how to use a toilet

Back in Delhi. Today I'm packing and learning how to make the world's best butter chicken from my cousin's chef. Tomorrow night I head off to Uttar Pradesh for my 5 week NOLS course in the Himalayas.

For my fight back to Delhi, I arrived in Bangalore Airport three hours early and the IndiGo check in counter wasn't even open yet.

Bangalore Intl Airport is on par with Munich Intl Airport in the sleek and grandiose departments. 200 foot tall support beams curve and twirl towards the sky to support a bulbous glass and steel ceiling. The elevator near the checkout counter is made of glass, exposing the high tech, silver-hued, tangled mechanical innards that propel the human delivery box up and down. Bangalore has money and an army of eager and over-educated computer programmers who bring home the bacon and crush any doubt that India is rising. I know this because I've been to the Airport.

One thing that Bangalore Intl Airport has that Munich doesn't, however, is villagers. Villagers who don't trust plexiglas human delivery boxes or stairs that climb for you. As I, headphones in and foot popping, waited for the IndiGo counter to open, I noticed two of such aforementioned villagers. One was a elderly man in a Yellow turban and white linen lungi. The other, I assume, was his wife, bright blue sari and white tribal arm bands to boot. They were staring at the escalator, too horrified to step on it and proceed to security. They exchanged a few words, something short, like, "You first," and then continued to stand there, gawking, for another 5 minutes.

An airport worker approached them. After a short conversation, he walked them 20 feet to the elevator and seemed to explain just how it worked. They considered this mode of transportation for a good 10 minutes. The airport worker enlisted the help of a friend to demonstrate just how this glass box worked. After another 5 minutes, the four of them walked away, presumably to a set of stairs in the back.

After checking in I decided to use the bathroom. I was nice, undeserving of the "India toilet frown" but still smelled vaguely like, well, an Indian toilet. After I locked myself in my stall, I discovered why. I began to do my buisness and then herd a hissing sound coming from the stall to the right. I assumed someone was using the bidet hose, but no. A woman, as confused by the toilet as the elderly couple had been with the escalator, had given up and decided to take a piss on the floor. Now, excuse me for being Ms. Ethnocentrism, but how hard is it to use a toilet? Are they really that difficult to figure out?

The stream of piss started making it towards my feet. I panicked, and ran out of the stall as soon as the proper hygienic protocols would let me. When the woman exited the stall, I saw that she was a young bride, probably on her way to make a new life with her husband somewhere where toilets didn't exist. I showed her how to use the sink.

On the shared taxi ride from Jayanagar to the Airport, I had some light conversation with the buisness man next to me. He said that India was like a drunk man crossing the street, it teeters and totters, goes backwards and almost gets you killed a few times before arriving at the other side, unscathed. No one understands how this is done, but it happens everyday in India.

This made total sense to me. Yes, sometimes it takes three days to get medicine for some nuns who are coughing up blood. Yes, you almost get killed every time you step onto the street. Yes, Hindus and Muslims aren't getting along like they should. And yes, you can't seem to comprehend the amount of people that can get squeezed into the bus/temple/garden/street/country. But somehow, magically, it all works out in the end. The transvestites dance, the children beg, the rickshaw drivers hustle, the cricketers play, the elite spend, the actors dance, the market teems.

I love it all, and I don't want to leave.

so you know

i have a new post, that, for some reason, got published three posts under this one.

also: bomb ass bentos

country

western?

smoke meth and you too can discover the meaning of life!

Last October, when I asked my Nana what the meaning of life is, she answered, “To be successful.” (To all those who ever doubted my asianness- booyah!) Aside from the indisputable Chinese undertone, that’s a comically vague answer.

On my first train in transit to Kinnaur, I was assigned to a seat adjacent to an antediluvian man wearing a red beanie and white raincoat soiled around the collar and cuffs. I was less than enthusiastic as I took my seat but pleasantly surprised when he didn’t smell like urine. Two hours into my passage and after some sub-par train food, he turned to me and said in perfect English, “Ask me any question and I will give you a scientific answer.”

Now, some people I know have no problem talking philosophy with homeless people. I am not one of them. But, after some initial trepidation and apprehensive giggling, we managed to get the ball rolling. I figured I had another six hours of transit ahead of me and might as well entertain myself when the opportunity arose. Even if he was a complete bhang head, it would be better than sitting in silence or reading The Hindustan Times (seriously, the newspapers here are worse that my high school periodical).

