Keeping you informed…

This rice almost killed me. I almost died.

We had Indian take-out two nights ago. My favorite. Im an Indian that loves Indian food. I’m an easy profile. One of the best things about getting Indian take-out is leftovers. I’m guaranteed 3 meals from that one order. It’s very practical and frugal of me. I save tens of dollars.

Last night I was on my own for dinner and I decided to use the rice to make Lemon, peanut rice. It’s a very complicated recipe that involves frying up rice with lemon and peanuts. I usually add half a red onion and some small chili peppers too – told you I was an easy profile.

It was a busy day, and I was still working when I finished up the rice and sat down at the computer to write one last email. And then it happened. I felt it. Two kernels of rice lodged themselves in my throat. In some pipe in my throat. I could totally feel them. I could also feel myself going into a massive coughing fit. You know the kind. You can hardly breath. You’re making choking noises so convincingly that people around you are in a panic, but you can’t stop and let them know it’s fine…that you may pee your pants coughing, but it’s not going to end in death. You’re pretty sure.

Even my son took off his gaming headphones and came down to check on me. Or atleast opened his door to ask his sister if everything was ok before going back to what he was doing.

In the words of Ned Ryerson,” it was a doozy!” (name that movie). Those two kernels had their fun.

What’s the lesson here? Don’t email and eat? Stop inhaling my food? Throw food out after 2 days? I dunno. What I do know is that the rice was delicious. Worth death delicious? Nope. So did I eat the rest after my coughing fit? You bet I did.

That’s it. Just sharing. I’m alive. Xoxo

Benign Masochism

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Most Sunday mornings start the same way for me. If we don’t have anywhere to go I wake up to the sounds of CBS Sunday Morning.  It’s usually my husband to my left and Charles Osgood and his bow tie to my right. Cozy.

It’s the perfect show. A little smart. A little silly. Lots of pictures. Perfect. I don’t remember a Sunday without it (or without 60 minutes for that matter).

This morning’s episode featured a Yale psychologist named Paul Bloom talking about a human’s need for pleasure.  Pleasure through all sorts of things. At the end of that segment they talked about people who love spicy foods. So spicy that the experience borders on pain. This need to push pleasure onto the realm of mild pain is called “benign masochism”.

I perked right up. My husband perked right up. You see, he’s been married to a benign masochist for a long time, and now we finally have a name to my disease. I love…no adore…no need super spicy food. If there’s a mild sweat developing while I have my penne arrabiata – awesome. If the name of the food has the word Habanero in it – it’s for me! Do you know how many times my daughter has said,” why? Mom, why?” This is why!

I blame my upbringing. I blame my Indian heritage. I blame….how delicious everything spicy really is.

My family and friends have been so supportive – they’ve always hidden their horror.

They don’t laugh when I order Chinese food (vegetable fried rice, no eggs, no mushrooms, extra spicy).

They didn’t laugh when I, at 6 months pregnant with my son, asked the cafeteria worker in our conservative financial firm to remove the jalapeno decorations during a Mexican themed lunch so I could actually eat them.  I had to.

They love me so much that when we go out for lunch or dinner or even breakfast, they never forget to ask for the crushed red pepper or hot sauce.

I’m surrounded by love. And hot peppers.