The next time you plan to renovate the only bathroom you have in your apartment, consider these options:

1. Please stay in a hotel;

2. Stay with friends/ neighbors/relatives;

3. Take a vacation and travel somewhere;

4. Did I mention – stay in a hotel?

Whatever you decide to do, please do not decide to use the kitchen as a bathroom.  That sort of thinking should usually disappear at age 3.   If you are even thinking about it seriously, you need to see a therapist.  Since you live in NYC, you can find one in every block, right beside the Starbucks.

If you are going to do something this gross, though, please don’t tell the world about it.   Please DO NOT write an article in the NYT about how to soap yourself while showering in a storage box.  Or even worse, about pouring your urine down the kitchen sink. I really don’t want to know. Yes, really.  I’m sure the rest of NYT’s readers too, would rather live out their lives without this information.

(Although, tell your landlady.  Any person who plans to lease the apartment next might be very interested).

Bathtub in a Box - Pic courtesy New York Times/Tony Cenicola

Dear New York Times,

1. What were you thinking?

2.  Did you think this article was

(a) educational ?

(b) funny ?

(c) interesting ?

3.  If this is going to be a regular feature, what will you publish next on these lines?   I cannot even begin to imagine.

Just so you know, I like to read your newspaper over my morning tea, and I also like to read it without gagging.

It looks like I now have to choose between the Times and my tea.

I heard your circulation is decreasing every year.  I wonder why?

It wasn’t not too late for snow, admittedly, snow has been known to occur in these parts even in May.  But Spring was well on its way, with the crocuses long bloomed and spent, and tulips blooming along my driveway.  The lilacs too, were blooming in profusion, spreading a fresh fragrance that made everyone who passed by to stop and smell them. That meant the new neighbor (who fell in love with them and bought a few lilac plants herself) and the neighbor’s dog (which presumably showed its appreciation by not peeing on the tree).

My Lilac tree in full bloom

Perhaps I hadn’t had enough snowfall last winter?  Just the two or three Snowmageddons weren’t enough? The two feet of snow that greeted us after a Christmas vacation and took weeks to clear out completely? The snow that made us succumb and buy a huge, gas guzzling snowthrower this year? How could I be wishing for snow?

Yet, there I was, rather disappointed to find that it wasn’t a snowflake but a winged weed – a dandelion seed that was winging its way across the window, poised to seed my garden with hundreds of beautiful yellow weeds.

After that, the temperature seesawed – first it rose all the way to the mid-nineties, then it plummeted to the forties on some days.  We didn’t get snow, but we also didn’t get a real Spring.

Now it’s officially summer, but I am hoping we will still get a few days of Spring.  I am wishing for temperatures in the sixties or seventies.  Anything, I think, but the dog days of mid-summer.

In the fall, I am sure, as I realize winter is approaching, I will look back fondly on summer days when the garden was in full bloom.

What was it Shelley said about looking before and after (and pining for what is not)? He must have read this post.

Judging by the various projectiles you are hurling at me, I realize it may not be such a good idea to mention temperatures.

So let’s talk flowers.   The crocus bulbs I planted 2 years ago (and gave up on last year) finally decided to show up.  This was completely unexpected, as not a single one of them had even put out shoots last year.  No doubt they had a midwinter meeting under the mulch where they all decided to grow this year.  The flowers seem to last only a few days, though, so I missed most of them.  Here is one I did catch in full bloom:

The crocuses were an unexpected bonus, but there were more surprises.  Do you remember last year’s tulips? I had not expected them to come up again this year, but they seem to have other ideas.   They have all come out in full force, and have even started blooming.  Other flowers too, you’ll notice, are blooming in my lawn – dandelions.  I need to bring out the weed killer spray.

The tulips and crocuses are lovely surprises, but what about the daffodils I planted last year? I worried all through winter that my resident voles would have the bulbs for winter dinners.  I was sure I’d see mini campfires at night and voles singing voleheartedly while they feasted.