He didn’t spit out the next cogito ergo sum, but he wasn’t a crazy homeless guy either (there’s a big range there). Just an 83 year old man on the way to a wedding, wanting to impart some Vedic wisdom on a little Korean (he insisted) girl.

He talked about how Barak Obama’s inauguration address correlated with the Maharbarta, how Barry was an Indian in a former life, how your roots are inescapable (“You can pull them out of the ground, but they are still there.”), and how the secret to health was living as natural a life as possible.

Finally, I gathered the cahones to ask the big one, “So… uh… what’s the meaning of life?”

“That’s a very good question.” He smiled his semi-toothed smile and grabbed a piece of paper from the facing seat pocket. “Is this not life?” Indian head wiggle. “Is a tree not life? A building? An animal? We are all life.”

Apparently, that was all he had to say on the matter.

“We are all life.”

I had my past life regression with Kumar on Friday. Yes, I did go into a “past life” and no, I won’t talk about it here. Let’s just say that the experience was freaky and I’m not sure that I believe that what happened was authentic or if I just want to believe my imagination. Regardless, it was a good experience.

One of the things he said as he was beginning the session was that noise is simply evidence of life. He said this as a passing comment, but I couldn’t help but brood over it during the following days. More brooding, I admit, than was spent my actual “past life” experience. Imagine that everything that beats or blows or rustles or drips is life. Drums and wind and leaves and the rain. In Ulysses, Stephen Dedalus asserts that God is “a shout in the street.” The music of movement, the fact that there is life, then, is God.

There is this Hindu legend/epic/parable whatever that tells (and I bludgeonly paraphrase) of a man who receives the opportunity to ask some god one question. His question is, “How can I be happy for the rest of my life?” The god answers, “Always remember that the divine one is eternally within you and around you.” God is in that annoying economics professor, the crippled beggar in Deveraj market, the mountains, the interent and our socks. But most profoundly, God is in us. Is this the meaning of life? I don’t know. But it’s a start.

Oh fuck, now I’m sounding all new-agey and shit. After you get of the net, remember these pretty pictures and not my banal ruminations.

we out and told victoria that it was my birthday. she got me a cake. this isn't my name...

so little to do, so much time to do it

shit that won't (but needs to) get done:
1) Find a place to live after Wednesday
2) Get into Himalaya shape (I've been slacking)
3) turn in NOLS credit form
4) Blog about Kumar's
5) Finish Ulysses (...)

ba-da-la-cou-peh

Went to the "Golden Temple" in the tibetan settlement, Badalacoupe (sp?), about two hours out of Mysore. Gokulam (our neighborhood) can feel suffocatingly Kapalua-ish. For those who don't call the aina home, Kapalua is the town in Maui where all the So-Cal expats buy timeshares or build mansions. There is a Ritz Carlton, Walmart, and the only Krispy Kreme in the state.


Like Kapalua, Gokulam is both beautiful and fabulously convenient. The concierge downstairs does the laundry; there is gelato, austrian pastries, and a dominos all within 8 minutes walk from the apartment; the Indian restaurants have western hygeine standards and appropriatly altered masala mixes so no one farts in class the morning after eating Hyderabadi curry; the rickshaws slightly overcharge and no one cares. Gokulam is a nice place. I just can't stand it sometimes.

As the car moved further and further out of the city, I welcomed both the break from the hanging neon sign flashing "yoga student" above my head and the ubiquitous use of the word "energy."

Called the nuns from Jampa Choling once I arrived. Someone had said that their brother is a monk at the Golden Temple and wanted me to find him. After walking into one of the five-ish pooja halls, and discovering a good 300-400 monks chanting in unison, I knew that that would be impossible. It also didn't help that there are only about 20 names that every monk/nun takes after entering monastic life. Sometimes they string them together so instead of Tenzin Lhamo or Tenzin Dolma, you have Lhamo Dolma. As I sat watching the pooja, I imagined myself screaming "Does anyone know a Janchub Dolma?" and having thirty nuns respond that they are Janchub Doma. One of the reasons I loved living at Jampa Choling Monastery so much was the refreashing humanity of the nuns there. They're the opposite of preachy hare krishnas or evangelical bible-belt christians. They're buddhist because they are Tibetan, not because they are "enlightened" and they are nuns because they didn't want to get married to a stranger when they were fifteen. They don't take themselves or their religion too seriously, unlike most devout westerners, and I think that that's how religion should be done. They love Budha because he said some cool shit and teaches love and tolerence, just like every other enlightened prophet out there. The monks at the golden temple seemed simular to the nuns at Jampa Choling.

note: extreme boredom during the three hour pooja (can you blame them?)

yes, that's a monk text messaging during the service next to his friend, who is picking his nose.

i love it.

