I rolled my eyes and looked back down at my shoes, which proved to be more interesting than Midtown East during rush hour.

In about two seconds, I felt a breeze by my left ear, and turned to see a woman in high heels, and two men with brief cases running (one of them inducing a slight asthmatic episode) towards the corner of the street now populated by the aforementioned greasier gentleman and a short man handing out flyers for a new Turkish restaurant.

I again checked the sign, and saw that pedestrians still had a very explicit "go." Literally, we had the green  light.

I then quickly checked behind me and saw several people, having taken note of the earlier joggers, make similar decisions to sprint across the street. A small Thai woman pushing a stroller jogged a bit to keep up with the older Mexican lady walking four dogs.

I was unsure as to what we were running, or from what we were running, but since everyone after the runners in suits seemed to follow suit, I presumed I was also expected to do the same.

So, I walked into the office with pit stains and a throbbing knee. My doctor has advised me against running, but in this situation, I felt I had no choice.

the higgs particle & other beginnings

Today, we are reborn.

And by "we," I mean me, you, Man, Matter. It's the Higgs Boson collision of Man is Matter, an explosion that will propel into creation a new vision of the world.

The curious, blurred vision of a little girl with three gray hairs and two left feet, and a strong affinity for spinach and thunderstorms.

Man is Matter originally formed to chronicle my adventures in London in the summer of 2009. I made observations about high tea and about British accents and about yellow tomatoes in Borough Market. I desperately recorded every moment, even the most mundane, hoping to hold on to every bit of London summer that the U.S. Border Patrol allowed.

When I returned to America, I found that my discoveries did not cease with the close of my summer travels, but that I continued to unearth treasures in the gullies of oblivion: the sterile, fluorescent aisles of Duane Reade, the rocky seats in front of the homemade ice cream parlor in Ridgewood, the open urinals in highways of Rajasthan.

When I could not leave my seat, I explored time, taste, touch and sometimes stuck out my tongue to check if it were raining. And when I had the opportunity to explore outside my own senses, I discovered mischief in the Dominican Republic and complex familial interactions in India. There were Mayan massages in Mexico and gray suits in Washington, DC. There was the man who sold $.75 coffee in the cart by my office, and the smiling blonde who sold $2.00 coffee at Oren's down the street.

Every day there was someone, there was something, of note.
And as with all things beautiful, I soon lost touch with the meaning of it all, with the meaning of discovery, forgot how rare it was to laugh on Tuesdays, to touch someone on a Wednesday afternoon, to figure out how you like your burgers cooked. The need to observe the world was reduced to an ephemeral phenomenon, something I did in my spare time, after I finished everything I was obliged to finish. I soon found myself searching for something I was missing, but searching in the wrong places, making futile attempts to move mountains, when all I needed to do was skip a rock into the river.



And, as the geographer told the Little Prince, I soon stopped recording life, because it became ephemeral, subsumed by the falsity of obligations and futures and responsibilities.

But it's precisely this quality, this "danger of a speedy disappearance," that prompts the Little Prince, and that has reminded me, to fall in love all over again.

I tasted the summer rain yesterday. My legs had goosebumps and my Calvin Klein flats landed in puddles and my hair formed its own sort of Indie-fro, but the rain tasted sweet, almost like warm milk and almonds and dates and peaches.

2009, when I tried desperately to claim all of London for my own, to grasp through slippery fingers a city that would forever evade me, is not unlike any other time, not unlike every other day.

So, once again, I shall desperately grab and clutch and scratch and fight, fight for a stillness and pause that will forever evade us.

I reclaim Man is Matter.

We're kickin it old school.

the perils of functioning in society

On St. Patrick's Day, I was infected with a terrible case of melancholy, as I allowed myself to be taken over by some existential angst and seeming warranted self-pity. I bought a green bagel with roasted red peppers, tomatoes, tofu cream cheese, and a large coffee, and sat celebrated the Irish through carbo-loading and "methods of reasoning" flashcards. The streets were teeming with green 20-somethings, and I found myself lost amid a sea of inebriated, swaying emerald on my way to hot yoga. I made my way through masses of joyous meatheads, and on my way back, I trudged through the same crowds, though the proportion of those still standing had slightly changed. As I sat by my window, slightly shaking from a raucousness reverberating through the thin walls of my new bedroom, I felt a profound sense of loss.

