Naggin Queen

I have been told the French were even more Jerman than the Germans. Naturally, my tender feelings have been injured and I have come to the conclusion that the only thing for me to do is to instantly pull up a couple of ferocious complaints. As luck would have it, this has to be the day when I am so content with life that I am beginning to suspect my wedded husband may have slipped something into my tea today morning. 8|

But never you fear, Frenchmen. I cannot bring myself to babble about any of the current news items, so I write instead about an article in a not-so-fresh edition of OUTLOOK magazine: A fat lot of trouble. It’s about the fat youth of India. I’m only mildly interested in the younger generations weight struggles, but the very first sentence strikes me as somewhat odd.

Burger-fattened youth should watch out.

What do you mean by that, Amba Batra Bakshi? Should the samosa-fattened youth not look out?

I cannot perceive the reason why Indians would stubbornly believe that the evil ingredient responsible for their ever-expanding waist size was the burger they shove into their mouth once a fortnight. It’s not the aloo-stuffed paratha or puri for breakfast, the samosa for brunch or the Malai Kofta for lunch. Don’t suspect the innocent sugar-chai with pakodas for tea and never ever fear detrimental consequences from your 11pm dinner. It’s the AlooMcTikki you had three weeks ago that’s to blame. |-|

Quite so.

I peddled burgers once. It was my student’s job and I loved it, because it filled the otherwise useless time-gap between school and party. Another burger-pimp’s perk is the free grease you can load into your belly, which means that I had at least one burger per shift. Plus extras. It was the most unhealthy, splendid time ever, and yet my figure was only slightly less splendid and unexceptional as it is today. That’s because I used to cycle back home. And my morrow started with a bowl of Bircher, not puri-subzi.

In India, oil can be purchased in tanks of 10 litres and I can’t help but snicker with unbecoming naughtiness when some voluptuous woman pulls a heavy tank into her shopping cart already laden with such feists of ingenuity as Moong Dal, Aloo Burji and a can of rasgullah. Very Very oily oily tasty tasty. And yet it is the burgers and the pizza that have done in the Indian kid. Some sort of nasty post-colonial strike below at the belt.

Maybe people need to realize that the traditional food isn’t made for the office-chair-fatiguing class of people. Unless you work out (in the field or the gym) you’re not supposed to stuff your mouth with that fatty food all the time. But then… go blame it on the alien food since the indigenous stuff couldn’t possibly be at fault. Or could it?
Though I cook Indian food almost daily, our oil usage does not exceed 2liters per six months. And yet it’s tasty. At least, with the exception of a pretty blue little plant I purchased only two weeks ago, I haven’t killed anyone yet. Not even with my food.

Hmmmm I am getting a very pleasant tingling sensation from nagging about totally useless topics important matters concerning all of humanity. No wait, actually, I’m hungry…