Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Thank you again Ishita for that delicious lunch. If there is one thing i will surely miss when you are gone will be the lunches at your place where i so shamelessly hog down all the food.
So as i sat in my room thinking out inhuman ways to steal those perfect recipes from Ishita's cook, i stumbled across a question-is there something as the "PERFECT" recipe? Is it Sanjay Kapoor's tadka, Nirma Dalal's pre-heated kdai or our mother's touch that makes that gourmet preparation a finger-licking good? Is cooking, like everything else in exsistance governed by the laws defined under what we call science? so i sat on the net for almost an hour drooling saliva on my keyboard as i flipped through sites trying to find a solution and what i found was pretty delici.....i mean....interesting.
Charles William, a senior lecturer in physics was once asked: "Is there a formula to calculate the boiling time for soft-boiled egg?". He managed to derive a formula which by the time anyone works it out their eggs will be boiled rock solid. But while what rocket science could not solve, a UK based company has come up with what they call "self-timing" eggs. The idea is to mark the surface of the shell with logos in thermochromic invisible ink which becomes dark when it reaches a certain temperature. I am sure you must have figured by now how these work...see they are simple...even you can use them!!!
So, is the technology going to solve this problem once and for all or what? Obviously not, because cooking isn't like a perpetually replicable scientific experiment involving precision conditions and quantities to determine an exact result every time, anymore, by anyone. It's an art. And in art there's no way to permanently eliminate failure or creativity. For instance, in a survey conducted last year by Waitrose Food Illustrated magazine, five chefs were asked how to boil an egg. It received five different answers with one saying to stir the egg constantly in boiling water for six minutes in order to keep the yolk exactly dead in the middle, and another maintaining it should sit in the water for 60 seconds. In fact, if they had asked a 100 different chefs how to prepare lobster or bharva baingan they would still have got a 100 different recipes--yet all of them would have tasted divine.
So as i sat in my room thinking out inhuman ways to steal those perfect recipes from Ishita's cook, i stumbled across a question-is there something as the "PERFECT" recipe? Is it Sanjay Kapoor's tadka, Nirma Dalal's pre-heated kdai or our mother's touch that makes that gourmet preparation a finger-licking good? Is cooking, like everything else in exsistance governed by the laws defined under what we call science? so i sat on the net for almost an hour drooling saliva on my keyboard as i flipped through sites trying to find a solution and what i found was pretty delici.....i mean....interesting.
Charles William, a senior lecturer in physics was once asked: "Is there a formula to calculate the boiling time for soft-boiled egg?". He managed to derive a formula which by the time anyone works it out their eggs will be boiled rock solid. But while what rocket science could not solve, a UK based company has come up with what they call "self-timing" eggs. The idea is to mark the surface of the shell with logos in thermochromic invisible ink which becomes dark when it reaches a certain temperature. I am sure you must have figured by now how these work...see they are simple...even you can use them!!!
So, is the technology going to solve this problem once and for all or what? Obviously not, because cooking isn't like a perpetually replicable scientific experiment involving precision conditions and quantities to determine an exact result every time, anymore, by anyone. It's an art. And in art there's no way to permanently eliminate failure or creativity. For instance, in a survey conducted last year by Waitrose Food Illustrated magazine, five chefs were asked how to boil an egg. It received five different answers with one saying to stir the egg constantly in boiling water for six minutes in order to keep the yolk exactly dead in the middle, and another maintaining it should sit in the water for 60 seconds. In fact, if they had asked a 100 different chefs how to prepare lobster or bharva baingan they would still have got a 100 different recipes--yet all of them would have tasted divine.
Little People Are Cool...
A little while back I was searching for the "On the Lot" movies when I came across Daily Dose of Imagery site and have been following the postings since. Then today I came across the little people's site. Totally amazing, simple and elegant. Hop over there and check out the images. Slinkachu does some amazing stuff on his site.
While you are at it and find the stuff impressive then also check Brickfilms. This is about stop motion animation and this site marries two of my favorite things together...Lego and Stop motion animation, so i like this best among everything out there.
