..the maids and the cook are on indefinite leave. While this would have been perfectly acceptable with me had I had carte blanche to order in from the plethora of newly sprung up restaurants in the neighbourhood, the tragedy is that the husband is now on a healthy eating binge and insists on homecooked food. The mother in law has no hands left, considering even my honest to goodness attempts at straight forward dal and rice result in the dal being oversalted and the rice being overcooked. To add to my grief, the driver has also taken off to his village for the Ganapati festivals. I feel orphaned. Have now resolved to keep fulltime help in the new house. My careful french manicure has gone the way of chronic nailbiters with chewed to the rim nails, which have actually broken off thanks to the infinite scrubbing that accumulates each day. Has anyone ever realised how many vessels we Indians use for a simple dish. Take dal. The simplest you can get. One to cut and wash in, one to boil in (the cooker) and the third to do the tadka in. Three vessels to scrub. Have invested in ready to make meals which were promptly junked by the MIL, who rightly claimed they were potents of Satan, infested with additives and preservatives which would do nasty things to our bloodstreams. I sobbed fat tears as I saw my Parampara Chicken Makhani go into the gloop of our wet waste-dry waste bin.
Anyway, the latest status on the home interiors is that husband and I have decided we need a mediator between the two of us, since we had come close to signing on the divorce papers over a wall cabinet, so an interior designer has been called in who is asking us to pay more than what we paid for the damn house to do it up. The husband is in a right funk, considering the man has shown him dreams of gold leaf ceilings and carved marble statues of Greek goddesses as pillars, while I am being the voice of reason and practicality and insisting we reuse as much of our old furniture as we can. Therefore, the impasse. Left to me, we would have had low ethnic seating, and lots of beautiful artifacts all around. Left to the brat, all the artefacts would be flung from floor 15 into the wonderfully landscaped playarea cum garden that the house looks out on, and clunked a gardener into oblivion. I have now settled for a do what you want with the house but I need grills on every balcony status. The other day when we were making a casual drop in to check a leaky tap, the brat managed to unlock a balcony and siddle in, chortling in glee. My heartbeats havent been the same since.
On a lighter note, read somewhere that muscle weighs more than fat. Therefore I am all muscle. Chew on that.