The heat is on in Chennai. I am feeling thirsty all day, every day. I am craving tall glasses of chilled fruit juices but I don’t want to pick out seeds, strain the pulp and wash all these dishes for a single glass of juice. I will also complain that juice shops charge exorbitant rates for a single glass of juice.
Don’t worry. This is not a recipe post for Watermelon juice.
It is not a recipe post because Vitamix, Hamilton and Kitchenaid and even Preethi mixie said they don’t want to sponsor this post.
And I trust you my readers to chop up the watermelon, discard the green pith and blend the chopped watermelon to a juice. Promise me you won’t go wrong.
Also since many of you told me you look forward to my stories more than my recipes, I decided to skip the watermelon juice recipe this time.
I have big plans and bigger dilemmas come summer.
I have a long list of vadams and pickles that I plan to make on my weekend dates with mambalam maami friends that I need someone to organize for me. I try to get out of calling people. I am not social enough.
Before that I need to go shopping for the maa vadus (tiny tender mangoes) and ingredients. I need to make lists. Every time I look at the lovely low hanging mangoes in our terrace, I remind myself I need to go buy some maa vadu.
I have two Hattori/Motu Patlu binge watchers at home that I need to keep from scraping their already battered knees doing cycle races through their very own dirt track over the siphon, into the puddle and through the mud track between the road and the pavement. I need to keep them away from the TV, away from all the smartphones in the house; pins and passcodes of all of which they have memorized. I need to keep them from razing all the crayons down to wax powder, from drawing on the newly painted walls, from raiding the cookie boxes and feeding the extras to crows, from drenching themselves under the garden tap, from bringing the garden into the house, from cooking their leaves and dirt curry in my non-stick kadai, from coating the living room floor in biscuit crumbs, sticky lollipop sticks, hot wheels cars, gum and torn paper.
I like it that summer camps somewhat reduce duty time but I am beset by memories of my own idle summer holidays and I can’t make up my mind if summer camps are better for them or not. They are better for me, I know.
Slightly cleaner floors and a little organized activity and learning
un-restrained childhood summers and potential memories
I am un-decided.
We officially welcomed summer by breaking out the inflatable pool last weekend. Hasini claimed she finally felt calm and peaceful soaking in the water. She excitedly waved to a couple of inquisitive kids who stared from the neighbouring apartment’s balcony. I joined Hasini and Yuvi in the pool and lay there making plans for the summer.