...symbolism much?

question of the day

what if i learn that i was a crack whore who died of leporsy in my past life?
do i WANT to know that?

p.s. also mysteriously passed out in an Austrian cafe this afternoon. went home and slept for three hours and ate a Dominos pizza (the thin crust margareta extra cheese is delicioooous) and now feel bizzarely exhausted but relatively fine.

i miss these girlies like wow

obsessed: club love by 99 allins at 99allins.tumblr.com

also http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=33fqKjs-_E0

prada and past lives

shortly after concluding my third half assed workout of the day (i'm training for the himalayas), i squatted, wearing my sweaty walmart sports bra and old navy zebra panties, in front of the minifridge to assess its contents. dinner tonight composed of a melody of thrice ransacked leftovers; some green sauce that once contained vegetables of a yellow persuasion, a tablespoon of dahl, and a cup of biriyani (muslim fried rice) that i made a friend pack and give to me when he didn't finish it at lunch saturday afternoon (i'm turning into my cheap-ass grandma). the crowning majesty of the whole affair was some slightly overripe yogurt, eaten out of the plastic tub and sloshed with honey.

you know how some people feel like they are one age their entire life? the 50 year old kid syndrome? the "cool" mom who thinks she's her teenager's friend? they frat boy who never made it past 7th grade in the school of maturation?

yeah, well i'm doomed to be 35 for the rest of my life. not the sapient and settled prada-clad portent of modern success, but the frazzled and slightly overweight single who has changed professions four times, still struggles to make rent, and feels her biological clock ticking like a stack of distaff dynamite.

there is something intensely unholy inside of me.

there is this guy, "Kumar," who guides people through meditation and sometimes regress them into "past lives". Now, people have called me many things in my life, but one thing they have never been able to legitimately label me as is a hippie. yes, i do yoga, but i also relish ribeye steak and worship at the house of Marc Jacobs. i'm not really into all this new age shit, but i have an acquaintance (also a skeptic) who went on saturday and had more than a trippy time. she said that she was able to remember her past life and the number and names of her kids, that she died at 42 of throat cancer, and all these other fantastic details.

freaky.

i think i'll make an appointment for sometime this week. maybe i'll figure out why i feel like those thirty somethings who star in novels like Confessions of a Shopaholic. maybe i'll waste 1500 rupees.

here is something else unholy: a man in deveraj market who sells human hair.

soft spots

i'm not one of those people who melt around animals, unlike my vegetarian roommate who buys chunks of dead chicken to feed dogs on the streets(she does not find this ironic. but then again, i wouldn't be surprised if she didn't know what "ironic" ment).
at the same time, i'm not some blind carnivore who doesn't give a shit that the turkeys we eat at thanksgiving aren't physically able to bang each other. (i'm serious. they have to be artificially inseminated by some poor, unfortunate high school dropout somewhere in the midwest.) i just don't go, "aww," when i see a cow eating out of someone's trash can. most street animals are cute from afar but dirty, noisy, and annoying close-up. same with babies.

that said, i have a quite the soft spot for hapa babies, like this half indian, half haole guy. i think that they make me feel like i'm back in hawaii, where everyone's a race mut.
Indian sweets are another major soft spot. When I was at the monastery, I took a day trip to Peo to use the internet. I bought a kilo of sweet that I thought would last the last three weeks of my stay in the gompa (nunnery). They lasted three days.
ok... this one isn't really a sweet. it's chat, like indian fast food but more delicious than you can imagine. ferreal. i am of the opinion that silver candy is superior to silver jewelry. My box from Bombay Tiffany's is in the foreground. Continents: 1 Jalebis, 3 Gulab Jamoon, 4 Mysore Pak, 2 fruit ladoo, 2 normal ladoos, 2 soan papdi, 4 regular bafi, 4 almond barfi, and two pretty ones covered with silver and pistachios

ham

this fits my mood.