While you are at it and find the stuff impressive then also check Brickfilms. This is about stop motion animation and this site marries two of my favorite things together...Lego and Stop motion animation, so i like this best among everything out there.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Myths and Legends
My bus trips are generally supported with a nice book and music, but a few months back while travelling from Delhi to Jaipur i met this fellow named Brad David, an american by name and accent he was on his way to jodhpur. A dedicated tennis fan, we began talking about backhands and volleys, from there we moved to the greats of the game and then we reached the U.S. open. The slightest mention of which lit up his eyes, after all he had been going there year after year. He was there when Pete Sampras cried, he was there when Agassi said goodbye....
A fan rumouredly shot in the leg. A spectator apparently plays saxophone in the crowd. Assasin-eyed Pete gets so moved he cried at one. This is the US open, believe what you will. Stars have been made and broken here. Sometimes you play under the stare of hollywood stars. Sometimes everyone goes home except the stars as night matches sweat into the open mornings.
When Connors played it was chaotic, crackling, cackling, concrete fight club where a crotch grab was like some sort of salute. Now Federer almost seems to yawn as he walks past his opponents to take back his trophy.
Its 1989, Connors,37, the only man to win the open on all three surfaces, is doing his last-man-standing thing, he's down 1-5 and goes on to lose to a 19-year-old kid with a juggler's fast hands and a blinding wardrobe.
The kid who beats Connors that day is now 36. He has said his sayonara. No one hates Agassi, not any more. Not even for marrying Steffi. He hates his twisted back. But careers mostly limp and lurch to a finish, and sloppy happy endings remain in Karan Johar's minds. Either way people wept. Once at the open, they laughed at Agassi.
Agassi changed, too. Tennis was a gamble for Agassi, shots hit without thought like careless rolls of a dice; but then he became the architect, each point finely calibrated, each match a grand design. That pale-face fellow Agassi plays in the 1990 final, his father is not at the court, he's at the mall. Nervous, understandable. Till a shopkeeper mentions his son, Oh, That Sampras kid won. This is a New York moment.
The legend that Sampras kid eventually becomes is right in front of us. He looses the 1992 final. Pressure he reasons out. Connors says its bullshit. Sampras is altered forever. An executioner is born. He wins 5 opens. equaling whom? Jimmy.
Federer has no hard edges. His game isn't rude. His feet make no noise. He is about as likely to grab his crotch as Connors is to get a full pedicure before his match. For Connors the open was like a jungle trail, but Federer has turned it into a catwalk.
The Open will stay here but the Champions will change. Each sandpapering there names amidst the steel and mortar of the open.
A fan rumouredly shot in the leg. A spectator apparently plays saxophone in the crowd. Assasin-eyed Pete gets so moved he cried at one. This is the US open, believe what you will. Stars have been made and broken here. Sometimes you play under the stare of hollywood stars. Sometimes everyone goes home except the stars as night matches sweat into the open mornings.
When Connors played it was chaotic, crackling, cackling, concrete fight club where a crotch grab was like some sort of salute. Now Federer almost seems to yawn as he walks past his opponents to take back his trophy.
Its 1989, Connors,37, the only man to win the open on all three surfaces, is doing his last-man-standing thing, he's down 1-5 and goes on to lose to a 19-year-old kid with a juggler's fast hands and a blinding wardrobe.
The kid who beats Connors that day is now 36. He has said his sayonara. No one hates Agassi, not any more. Not even for marrying Steffi. He hates his twisted back. But careers mostly limp and lurch to a finish, and sloppy happy endings remain in Karan Johar's minds. Either way people wept. Once at the open, they laughed at Agassi.
Agassi changed, too. Tennis was a gamble for Agassi, shots hit without thought like careless rolls of a dice; but then he became the architect, each point finely calibrated, each match a grand design. That pale-face fellow Agassi plays in the 1990 final, his father is not at the court, he's at the mall. Nervous, understandable. Till a shopkeeper mentions his son, Oh, That Sampras kid won. This is a New York moment.
The legend that Sampras kid eventually becomes is right in front of us. He looses the 1992 final. Pressure he reasons out. Connors says its bullshit. Sampras is altered forever. An executioner is born. He wins 5 opens. equaling whom? Jimmy.
Federer has no hard edges. His game isn't rude. His feet make no noise. He is about as likely to grab his crotch as Connors is to get a full pedicure before his match. For Connors the open was like a jungle trail, but Federer has turned it into a catwalk.
The Open will stay here but the Champions will change. Each sandpapering there names amidst the steel and mortar of the open.
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