The following day, I woke up with a renewed perspective on my First World problems, most likely induced by a full night's sleep. I finished all my laundry, did extra hot yoga (along the lines of a double shot of espresso), and generally felt good about industriousness of the weekend (it had been a good green bagel). After my shower, I decided to take a stroll around my new neighborhood (i.e., head to the overpriced grocery store one block away). It was a particularly balmy evening, and I decided to dress to impress (myself), and wore my diamond earrings and my  yellow birthday scarf and my red lipstick.

I walked down 35th Street and caught some people staring at me. I noticeably turned away from the regard, to make a point about sexual equality, but I secretly thought, Rucha, you still got it. You got grey hair and you haven't seen daylight all weekend and you inexplicably smell like glass noodles, but you got it.

I walked into the grocery store and felt a slight breeze, the normal draft that follows a door opening.

People continued to stare. I continued to be falsely indignant, and clandestinely proud.

I had to itch my left leg (a continuation of the aforementioned First World problems), and so bent back and realized there was no fabric for me to scratch.

My whole skirt was tucked into my underwear.

People were still staring.

I did not still "got it." 

I officially lost it.

The Other Side of the Pillow

On the first business day of every month, I walk over to the Godiva store on Lexington Avenue and stare at the truffles behind the glass counter for about four minutes. I’m a rewards member, and so I’m entitled to a free truffle every month. The endless possibility of confectionery delight is simply daunting. I’ll stand with my right hip skewed, stretching my bottom lip with my thumb and index finger. I swish saliva through my teeth, in efforts to gain a profound understanding of exactly what I am craving. Sometimes, it’s the starfish with the raspberry filling, sometimes it’s the crème brulée dessert truffle, and sometimes it’s the caramel pecan praline, which is about the size of my face. I’ll pick out my one truffle, and the person behind the counter puts it in the token golden Godiva bag. If the chocolate is particularly arousing, I’ll nibble on it on the walk back to the office. The rare times I can resist a preemptive bite, I’ll head over to Oren’s, my favorite coffee spot, for another vanilla vice to accompany my monthly pleasure.

I’ll head back to the office, switch my Office Communicator status to “in a meeting,” and savor a few moments of blissful silence.

And then the phones start ringing, the bottom of my foot starts itching, and air conditioner starts blasting frigid wintery air into my graying head. (I’m officially at George Clooney status with my salt & pepper mane. No, really.) I lick off remnants of melted chocolate on my lips (and usually some on my elbow), and throw myself back into the game.

If I were to list the top ten most memorable moments of my entire life (quarter life crisis, bear with me), I’d probably forget to include the day I graduated from college (because I’m trying to block out the memory of smelling like a greasy pub on the day my “real life commenced”), or the day I learned to ride my bike (I might have crashed into an oak tree), or the day I got my license (I failed my driving test the first time). I might consider including the day I started threading my eyebrows, but the pain of that day might be better forgotten. And I'd probably prefer to leave out the day I realized the Freshman Fifteen really does exist. No, world, it's not a mythical monster under your bed.

I might list the night my sister and I watched Fast Five in theaters; it was the first of many later viewings of this movie, and inspired our South American travel plans (and pending nuptials with Paul Walker). I might also think about the time my mom and I got coffee at the Ridgewood Coffee Co., where we drank from real mugs and ate some sort of unremarkable pastry that tasted extraordinary because we shared it. There was also the time before my Sweet Sixteen when my father and I would practice our father-daughter dance in the kitchen; he would usually trip on my feet, and I would usually giggle uncontrollably, and I’m not sure if we ever improved. There was the time in college when my best friend followed me to the library in his socks, just so he could chat and say, “hi.” There was the time another one of my best friends and I sat in Central Park for hours on end, making observations about people and ourselves and the world, and trying out new ways of sitting, like “frog sit.” The moment my sister got into college was probably one of the happiest of my life; I could actually taste adrenaline in my mouth. The year before, I realized my (potentially far reaching) dreams of being a dancer were rendered obsolete by my arbitrary knee condition. It was my growing up (old lady) moment. There was the moment in India when my fellow Yatris and I thought we were going to be run over by a herd of stampeding bull. I had my moment of clarity last month, as well as my moment of confusion last year when Ricky Martin came out (I thought we all knew he was gay?)

