Betty bought some butter

It was the morning after my night of resolutions. Every two months or so, I introspect, find my life devoid of meaning, and realise that the secret to a healthy existence, is learning to make candlesticks, or ravioli.

Amma always has her fight face on everytime I enter the kitchen with a determined look on my face. She’s the kind of person who has this little black book where she jots down all your previous misdeeds so she’ll never forget. And there aren’t so many really. There was the time I blew up the mixie, but that was my sisters’ fault for not supervising a kid. And then there was the time we melted chocolate on the stove and it had to be professionally cleaned...ok, so its not exactly a little black book.

My skills in the kitchen are limited to an excellent malai kofta curry, and a delicious chocolate sponge cake. But that, I maintain, is only because I haven’t tried making anything else. And like any other obnoxious, stubborn 18 year old, I am confident that anything I want to do, will be a piece of cake. Or in todays case, an omelette.

Being the obnoxious, stubborn 18 year old, it is obviously highly frustrating when people try telling me what to do. Whatever happened to creativity and experimentation? And why should I follow kitchen rules, when noone listens to mine? I have quite a few actually. Like cookie dough must be sampled by dipping fingers into the bowl before baking, pretty aprons must be worn, and under no circumstances is the cook supposed to clean up once the dish is done.

Amma is sort of unreasonable that way. She doesn’t respect artistic temperament at all. Creative minds can’t focus on one thing for too long, there are statistics somewhere on wikipedia to prove that. And even if you aren’t remotely imaginative, how are you supposed to remain interested in an egg for more than 15 minutes?

This was no ordinary egg I was dealing with though. If I lived in a cartoon, this would be the egg with the closely knit eyebrows and the red slits for eyes.

Needless to say, my efforts resulted in something which did taste like an omelette, even if it didn’t look like it. Perhaps with a little less salt that usual.

I think the capsicum pieces were supposed to be in the omelette too.

Amma said she wasn’t feeling too hungry.

Abstractness

Forgiving and forgetting, that was all she was doing lately. Inking in stubs of memories into her existence, mulling over what ifs that would at times overwhelm her. She looked at her reflection, running her fingers through her freshly washed hair, as memories danced in and out of her eyes.

Dwelling on the past was dangerous. Weren't there enough poems written by the sad and wise? Enough cliched quotes she had read in her lifetime?

Perfection had seemed such an amiable concept when she was younger. The blind confidence that everything would fall into place, that she would get exactly what she wanted one day, perhaps with a bit of a struggle in between.

But that would be too simple, wouldn't it?

Thoughts were getting entangled, yet she knew there was just one thread she needed to find that would smoothen it out. It was all about will power in the end. And that was something she needed to depend only on herself for.

She smiled as she penned it down.

"The secret to happiness was discovered on a warm Tuesday afternoon, in a room filled with old sports equipment and posters of classic rock artists."

Entirely fictional

Blur

I’m in the midst of confusion, but there is this profound sense of calm. Like I am watching as an outsider while I’m sitting right in the middle.

The thing that gets to me about people is that what we say and what we mean are almost always completely different. And sometimes, I get so tired. Because most of the time, I can figure out what people really want to say, and once in a while, you’d rather immerse yourself in blissful ignorance.