But the voles have disappeared.  No lawn circles this year, and no bulb feasts either, as far as I can see.   Still, the daffodils are taking their time.  It’s amazing how fast some of them have grown, while there are others which are just piercing the mulch.

Here’s one of the early blooms.  As you can see from a look at the lower petal of this flower, the insects, at least are already in force.

So that’s the latest news from the Garden Update Dept.  I will post more pictures of the backyard perennial bed later.  And then there is the tomato forest that is overtaking the basement.  I am sure I can soon start shooting documentaries for National Geographic and Discovery in my basement.  Doubtless there are all kinds of animals hiding in that tomato forest.

When I set off on vacation, my mind was still on the house, at least until I reached the airport. I didn’t worry about whether I had locked the front door, or whether I had switched off the gas. I worried about more improbable events, like whether a sudden severe thunderstorm would flood my basement, or whether I was wise to leave my dishwasher running – what if it suddenly decided to malfunction and flood my kitchen?

Flooding, as you can see, figured strongly in my worries. Lack of water did not.  So I certainly didn’t worry about my plants. I was leaving my plants for more than a week without water. Most of those plants were tender seedlings, and yet I did not worry.

In fact, in my mind, I had it all planned out. I didn’t have high hopes that my seedlings would survive anyway.

When I first announced to my friend A that I had bought 2 packs of tomato seeds, she was shocked.

“How many seeds did you buy?” she asked.

“Oh, one has 20 seeds of hybrid tomatoes, and the other has probably a hundred seeds of cherry tomatoes”, I said airily.

“Oh my god, don’t plant all of them!” she implored urgently. “Every single one of them will grow!”

This looked like a very good scenario, but I was less hopeful.  “No, not with my skills and my luck” ,  I assured her.  “I am sure half the seeds will never germinate, and then most of the seedlings will die mysteriously, and then there is always the good chance that I will forget to water them for a few days.  Given all this, I am assuming probably 2% of the seeds will survive.”

It was in this spirit that I set off for vacation.

I had planted the twenty hybrid seeds in individual seed containers.  The packet had promised twenty seeds, but I found there were actually twenty two seeds.  And the hundred or so cherry tomato seeds I just strew in a tray.  All these sat in my basement, near the large glass doors that brought in plenty of sunlight.

The seedlings came up  a few days before I left.  I watered whenever I remembered, and then, of course, they were on their own.

So when I came back, I had a good idea what to expect.  There would be a famine in my basement, I knew, and I would see some malnourished plants, and some unfortunate deaths.

But what do I find instead?  Rows and rows of healthy seedlings which seemed to have not missed me at all.  Beside them, the hibiscus shrub had even put out flowers!  You could see that not only was there no famine, the plants were probably partying in my absence.

This was very upsetting.  Now, I can understand if those tomato seedlings didn’t want to die, even though that upsets all my percentage probability plans.  I can even go so far as to forgive them for it.  But  couldn’t they have had the good grace to droop, or wilt, or look just a little uncomfortable?

Do they have to look fresh and cheerful, and put out multiple leaves?  Do they all have to germinate?

At a glance, I could see that twenty one of the twenty two hybrid tomatoes had come up.  This was awful.  But I also found myself wondering what had happened to the twenty second seed.   I was vaguely disappointed it hadn’t come up as well, but on the whole I was inclined to like it for staying away.

A few days later, when I started replanted the seedlings in larger pots, I found the twenty second one too – there were two seedlings in one container.  (Can you spot the container with 2 seedlings in the picture? Tell me which one it is. )

Then there are the hundred cherry tomato seedlings.  Yes, all those seeds have germinated too, or at least that’s what it looks like – I have certainly not tried counting them.  My basement now resembles a miniature tomato forest.

But I am fortunate for now – they are still seedlings.  I wonder how I am going to be able to manage them when they grow older.  Will I need a hundred and twenty two pots for the tomatoes?  How long before they outgrow the pots?  I am having anxiety attacks already.