Recently, I found out that a pillow which perpetually emits the sensation of “the other side of the pillow” was invented.

Feeling the calming coolness of the other side of the pillow immediately after it’s flipped in the middle of the night, is an ephemeral, and forever desired, pleasure. It’s that sensation of peace that touches your skin, allays the fears creasing your temples, and softens the blow of nightmarish realities pervading your senses. And with this invention, it would last forever.

I think I just found moment 11.

very good bad day

Sometimes, days are just plain terrible. The universe decides to work against you for 24 hours, and so the same day your hair is puffy is the same day your dog dies or your heart breaks, which inevitably coincides with the day your boss actually notices you walking in late in your less-than-business-casual torn Converse to mark the occasion.

A few days ago, I decided to return to my 5:30 AM workouts, in a move to to restore a sense of order and sanity in my life, (a move which conveniently followed a moment of angst last week when my favorite black jeans tore as I made futile attempts to pull them up and over my increasingly large behind). I returned from the Iron Yoga class feeling a bit weak, most likely because I returned from my three week hiatus only to use the wrong weights (the heavier ones) throughout class. I decided to make some eggs and coffee for me and Manu.

My parents woke up and filed into the cold kitchen. My father leaned over my mediocre egg production and sighed. His latest hobby is making elaborate, gourmet meals of restaurant quality, and my omelet did not seem to cut it. I ran out of time, and so made the omelet into scrambled eggs, much to his dismay, and my mother muttered something about my ability to survive in the real world. (Not sure why people in the real world can't just eat scrambled eggs.)

I scarfed down my meal and ran into the shower, where I slipped on a bar of rose soap.

I then ran into the kitchen to grab some bananas, for even in my haste to make the train I knew I needed to start saving money (the world is ending in 2012, so I need to buy some flashlights). As I ran into the kitchen, my mother handed me a hot cup of coffee. I told her I didn't have time to drink it, and she looked utterly crestfallen. I poured it into a thermos, and with my new magenta ear muffs sliding up to my forehead, my bananas sticking out of my coat pockets, and my purse wide open and dispersing receipts and chocolate wrappers on the ground, I ran with my thermos of steaming coffee to the car. My sister was waiting at the wheel. "Ready?" I looked at her, and was about to nod yes, until I yelped. "My phone!!"

She had begun to slowly reverse, and then stopped. "Go."

I ran back into the house, threw my gloves on the counter so I could adeptly search for my phone. It ended up being in my jewelry box, so I grabbed a pair of earrings with my phone, and ran back downstairs. I left my gloves on the counter, so that by the time I reached the train station, my hands had become brown icicles.

I had missed my train, and I didn't have enough cash to go to the French bakery next door.

As I waited twenty minutes for the next train, I sifted through my personal mail for anything interesting. I was hoping for a love letter or an invitation to Hollywood, but instead saw Merriam Webster's Word of the Day (yes, I'm a word nerd. And I'm proud of my subscriptions.)

The word of the day was swivet.

Swivet means a fluster or panic or extreme state of agitation.

Rucha flew into a swivet as she was an hour late for work, could not feel her frozen and sore extremities, and smelled like a sweaty rose with coffee breath.

I smiled (to myself, of course. Lunacy is in the eyes of the beholder.)

I had learned a new word.

my mother's first American date

My mother crashed my date two weeks ago. [take a moment to let that sink in.] It had been a beautiful night. The June heat was tempered by soft zephyrs, and New York was in a good, celebratory mood. I watched the confluence of naked cowboys and tourists with fanny packs and locals with furrowed brows, as I sat at the Rockefeller fountain eating a Magnolia cupcake--with my friend to my left and my mother to my right.

There was much logistical deliberation that day. I was to get dinner with an old friend (who shall remain anonymous for the sake of his reputation and sanity) and my mother was going to visit her sister in the city. My aunt and uncle had come for a physician's conference, and had an event at 6. My mother said she would meet me after work so we could ride the bus home together. I told her I could meet up with her after having dinner with my friend, and my aunt suggested my mother stay in the hotel room for a couple of hours to relax, nap, watch TV, until I was ready. It seemed like a solid plan.

