When my cooking failed and my dress flopped
The dinner at my place for my friends the previous night had been an unmitigated super flop and disaster. I wish I had stuck to my pakoras and cutlets as starters and my kaali dal and matar paneer as the main course. My seven layered dip had curdled and my enchiladas had opened and the vegetables peeped very sadly through the maida cover, as though saying cover our eyes. The risotto looked more like cheese pulao.
My husband said, laughing unsympathetically, “Why do you even try? You can’t do it. Just do Indian, as in desi. Don’t try anything fancy.”
“Yes,” I thought sadly. “Once a pendu, always a pendu.” For the unaware, pendu is a villager.
“Kya tabahi the uske kapde,” my husband said.
“Whose?” I asked.
“Are you serious?” I asked him.
“Yes and I did not like what you were wearing. It did nothing for you.”