7.

"I’m a baker because brownies attract quality men." said a wise baker once. It is true, you know. I have attracted many a quality boy with my brownie baking skills. You pull out the pan form the oven and they instantly swarm at you like ants. You bring out a big pot of stew, bake up some warm hearty bread and melt some cheese on top, and you have the boy twirled around your fingers like you had your hair when you were initially making eyes at him.

But vodka white boy isn't so particular about food. I don't understand. I think he's wired weird. He likes my particular brand of hummus, though. And root beer floats. So atleast something's right.

But I am officially lost. Without food, I have nothing in my arsenal that will snag a boy. Boys are supposed to like medhu vadai and aloo paratha and warm pies. I had done my research. I even had specific instructions for what to feed your favorite boy on dinner date, and what to feed him when you wake up with said boy in your bed the next morning.

[Disclaimer] Amma, I have never woken up with a boy in my bed. Never. I swear on your rasam podi recipe, I haven't. Except for the numerous cousins with whom I shared the floor during all those summer vacations at paati's house; and they don't count. [End disclaimer]

I don't get to see  vodka for 4 weeks now, after which I am making him dinner. He had better swoon. Although, if he does the dishes, I will forgive him for not being insanely in love with everything chocolate. Instantly.

6.

You know the feeling when you're eating a grilled cheese, and a blob of cheese gets caught in your teeth, and you taste it and think "this is the perfect kind for Mac and Cheese" and you can't wait to finish the sandwich and move on to using that very same cheddar to make a pan of the most deliciously cheesy mac-n-cheese with nothing more than pasta, cheese, milk and mustard; and you are so caught in that thought that you can actually taste it in the back of your throat and that taste travels to your tongue and is so perceivable that you are no longer chewing on the piece of toastie that is actually in your mouth, but instead on a mouthful of chewy gooey cheesy macaroni?

I just had that feeling.

5. The Yogurt Test

Talking to your close friends about what you want in your partner is very important. Not so that one of them can become your partner (although that would be awesome, no?) but because it allows you to discover things about yourself, and change your expectations accordingly.

Until very recently, I used to think the deal breaker in a dude for me would be his inability to cook. Say what you may, but there is something about a man who can cook. Put an apron on those hips, boys, and they will instantly camouflage that beer gut and those love handles. Forget those free weights and learn to flip a pancake instead. I'm not saying it will get you everywhere, but it ups your hotness quotient very much. Mince a garlic pod while whistling an IR paatu, or saute an onion while strumming an air guitar to a rock song in between; and I will not care that you are a poor grad student with no money. That's not to say that any dude who can cook is immediately mate material, but if you can't it definitely gets you off the list.

Recently though, very recently, this was challenged. Not by any one dude in particular, but conversations with a friend gradually caused me to arrive there. And we weren't even talking about boys. We were talking about how the yogurt became runny once you dip a spoon into it. That immediately set me off into how the protein structure collapses once you cut into it, allowing the whey to ooze out. And me, being me, did not stop there. I continued on to the science behind how yogurt sets, how the various protein and fat concentrations and ratios affect how thick it is and how the temperature affects the process. I was in the process of elucidating why yogurt can never accurately represent the tang of true buttermilk, when said friend got up and walked away. Simply got up, and walked away.

Now, don't read too much into it, me and this person are still great friends, just that we never talk about yogurt (or anything that can set me off on a nerd ramble) much. It does not matter. We need not have those conversations. Our relationship does not demand it. But a dude I want as a boyfriend, a lover, a spouse needs to be able to do this. I mean, I understand that the vodka distillation process doesn't make for good pillow talk, but if you can't keep up with me on that, there will be no pillow talk to get to.

So keep this in mind, boys who are trying to woo me - yes all none of you - you will have to pass the yogurt test. Start studying.

4.

I am becoming total Rouwsu Raajalatchimi. It is oddly liberating. Like setting free my inner goddess. Or something.

Someone told me they did not think I was the vijay padam watching dappakoothu listening type. I totally am. The url of this blog is "vadaporsche" for god's sake! Full gethu.

It is amusing how easily people believe the facades you put up, without even realizing that you are all in a masquerade.

But what is the real you? What you are? Or what everyone sees you as? You know, "you cannot see the complete picture when you are part of it" and "you need a mirror to show you what you are" and all that. If you are able to show different facets of yourself to different people, does that not make you the elephant that the blind men tried to see? Speaking of, the story says the blind men went into a dark room to feel the elephant. One, "feeling" the elephant sounds a bit... perverse. Two, if they are blind, why the dark room? Or was it just men trying to "feel" and elephant in a dark room? Which is worse, no? Pornographic redundancy only that story is. Periya philosophical parable am.

So, in short, I called you a phoney and an elephant. See? Rouwsu Raajalatchimi. Total fun it is being that. Err, being me.

3.

It is too bad that it had to end. You and I were very good. Six years is a long time together. Too bad we only got to spend three of those actually together.

I love the way you talk on stage. I love the way you say "fair enough". I love the way your eyes disappear into horizontal slits when you smile. I love the way you try to pass off Malayalam as Tamil. And I love the fact that you could never say "urulakizhangu" right. Nobody sang "bekaraar karke humein" to me. Ever. Except you. And nobody dared to make fun of my Amman koil red dress. Except you.

If only we had had more time in each others arms. If only you hadn't put your career before me three years ago. If only you didn't put your "duties" before me now. If only you had asked me what kind of house I wanted to build. If only you had asked where I wanted to live. What if I had decided to play it by your terms? What if I hadn't moved away? What if I had been the marrying kind? If. Like you always used to say. If.

It is too bad that it had to end. You and I were very good. Six years is a long time together. Too bad we cannot add more years to that.

2. Vodka. And the white boy

What can I say, I love both very much.

Three of the first, and one of the second later, I'm seeing similarities.  You see, like vodka, your average local amru boy manges to deliver the kick. There is romance and deliberate but unfilmy wooing involved. He can be old world charming without being chauvinistic. And he makes you pancakes for dinner. With chocolate chips, mind.

And like vodka, you need additives for some flavor. He may be the Humphrey Bogart that you could swoon for, but he can never be the guy who quotes Goundamani. He maybe able to understand cultural significances of Bharatnaatyam, but he will never understand dappankoothu. After another round of vodka, I realize that even if he can pull off "you had me at hello", he can never - *never*- say vada poche.

And that, pasangala, is why I am coming back to you. Embrace me with open arms and a Vijai paatu, won't you?

1.

" I wish I could just sleep until I was eighteen and skip all this crap-high school and everything-just skip it." 

"Do you know who Marcel Proust is?"

"He's the guy you teach." 

"Yeah. French writer. Total loser. Never had a real job. Unrequited love affairs. Gay. Spent 20 years writing a book almost no one reads. But he's also probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. Anyway, he uh... he gets down to the end of his life, and he looks back and decides that all those years he suffered, Those were the best years of his life, 'cause they made him who he was. All those years he was happy? You know, total waste. Didn't learn a thing. So, if you sleep until you're 18... Ah, think of the suffering you're gonna miss. I mean high school? High school-those are your prime suffering years. You don't get better suffering than that."