MAKING LAMBS ANGER (ok quality) from oizo mr on Vimeo.

ribeye

The ISKCON memebers (Hare Krishnas) I meet are always so weird. My neighbors growing up were Hare Krishnas (Radha, Sri Devi, and Radhea- all blond and french) and we could always hear them screaming at each other late at night about how much they hated everything.

I used to play with the children, who were one year older and one year younger, but stopped shortly after they started taking me to the temple with them and telling me how it was a crime to eat my Nana's kal-bi. Seriously, how can you condem Nana? She makes pancakes and spam for my hungover friends who mysteriously wake up at my house. The woman's a saint.

Hare Krishnas are always in Waikiki dancing and asking you for donations or playing those tamborines in their white robes. Creepy. And they are all so fucking calm. I remember my friends describing this Hare Krishna guy at out school by saying that they always half expected flowers to spring up under his feet while walking across the quad (barefoot, of course). The same boy dropped out of Exeter this year to go live in a temple outside of Calcutta.

I met a blond Hare Krishna today who was born in Germany but grew up in India. He spoke with the exact same intonation and vernacular as my neighbors in Honolulu. He is named after the monkey god, Hanuman. He tried to sleep with me.

I plan on eating a bloody steak in front of him in the near future.

ohhhhh... ribeye....

yoga mallah

got to mysore on tuesday. the journey took way too long, leaving the house at 4:45 and arriving in pretentious hippie land around 1:00. okay, maybe i'm exaggerating, but my first meal in the city was spent at a satvic lunch, eating food that tasted like freshly stewed organic gerber's and gossiping about people's metabolisms and backbends.

practicing at the shallah (sri pattavi jois astanga research institute) is... good?

well, it starts way too early in the morning. at either 5:45 or 3:50 every morning i jump into a rickshaw that takes me the shallah and a room with about 70 people sweating their balls off in unnatural positions way too close to each other. you're expected to know the sequence (i don't) which, on my first day, resulted in me capriciously folding my limbs into shapes that looked decently astanga-like. then i got caught. at least someone told me what to do.

it wasn't as traumatizing as i had imagined.

after practice, i come home, go back to sleep (nice and sweaty) until breakfast, which is provided by our bomb ass apartment building that we got for a steal thanks to our landlord having to evict us from the other building dae was living in. then time for da kine cruise.

our apartment (i tried to add more, but got impatient) :

my room

kitchenette

balcony

The Big Chill

http://boxedwaterisbetter.com/hello/

watching cnn about the terrorist attack that happened in pakistan today in my right ear, eavesdropping my uncle talking to the prime minister (?) about it in my left ear.

Today was weird. Woke up in Ambala, a town that is half tuscany and half burkina faso, with endless fields of wheat lined with what could be olive trees (botany isn't my strong suit), turbaned men lounging around mud huts drinking tea, two bicylces for ever scooter, and two scooters for ever car.

I was visiting the last living and oldest of my grandfather's brothers, Inder Mohan, a venerable, deaf, and slightly eccentric 92 year old man who spent yesterday afternoon showing me pictures of my family and letters from American relatives. Met my bed ridden Tayiji who kept forgetting that I don't speak Hindi and wouldn't let me leave until she made sure Inder had given me a felt blanket and the equivalent of 10 bucks. Adorable but awkward.

Today, Inder's grandson and his wife drove me 7 hours to Delhi. I should have taken 5 but we got lost. Badly. I was no help and realized that Rajaji Marg looks like a million other Marges around India Gate. Got into a horrible mood because all I wanted to do was go to Kahn market and eat fettucini alfredo and strawberry ice cream at The Big Chill, which was looking more and more improbable.

Once back at Navy House, I tried to get a car, but all the drivers were at the airport to wait for my uncle, who was returning with my aunt from Goa. I was in no condition to meet anyone and was biting my lip until 5:25, when an extra driver showed up and drove me to Kahn market 5 minutes before my relatives were scheduled to arrive.

Once at Kahn market, I ran around frantically trying to find something that I wanted to do. There were no tables open at The Big Chill, so I took a strawberry milkshake to go and wandered around feeling anxious about nothing. I realized that i just wanted to be back at the monastery, where, although there is no strawberry ice cream, there is no traffic, no waiting, no pretense, and little stress. I realized that I missed the simple life.