My cousin and his girlfriend came up to the city. My mother felt out of place, and wanted to give them some privacy. She does not like to impose on young people, has always believed in the "live and let live" mantra--which is why she left my cousin and his girlfriend to hang out with my friend and me.

I had barely dug into my smorgasbord of spinach, sriracha, and tofu before I got my mother's first text. She must have initially thought she would feign composure, and asked me, "Ruch, what's going on?" I didn't respond right away, and within twelve seconds I got four consecutive messages from her, each exponentially more desperate than the next. The truth finally came out. She said she wouldn't even mind walking to where I was, so I wouldn't have to take the trouble to get her.

For my mother, anything. It's never trouble. And this case was no different. I was surged with a sense of familial protection, and explained the situation to my friend. I assumed he'd be disappointed, or would want to part ways after dinner, but instead he shrugged and smiled. "I love Mrs. Desai. She's a great woman. I'd love to see her."

And that's when the sense of duty to my mother turned into gastro-intenstinal discomfort. I clearly envisioned the way the next hour would come to pass. I texted my mother, informing her that my friend wanted to come say, "hi." She ignored my information, and continued to pursue my whereabouts. I would provide her with my ETA, and reiterated that I was with my friend but she seemed unabashed. She then called me, telling me she didn't have her reading glasses on and it was easier for her to call me rather than text.

In fairness to my mother, she was in a tough, awkward position. She was trying to give my cousin and his girlfriend time to themselves, trying to give the next generation the opportunity to come into its own, and unintentionally gave me a coronary whilst destroying any perception of cool anyone had of me. The night hadn't turned out the way she had planned, and she felt perpetually uncomfortable and out of place.

Poor thing.

In all fairness to me, my mother should wear her reading glasses.

After we got cupcakes, we met my mother across the street. Her face noticeably changed as her eyes darted from me to my friend. Her face flushed. My friend and my mother exchanged the usual niceties, hugged, she noticed his change in height and he noticed her change in weight, and then everyone sat down by the fountain. I assumed my mother was hungry so I gave her half of my cupcake. I wasn't sure why they were both willingly present. My mother seemed frozen to her concrete seat, clicking away at her blackberry, finally comprehending the messages I sent her. My friend was a good sport, and engaged my mother in discussions on our high school friends, his new job, New York City life. I stuffed my face with cupcake, so I could be relieved of the obligation to speak.

I still felt bad at how terribly the night had turned out for my mother, as I was still too numb from shock to realize how horrifying the night had turned out for me, and for my friend nonetheless. So, as we were walking to Port Authority, I constantly reached back, trying to grab my mother's hand to give her solace. She wanted to give me privacy, and so would not meet my hand, prompting me to reach back even further. My friend was walking slightly ahead of me, and so I was looking ahead, trying to match his enthusiasm as I internally combusted. I was therefore walking sideways, with my chest facing the street. I walked like that for three avenues.

We took the bus back to Ridgewood. Together. Before we got on the bus, my mother had begged me, in Gujarati, to sit with my friend, and apologized profusely for ruining my night, and his, especially. I told her not to worry; I had of course planned on sitting with him, and she had ruined my entire life, not just my night. She then slept soundly in the front, as we chatted in the back.


My mother's first date was almost twenty five years ago, when she got ice cream with my father. Soon after, they got engaged; and the history of my existence thus ensued. The comfort and stability of marriage gradually settled in, and the thrill of adventure and ice cream parlors subsided. About 21 years into the relationship, my parents decided to spice things up. They bought Optimum for our home, so they could see a free movie every Tuesday night. It's usually the 7:00 show, but it hasn't always been a successful endeavor. Sometimes, my father comes home from work too late and collapses on the couch--shoes, shirt, half-eaten bowl of lentils and all. Other times, my mother falls asleep in the movie theater. It's free, so she never feels like she wasted money.


I guess my mother had just needed a change.


As I was getting off the bus, I apologized again for the way the night turned out, and my friend reassured me, "Don't worry about it, Rucha; next time, I'll bring my mother."