suddenly realized why I keep saying I don’t like puli-inji, considering that Dad makes an amazing dish of it, and considering that I usually lick my plate clean each time. Puli-inji demands complete and total fidelity, at least of me, and of a kind that eliminates the possibilities of every other taste. Take me, and no other. How can my multi-ne-farious self respond? It is rebellion, sweet-and-sour, unlike pure and simple. I want all the other food too.
Not so the self-effacing Buddhist vegetarian fare I had at NCU; it requires attention, an acknowledgement of flavours that can come only with slow, deep involvement; flavours that dress themselves up in calm pastels, recede as they appear, edge out nobody.
I love both, but have lived with only the one. You see, I too liked fidelity, and liked to have it grow on, not have it wrenched from me.
But now that puli-inji is back in my life …
|attending to my moods|