So I bought ten dollars of imported cheese, Vogue India, another Austen book, and The Sun Also Rises and felt a little bit better. I went back to Navy House where I grinned through small talk and ate dinner. Leaving for Mysore from Navy House (Delhi) tomorrow at 5 a.m. I'll arrive at the apartment around noon.

It'll be the fifth day in a row where I wake up and go to sleep in a different city.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhwbxEfy7fg

something real

I grew up in a world where you have to learn that things you see in the magazines or on T.V. are spurious to the max or go crazy from the hammering understanding of your blatant inadequacy. Kate Moss is a god to some teenagers and twentysomethings attending NYU, but they probably throw up after three bites of keash and get nose bleeds in the middle of their political science classes. I don’t like tweaking, but I do like to digest my meals, thank you very much.

However, this means that I have to realize that what the media shouts at me a hundred times a day before lunch is bullshit. Coming of age with sanity after the turn of the millennium requires the ability to read vogue and know what parts to laugh at (the models that look like twelve year olds) and what parts to document in your moleskin (the way to revitalize your African frazzled hair and what collections to veneratably ogle online).

This crucial talent, however, has also made us a generation of skeptics. If it’s good, it’s too good to be true. If it’s bad, it’s either a lot worse, or the CNN is inflating the story just so the pundits have something to talk about when nothing else is going on.

A few years ago during Christmas, my classmate and neighbor went to Guatemala to work at an orphanage. She came back head-over-heels in love with the children. A string bracelet with the countries name was everlastingly affixed on her wrist; she had fundraisers selling homemade calendars and Guatemalan chocolate. She vowed to and eventually did go back for the summer.
She didn’t gush about the experience to strangers or anything, but in the days of MySpace, nothing was a secret. My group of school friends actually made fun of her behind her back, laughing at her MySpace photos and her new Latina-inspired style. The experience wasn’t authentic, just a show so that people would think she was “deep” or the new Mother Teresa or to help her get into a good college. “Great, go help street children in your seven jeans,” I remember one saying.

A solid education has taught us to think critically, but when do we stop criticizing? Can anything ever be good or authentic enough for us?

In a time when everything we do will become satire in someone else’s head (and in a time where everything we do is being published to the world via Facebook or… blogs), how do we live a life of authenticity without the fear of being categorized as trendy or phony by someone else, or even yourself?

I often battle with the authenticity of this year. How much of this is to really help the world and how much of it is for yourself to figure out some of your life before starting college? Do you really want to do these things you’re doing, or do they just sound cool?

I feel that for at least one month of this year, I’ve discovered something that I can believe in. Alaska was a bust, spending time with some of my extended family was occasionally excruciating, and Ghana sucked a whole lotta hope out of me. But, living at a Monastery in the middle of fucking nowhere has made me realize that not everything in life has to be looked at so critically. Authenticity of life is something you feel, not derive from playing to a certain set of standards. I guess that this is something you can learn only when you truly love something, like I love that place. When you know there is real love in your life, the clawing standards society sets for sincerity don’t matter. You can feel the truth of some things, and by golly, that’s good enough for me.

what i'll do to facebook

includes hiking for 3 hours, waiting for an hour for a hour long bus ride, and then walking all over a town in the middle of the himmalayas to find the three computers in 150 sq km that are connected to the internet. kind of a bitch. kind of think that today will be my last day on the internet until next month.
the monastery, however, is probably the best decision i made this year. when i open my eyes in the morning, i can see the himmalayas without even sitting up in my bed. probably because where i'm staying is a 3 hour hike up a himmalayan mountain. i teach four classes of about 5 girls between the ages of 15 and 23. they are sweet and hilarious.
monasteries are a way for women in the mountains to escape the dead end of village life and arrainged marrieges (sometimes to TWO men). these girls are the equvilant of jesus freaks by a long shot. mostly, they're independant women who want a way to get out of kinnaur. this is the best way.
i'm trying to find something interesting to say, but really can't. i'm almost done with the two austen books i brought up with me and will have to revert back to ulysses. austen books are basically 19th centurary chick flicks and they usually leave me awake all night wondering who i'm gonna marry.

that and i miss teri beef like the bejesus!

