More fun with neighbors

I have found my official Indian teapot and it will always be a prized member in my future collection of teapots. I always knew that someday I would be a fuddy-duddy old lady with a house full of teapots. My Indian tea pot is superbly made, hand made out of clay, balanced to perfection, is solid, the right size, has a bamboo handle and an impeccable glaze job. It sort of reminds me of the iris of my eye-- grey-blue and brown. I certainly have a tea fetish-- the pots, the little cups, the little cookies and of course the excuse to invite people over and share all these fun little things with. Working at Sympathy for the Kettle in the East Village didn't help.

It's funny. I knew exactly what my Indian teapot would look like, and I knew exactly where I would find it-- Casablanca, the fancy department store in town where the white people shop. Indians don't use tea pots, they make it fresh in a pan and pour it directly into cups and it is slurped up quickly. No need for tea to linger in a pot. As much as I am driven to perfecting my Indian tea and making it as authentic as possible, I want to serve it in a pot. So, I went to the famed Casablanca, and I have to admit its reek of Western materialism sort of made me uncomfortable. But I made my way to the top floor where the homegoods are, and there was my teapot, waiting for me on the shelf. On the way home, I stopped at a street vendor on M.G. road where I had spotted the perfect little cups to match a week earlier, and bought six for a song. Somehow buying the cups on the street made me feel better about my chichi teapot.

Since then, for three consecutive Sunday's I've had different neighbors over for tea. It's become a fun weekly event. I boil the milk and water together in a pot, add the Taj Mahal black tea, some masala and a little extra cinnamon. Bubble simmer simmer, try not to boil over. Wait till its the correct shade of mocha. Strain with the special cheese-cloth tea strainer. Then I slowly add the sugar to taste until it's a wee too sweet for me and a wee less sweet than an Indian would prepare it. A happy medium. I put some extra sugar on the table with a teaspoon. We sit in my living room and nibble on a spread of biscuits as they tell me that my Indian tea is very tasty, and a little different. "Super," is the Indian adjective of choice for many things, including my tea. I show them pictures of my family. It's fun.


Yesterday I went to Sujatha's house to meet the cow who comes daily for breakfast at 9:30. At 9:30 I called her and asked, "So, has your cow friend arrived yet?"
"Not yet, I'll call you when he comes." Two minutes later the cow call came, "He's here!" and I was on my bicycle with my camera.

Sujatha's mother feeds this cow curd rice (city cows will eat anything!)and blesses him with a bindhi. The cow does belong to someone, there is a cow shed near Sujatha's house, where apparently the water buffalo live as well. The mystery of all these city cows is revealed to me. They have no fields to roam in, so in the streets they roam. Someday I would like to have a cow that all my neighbors feed for me. I love cows!!!