There’s nothing else to be done, I will need to dig a vegetable patch for them in the backyard.

Folks, it looks like Twisted Ankle and Busted Back will be back in action this summer.

I screwed the cap back on and re-started the shredder. Nothing.? The shredder still did not work.? I adjusted the placement, I switched plug points,? I tried shaking the shredder (that’s a high-tech maneuver, I will have you know) and nothing happened.

“It must have clogged up with paper”, R said.? So I patiently removed every strip of paper I could see with a tweezer.? The shredder now looked cleaner than it had ever been in its entire life.

Shredders have no gratitude, or at least this one doesn’t.? It still didn’t utter a single sound.

I gave up.? The shredder was dead.? My research on the internet led to forums where people discussed how shredders like the model I had were great, but only lasted a few years.? Our shredder was three years old.? In shredder years, that was probably old age.

Weeks went by without a shredder and meanwhile, the junk mail was accumulating.? So we decided to buy a new shredder, and a different model at that.? The stores seemed to all have huge shredders – behemoths that promised to shred twenty sheets of paper in one go without reading even a single page.? I disliked them intensely, they reminded me of magazine editors.

I came home to my faithful but dead shredder and decided to start one last resuscitation attempt.? There were two miniscule, almost microscopic bits of paper attached to one end of the shredder, and I wanted to take them out too, hoping that would make the shredder start.

Reason told me this was a complete waste of time.? The microscopic paper bits weren’t even blocking anything.? But I pressed on anyway, and this time I grabbed a knife from the countertop.

The knife still had turmeric stains on it from a turmeric rhizome I had cut.? I grimaced and considered washing it, before deciding it didn’t matter. This was only going to take a second anyway.

I scraped at the paper and the little bit came out.? As I watched, a tiny flake of turmeric flew out from the knife and landed lazily on the shredder blades.

I placed the shredder cover back in place, and for some reason, I gave it a pat on its head.

The shredder started working.

I cannot believe it was those minute shards of paper.? I cannot believe it was the pat – I’ve done worse to it during these last few weeks.

That leaves me with only one possible reason – it must have been the turmeric.? We have heard of turmeric’s healing properties, but did you know it could heal shredders too ?

I know you are going to argue that it was those microscopic bits of paper.? I refuse to believe that.

It must have been the turmeric.

It is still early in the day, and the sun has not worked up enough heat.? Summer is almost over, this is the last weekend of summer. Soon the phlox and the gaillardia will stop putting out their showy blooms.? But the deweeding continues, and the removal of spent flowers, and planting new plants now that the sun is no longer fierce and the ground is still warm.

Crouching in the flower bed and turning over the soil with her trowel, she does not notice that she is uncomfortable, or that her shoulders are protesting.? She is strangely relaxed, and her thoughts, if at all there are any, are focused on the next plant to weed.? What other people achieve through meditation and hatha yoga, she achieves by getting her elbows dirty.

A butterfly passes by and decides to take a drink at one of the salvia (ornamental sage) plants.? It is an ordinary butterfly, and the salvia now has very few flowers left.? Yet she beams with pride, as if the butterfly had really handed her a certificate or a seal of approval.? Hey, it loves my salvia, she thinks to herself.

The elderly father of the neighbor sits a few yards away on the wall of his raised vegetable bed.? He is also deweeding his bed, though mostly, he sits for long periods, looking through the rushes at the pond, sifting through his thoughts and memories.? She smiles and greets him, and he smiles back.? They don’t share a common language, but they can each understand the desire to spend an hour or two rooting in the soil.

The deweeding is over and she decides to plant a few plants.? As she digs a small hole, a winged seed floats in and hovers over the rim of the hole, its soft white bristles gently touching the ground. ? Perhaps it hopes that she will plant it in the ground.? She recognizes it as the seed of a Canada thistle, the prickly weed that grows near the rushes and bursts into pink flowers that the birds love.? She throws the seed out of the bed and resumes planting.