Hunger Strike

I've struggled for a long time to find something to believe in. Every young adult wants a cause, some slogan that they can shout on the steps of their capital until their voice goes hoarse. Still, the idea of the over-dedicated undergrad who fills his or her weekends with poetry slams, acid trips, and protests against everything from KFC chicken to the word "nigger" has always made me roll my eyes. It just seems too trendy to be authentic.

Now, I am far from being a conservative and do consider myself pretty progressive. I just believe that being an activist for thirty different causes is counter productive. Or maybe I just haven't found a cause for which I'm willing to chain myself to the gate of the White House for.

I'm stuck in Shimla for an extra night due to a misunderstanding of the bus schedule and a broken cell phone (now fixed). Shimla is shockingly beautiful. At two thousand something meters, it is built, cum Quebec, on the face of a mountain and crowned with a large white Anglican church from which a neon green cross shines after sunset. It was developed as a retreat for the British rulers from Delhi's sweltering summers and my Dad used to vacation here as a child. If you stand next to the church, you can see the Himalayas peaking out from behind the densely forested, dark green mountains. The main street steeply zigzags down the face of the mountain and is called, "The Mall." Just as it makes its first descending turn, there is a line of Tibetan refugees camped on the side of the street. They are on hunger strike. I can't even look them in the eye.

I respect these people so much and yet feel so ashamed. The situation in Tibet is wrong. No one cam deny that China should grant these people the right to self-determination and the practice of Tibetan Buddhism or stop violently queling peaceful protests.

Am I guilty? Che (not exactly my hero) said, "knowledge makes us accountable," but how sustainable is that belief? If you chase two rabits, they will both get away. Nobody, from myself to the President of the United States, can turn every wrong they witness into some personal crusade. Nothing would be achieved. So, what do I do? The prospects of choosing between apathy and pointless over-involvement until I find a cause is bleak. What if I never find one? Do I ignore injustice? When you live in such a global society, how do you choose where to throw your heart?

I just wish I knew a way to get this pit out of my stomach.

what i'll do to facebook

i leave tomorrow morning for meeru, kinnaur in himachal pradesh. i am really scared.


probably won't be updating more than once a week for the next month due to the 4 hour commute using the internet will require. but then again, if i were living at the north pole, i'd probably dogsled for 24 hours straight once every fortnight to check facebook.

p.s. whoever you are, call me up +919958612967

i have a feeling that in two weeks time, i'll be stoked to hear from my 6th grade math teacher

Empty Nest Syndrome

The word family means something different in India. Coming from a world where 90% of my friends move out of the house within months of turning 18, the idea of living with your parents when you're thirty is laughable. Here, it's bizzare to live in your own house unless you're married. At first I thanked God to be born in America because the idea of living with my parents until I get married seemed, in a word, horrifying. I've been wanting to move out of the house since as a long as I can remember. In Middle School, I begged to go to bording school. I've always wanted out.

Now, though, I'm beginning to look at the whole situation differently. I leave for Lucknow and Shabri Aunty in about an hour. I won't see my parents for almost four months. Last June, I would probably have celebrated this fact, but right now I'm actually pretty sad. Something weird happened over the past two weeks- we had fun.
Together.
As a "family."
On Vacation.

In India, a person's family is her friends. Aunts and inlaws call more than once a day to see what's up and it's not unusual for a 93 year old grand uncle to drive 4 hours to visit some random niece he's never met. No, I don't laugh as much as when I'm home. No, I don't go out or have horribly engaging converstaions very often. But in an age where entire relationships can be terminated by changing your facebook status, it's nice to be around people whose bond isn't imature humor or shared passing interests, but blood.

And when you grow up here, I can see how living with your parents could be not as horrifying as I thought. I think that people in America just never reach a point where they are both their parents friends and roommates. Ages 12-20 usually aren't prime parent-child bonding years anyway, right?
Not that i plan on living with my parents, or anything/

family vacay

family vacay was... fun? we went shopping and took snapshots in eight different cities in six days. we rode camels and elephants and went on a tiger safari (no luck this time). we made some friends from england and met a sweet but bizzare socialite family from Dubai. In conclusion, the week was like eating a frozen microwave dinner of kobe beef ribeye steak with truffle mashed potatos and brocolini. you know it should/could be amazing and it is good, just prepackaged and ladden with MSG, making the entire thing a bit vapid.

my dad took this...