April 8, 2011 § Leave a comment

Harsha for me is what carrying around a Starbucks cup is like for some people, but not in the conspicuous consumption way.  A self-medicating addict, I’ve been telling myself I’ll make it for weeks. Last night I asked a girl I had interviewed to give me simple directions.  I mirrored her movements, and memorized shwiya melha, shwiya sukar, zeet…I could already taste the flaky golden goodness as I scurried up the hill with my half-kilo of cornmeal-esque grain. Visions of Costco-sized harsha danced in my head.I believe I added just the right amount of everything, but went a little heavy on the enthusiasm. After an hour of turning the huge round in the cast-iron skillet, the first bite said it all: I over mixed the batter. Khadija, my friend’s mom, gave it a perfunctory taste, some critiques and a smile, and I tried to hide my shame as the family politely broke their teeth on the fluffy-cake-turned-cracker-ruins. This is not the end.

On the back burner, the slow-simmer blending of the impulses of the head and the heart, mashed together like some terrible DJ’s remix. Though I’ve got an apartment’s worth of cleaning to do before I officially move out this weekend, I’m choosing to go to a party. Before scolding me, it’s not exactly going to be an out-of-control rage. It’s a tiny celebration for a non-profit association for handicapped children. And also, more Parliament protesting for revisions to the constitution this weekend. That, on the other hand, could be wild.



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