I don't think I ever told anyone this - I'm a vegetarian who loves chicken.
I’m sure most of you -at least those of you who has invited me for dinner- know that I don't eat meat. (And the rest of you who don't know, invite me soon!)
There is something about a chicken marinated in masala, steeped in spice and simmered to supremeness that drives me insane. But I will not, will not eat it.
You see, there was a time when I could eat the chicken my mom made. With no need to keep up appearances as a blessedly ignorant child, I could get my fingers dirty, my frock stained and my stomach very happy. But since I have to cook now, mom's delicious chickens are no more and since I'm supposed to be a dignified mom who leads by example, only forks me. As to the stomach being happy, if I satisfy my urge and eat the damn thing, I might just throw-up.
Well, I do love my life complicated, and nothing complicates a life more than thwarted desires. You see, I have nothing against a chicken. But everything against me eating it. So how can I love and dispise something synchronously?
My nurturing dad, my devious, scheming dad took me to a slaughter house when I was 12. The age right at the brink of adulthood (I thought becoming teen was 'it'). And I had ideas and ideals. Suffice to say, the place made an impression on me and I gave up meat and fish altogether, to team up with my dad and discover the wonders of ghas-phus (elai-thalai).
Recently, I saw some white stuff growing on the yolk. I did the research. The results resulted in me retiring my taste buds from perfectly golden omelets made with eggs whisked into fluffy submission.
*Sigh. Note to self: Jus bcoz I hv net doesn't mean I shld lookup every.sundry.thing.