As she takes one of the flower pots and starts to pull out the plant, a flash of yellow-green legs startles her and she screams.? A frog jumps out of the pot, probably more startled than she was.

No one hears her shriek, the elderly neighbor has gone back into his house for lunch. The silence takes over again, as if there had never been any sound at all.? Suddenly, the very air seems to have stilled, there is no breeze and even the birds have disappeared into the cover of the branches.? It is noon.

She finishes planting and starts watering the plants.? There are sudden splashes of color as unseen butterflies and moths suddenly burst out from flowers, startled by the spray of water.? Reluctant to leave, they hover around and settle on other flowers, only to have the hose follow them.? But these are stubborn creatures, and they wait, hovering around, flitting from flower to flower, until the watering is finished.? Then they settle down for a leisurely drink at the flowers.

The sun is beginning to make its heat felt.? She knows it is time to go indoors.

But she lingers in the garden, shading her eyes and watching the flowers and the butterflies against the fresh tilled blackness of the earth.

Fall will arrive in her garden next weekend.? The last vestiges of summer that have hung around until now are already packing their bags. You can see that in the phlox, its pink petals strewn on the ground untidily, like the altar after a wedding.? The festivities of summer are over.

The garden will still be brilliant in fall.? The Burning Bushes at the edge of the lawn will blush crimson, and the maple trees will burst into orange-red flames.? The ash will turn a bright yellow, and the crabapples beside it will show off their red berries. The green sedum plants in the perennial bed, with little buds that look like tiny jasmines strung in a garland, will bloom with bunches of lovely pale pink flowers. Even the rushes by the pond will get into the game, turning a lovely golden? brown.

She knows all this, and yet, she wants to bask in the glow of the warm summer sun one last time.

If she stands long enough in the brilliantly colored garden, she wonders if she can etch the memory of this day on her memories, just like the purple picture that forms in her eyelids when she looks too long at the sun.

She wonders if she can bottle up the smells and sounds, and the sights too, and take it with her.? Can she release these smells on one of those cold, dark winter days, when the garden is a desolate white ?

Every week, I put out the recycle bin on the street.  Plastics, cans, card board, paper, all go into this bright blue bin and get picked up by the garbage disposal truck.

But my recycling bin keeps running away.  Sometimes it attempts suicide by sitting in the middle of the road in the face of traffic, sometimes it tries to get around the corner when I am not watching.  Sometimes, it upends itself and walks away, leaving all the cans on the ground.  In short, it has tried every trick to get out of the job and to let me know exactly what it thinks of my trash.

I am not a bad boss, so I did spend some time wondering how I could increase the bin’s job satisfaction.  I rinsed every empty milk jug and can in hot water, to improve the bin’s job content.  I was also careful not to overload the bin.  Yet the bin kept running away.

The bin was almost successful in suicide.  It got under the wheels of a truck and nearly split into two.  I treated it as best as I could, taping it up with clear tape and using it.  But perhaps getting back to work so soon annoyed the bin even more, for it was missing out on disability leave.  In any case, the bin wasn’t doing much work after the injury – it kept having nervous breakdowns.

With regret, I knew it was time to let the bin go.  I drove down to the city center last week to get a replacement bin.

“My recycling bin ran away and broke,” I told the employee in Engineering. (Why does “Engineering” handle recycling bins?)

“Yeah, it’s just too windy these days, isn’t it?”  she said as she handed me a new bin.

I don’t believe it, I thought, she is just making excuses for the bins.  Her cubicle companions leered at me, all nine of them, sitting in their  blue suits against the wall. I wondered what it would be like to spend 8 hours each day in the company of such suicidal maniacs. Do they talk to her?

Which reminded me, I needed my revenge.

“Can I have one more bin ?”  I asked her sweetly.

“Sure”, she said as she handed me one of the blue suits.  She seemed almost glad to get rid of them.

