I must mention at the outset that I am a foodie, I come from a family of foodies and the only subject that interests me beyond cricket is food.
I love to eat, I live to eat. Blessed with a constitution which seldom piles on the pounds except for fatty deposits in the middle, I don’t watch the starch, the carbohydrates or the calories.
I believe that looking seven months pregnant actually reeks of prosperity even if you are not, particularly when the stomach enters the room before you.
So I wake up every morning and the first thought that enters my mind is what to do for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
This is no easy task, mind you. You have to carefully select what is best for the day. You must check the weather conditions, forecast on the hour, ponder on the condition of the digestive system and scour the brain for a new recipe to excite the palate and satisfy the soul.
Then one has to weigh on whether to pander the stomach with flesh or God’s own greens and veg. This is an issue of utmost importance because past records have to be studied for eating patterns before striking some sort of a balance.
However, I do have a confession to make. Sadly, I suffer from selective sickness when it comes to eating. It is a quirk which began age one-and-a-half with curds and has continued until this day.
I have expounded before on the demerits of that smelly, white ludicrous thing and how I detest it. But there are other exceptions to the rule too.
I am extremely ashamed to say this but I cannot eat meat off the bone. Somehow, somewhere it has made a deep impact on me. It’s not that I don’t order the meat with bone, but whenever I do I just pick the flesh off the plate, no bone in the mouth please.
I have been told numerous times that I am missing something exceptional but I do not regret one bit. Whenever I even think of venturing into it, a picture of the Neanderthal man savaging a huge piece of meat, bone and all, rises before my eyes.
I can’t get rid of that. I will consult a psychiatrist on this subject. I am sure it is something to do with my childhood, probably linked to history lessons, shyness, animal instinct, sex or some Freudian explanation.
That’s not all. I don’t eat pork as I have heard their squealing when being hunted.
Though I did fancy red meat at one time but have slowly cut it off the diet due to vulgar visions of their hooked up carcasses being displayed in meat shops.
There was also another reason for it. A few friends of mine from Iran, with whom I spent many a night playing cards, told me to stay on for a special breakfast. All the foodie instincts came to the fore and thoughts of this Iranian delicacy made the tongue alert with anticipation.
They did not tell me anything other than it takes five hours to cook. As the Sun peeped through in the morning, a cooker was brought to the table and a plate put in front of me.
Lo and behold, I was offered the choice of a skull, bone marrow, tongue, eyes, feet and brain of a goat. The dish was cooked in water with loads of lime. That’s it and nothing else.
I was totally shocked. It looked repulsive but I was assured that it tasted good. So out of decency, I opted for the tongue and chewed on it a bit. Rather raw and rubbery it was. I somehow finished it but had to throw up later.
The other day, I was snacking with another foodie friend at an Iranian joint, on a rather delicious shawarma. After having dissected Arabian food to the last chick pea, this friend suddenly got the urge to have a tongue sandwich.
I am glad to report that this friend is alive and well and claims to have actually relished the chewy thing. Oh well….