Now I have two more bins I can torment.

“What should I do with the broken bin?”  I asked her.  “Can I recycle that?”

She looked sideways at the blue bins stacked beside her.  Did one of them just move towards her?

“No,” she said firmly, “you should not.  Put it in the trash.”

I left, wondering.  Why can’t I recycle recycling bins?

Does she know something I don’t ?

Popcorn smells of movie theaters. It smells of excitement and joy and simple pleasure.

These days I seem to prefer watching movies at home. Especially the desi movies. For all the desi movies I have watched seem to follow a few unwritten rules:

(i) The movie should only be aired on the one weekend when it is really difficult to watch it;

(ii) All desi movies should be aired in theaters which are in the seediest part of town. You should double-check whether you have locked your car, and worry through the movie whether it will remain there when you return. Unless, you have a Japanese car. Then, you don’t need to worry. This just shows why all desis should buy Japanese cars.

(iii) The theater may be half-empty, but irrespective of where you sit, the seat behind you will always get filled. If you are in the last row, someone will sit right next to you even if the rest of the theater is empty.

(iv) Movies are not supposed to be watched in silence. You should always do one of the following things while watching a movie -

(a) Ask your neighbor loudly what the actor just said.

(b) Give your companion a running translation of the movie, or your critique of every scene.

(c) Bring your children and have them construct alternate screenplays. You can have wide ranging discussions with your children on matters ranging from Bollywood to philosophy, and how things are not what they seem. But you should not talk loudly, you should whisper. Your stage whispers will carry right across the theater, but you are, you see, whispering.

(d) If your children are too young to talk, that’s fine – as long as they can bawl. Why spend good money on babysitters when you are going to be among desis,bring your bawling baby by all means. Bring them in when they are really hungry, so they can start bawling as soon as the screen darkens and the movie starts. Try shushing them (in really loud tones) so everyone knows you are trying their best. But don’t feed them, or they might quieten down.

(e) Wear copious quantities of some awful perfume, or hair oil. Eat garlic just before you step out of the house. Preferably don’t wash for a few days before the movie.

All these efforts on the part of my fellow movie-goers brings in a certain ambience. I am not sure what it reminds them of, but it reminds me of my couch and why I should never have left it. So are you surprised that I have decided not to watch Indian movies in theaters any more?

When I watch a movie at home, the screen is much smaller, the sound effects may just not be the same, and the audience will certainly not jeer or make catcalls. But the seats are much more comfortable, and I am in control – I can pause the movie to look again at a particular scene, or I can decrease the volume when it gets too loud. And no one behind me is going to tell me how it all ends.

But there’s something missing – the popcorn. I know there is always microwave popcorn, but you know it is not the real thing. It never pops perfectly, there are too many kernels, and the taste is just not the same as fresh popcorn.

Worse, microwave popcorn, it turns out, is not even good for you because of all the diacetyl in it (the chemical that gives you that buttery popcorn smell) and you can get lung disorders if you inhale too much of it. So what are they telling me, I can eat popcorn, but I should not smell it? Perhaps I should hold my nose then, as if I am walking along the Cooum/Musi/Ulsoor Lake?

Then there are the popcorn bags you get in stores. One look at these bags and I know they are clearly meant as offerings for Bhima or Ghatothkacha. The next time your friendly neighborhood demon (or Chambal dacoit) demands offerings of food, don’t bother sending in cartloads of rice. Just buy him a dozen of these popcorn bags, they should keep him fed for two weeks atleast.

These bags also seem to contain too much salt and other unpronounceable chemicals that I really don’t need. I love getting things for free, but I am not too sure my love extends to these chemicals.

Then there are popcorn poppers – made rather infamous by a certain Presidential candidate who shall remain nameless. I can never think of popcorn poppers the same way again. In any case, do I really need another appliance to add to the already crowded countertop?

So this weekend, I decided to make my own microwave popcorn. I did not start with growing my own corn, though I would have really liked to. But after detailed calculations, I realized that the amount of corn I needed could not be grown in flowerpots.

Here is how I went about doing it – I bought popcorn kernels that you can get in any supermarket. You even have a choice of white and yellow popcorn kernels, depending on how you like your popcorn to look.

Then I bought brown paper bags – lunch bags.

Two small steps for me, one giant leap for my waistline.

Microwave Popcorn Recipe

Take the popcorn kernels in a bowl and add a spoon (or less) of butter or any vegetable oil of your choice to the kernels. Add salt to taste. If you like, add chilli powder or any curry powder of your choice. Mix it all up so every kernel is coated.

Pour the mixture into the brown paper bag. When I searched online, everyone assured me that I could staple the bag and it would be quite safe in the microwave. Apparently, since a staple is a really small piece of metal, it does not spark in the microwave.

But I played it safe and used a wooden toothpick to close the bag. I folded the edge of the bag once and then stuck the toothpick into it.

Now microwave this bag on high power for 3 to 5 minutes. You will know it’s done when the pops start getting really infrequent, say 5 seconds between pops.

Take the bag out and open it up away from your face (so you don’t get all the steam). Let it rest for a minute and once the steam has escaped, you can peer into the bag.

I am not, repeat not, responsible for any injuries that may result from whooping with joy, dancing around the kitchen, or trying to gobble down three mouthfuls of popcorn at a time.

I forgot to mention one other purchase you need to make – jeans two sizes too large. Believe me, once you have tried out this recipe, you will need them!

The New York Times tells me that I am doing it all wrong. A better strategy, it tells me, is to throw out my toaster. Not just my toaster, of course. I should also throw out anything I have duplicates of, anything broken or stained, or anything I haven’t used in some time. Apparently, this is the best strategy to lose weight.

When I read this, I was a little confused. How would I lose weight by emptying my kitchen, I wondered. Were they saying that all the extra exercise of cleaning up will help me slim down? But they don’t seem to be talking about exercise anywhere.

But I put my doubts aside. Clearly, the New York Times must know what they are talking about. What do I know anyway? So I decided to try their technique.

I looked around my kitchen, searching for anything I have duplicates of, was broken or stained.

First came the coffee mugs. Obviously, I have too many of them. So I threw away all of them except one. I also threw away all the spoons, ladles, forks, knives, cups…it’s amazing how many things I had in the kitchen which were duplicates.

I couldn’t find any thing that was actually broken, so I focused on looking for stains. I carefully examined all the appliances and utensils in the kitchen to look for stains. And then I found it.

The underside of my stainless steel pressure cooker had a black stain. I tried removing it with a tissue. It didn’t go away. I would normally have thought it was blackened metal and ignored it, but now I knew better. It was a Stain. And it was making me fat.

There was no other way. The pressure cooker had to go. I was determined to let nothing stop me from losing weight. So I gritted my teeth and added the cooker to the trash, along with all the utensils I had multiples of.

Finally, the kitchen was clean. It was amazing how neat and tidy it looked. I must admit I had a weak moment when I thought it looked rather empty. But the moment passed, and I felt proud of myself on having taken such an important step towards losing weight.

Next morning, my husband woke up and made some coffee.

“Where is your mug?” he asked me.

“I’ve thrown it away”, I replied.

“Why?’ he seemed puzzled. He would not understand, I told myself. Of course, he hadn’t read the New York Times.

But he continued, “Where is the toaster?” Then, looking around, “Hey, where is the pressure cooker?” For some reason, he seemed to be getting a little anxious now.

“I’ve thrown them all away”, I replied, beaming with pride. “Did you read the New York Times yesterday? They have this wonderful article on losing weight”.

But my husband had more pressing issues to think about. “How will we eat?” he asked in sudden panic. “We can’t cook, we will starve!”

Suddenly, I realized what the New York Times article had been all about. I knew how I was going to lose weight now.