Citizen Mowgli

On Friday, January 22, at approximately 2:10 p.m., my husband became a U.S. citizen. It was the culmination of years of visa applications, fee-paying and test-taking, and it was, honestly, a relief – I felt my whole body relax when the letter with the oathtaking ceremony information arrived weeks after we’d thought it would. Immigration policies and procedures have changed at a rapid-fire pace since 9/11, and it didn’t seem all that far-fetched to think that I might wake up one morning to find my husband had turned into an illegal alien overnight.

The ceremony was meaningful but not overly long, and was held on the 28th floor of the Eagleton federal courthouse in downtown St. Louis. There was a short speech by a lady who works at the International Institute; she talked about New Year’s Day and a new start, Dr. Martin Luther King and civic responsibilities, and later stood for photos with several of the candidates. The judge (a bankruptcy judge, as it happens), also said a few words about the responsibilities of a citizen. Then came the motion to naturalize the applicants, during which each of them (there were 46) were asked to stand and state their name, country of birth and occupation, as well as say a few words if they liked.

And then, we endured possibly the worst rendition of the national anthem in the history of time. The woman’s wobbly voice made me feel for her, right up to the point where she forgot the words. Luckily, the judge was on the ball and prompted her with “bombs bursting in air” after which it was just a matter of restraining the urge to nudge my mom lest I dissolve into a fit of giggles.

The final step was for each person to approach the judge to receive their certificate of naturalization as their name was called. Everyone took a photo with the judge, some just the two of them, some surrounded by family members. Three of Mowgli's friends from work had come to the ceremony, so we got a group shot with them, my mom and me (and the judge, of course).

As we exited the courthouse, my work team (my office is literally across the street) greeted us with flags and cheers – something I’d known about and managed to keep from Mowgli despite his habit of looking at incoming text messages. Later, we celebrated with friends and family at a bar that was grievously underprepared to receive a party of just over 90. Someone told me they’d seen one of the two bartenders cowering in a corner, crying and saying, “I can’t do this.” To be fair, I had called to warn them that we could be that many, but the woman I spoke with had laughed down the phone and said it was fine.

Thinking back on the day, the most moving part (other than watching my husband accept his certificate) was a very short statement from an older Pakistani gentleman. After he said his name and that he was retired, he spoke about how much he loves this country and how wonderful the people are, and that he knew he had to stay here for the rest of his life. His words moved me to tears, and as much as I hate to admit it, reminded me that I am very lucky to have been born in this country.

Naturalization Test

Tomorrow my husband Mowgli (not his real name) will take a written and oral test of English and a 10-question U.S. civics exam as part of his naturalization process. Herewith I present to you a sample test, culled from the 100 questions contained in the study booklet he was given. A passing grade is six correct answers, and for fun, I've posted the answers to the questions below the photo.

Let's begin, shall we?


1. What is the supreme law of the land?

2. What are two rights in the Declaration of Independence?

3. In what month do we vote for President?

4. What ocean is on the East Coast of the United States?

5. Name one war fought by the United States in the 1800s.

6. Who was the first President?

7. Why does the flag have 50 stars?

8. What did Susan B. Anthony do?

9. Who wrote the Declaration of Independence?

10. How many amendments does the Constitution have?






1. The Constitution; 2. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness; 3. November; 4.The Atlantic ; 5. War of 1812, Mexican-American War, Civil War, Spanish-American War; 6. George Washington; 7. each star represents a state; 8. fought for women's and civil rights; 9. Thomas Jefferson; 10. 27.

Diwali

Last night at dinner, I was able to explain Diwali (pronounced “Divali,” and meaning “row of lamps”) to a tableful of people while my husband Mowgli (not his real name) was in another room. When he returned, he commented that I’m starting to know more about Hinduism than he does.

It’s not that I have the fervor of a convert; I don’t practice Hinduism, or any other religion, on a daily basis. But when he doesn’t know the answers to my questions, he’ll take down a book from a shelf, or go online, and then my love of research takes over.

So, though there’s a lot more to the holiday than this, here’s what I’ve learned about Diwali:

- The central theme is good triumphing over evil, and hence light over darkness. This springs from the festival being the anniversary of the death of a demon (see below) as well as a harvest festival.

- In Southern India, Diwali is celebrated as the death anniversary of the demon Narakasura, who had been terrorizing the earth and imprisoning women. There are two versions of how the demon was killed; one is that Krishna beheaded him with his discus, and the other is that his wife, Satyabhama, killed him when he knocked Krishna out. She was able to do this because the demon had received a boon from Brahma that he could only be killed by his mother – and Krishna’s wife happened to be a reincarnation of the demon’s mother.

- In Northern India, Diwali is celebrated as the homecoming of the god Rama following a 14-year exile and the defeat of the nasty king Ravana, who had kidnapped Rama’s wife, Sita. Clay lamps filled with oil are lit to welcome him.

- Lakshmi (goddess of wealth, light, prosperity, fertility and wisdom) is a central figure during Diwali; this has to do with the harvest aspect of the festival. To do a proper Diwali, you should clean your house thoroughly so that when Lakshmi visits, she will be pleased.

- Diwali is a time when you forgive transgressions and accept forgiveness. Accounts are settled, new accounts are opened, and people visit with each other and exchange sweets.

- Celebrations go on for days in India and vary according to religion (Jains, Sikhs and Buddhists also celebrate Diwali), and vary according to the region and individual traditions.

In our house, we poured water on the front walk and steps and lit sparklers, dabbed our heads with oil (probably related to Krishna taking an oil bath to cleanse himself of the demon’s blood), showered, put on new clothes, prayed in front of our house shrine, and then had some rock candy.

Mowgli might be right about my growing Hinduism knowledge in certain cases, but if there’s a pop quiz on gods and goddesses, he’ll beat me every time. And without his mother, we’d both be lost; Mowgli prepared the shrine and directed the ritual according to her directions.

The Phone That Changed my Life

On Thursday night I made a ridiculous purchase for an item I did not need, but wanted: a phone that is not so much a phone as a very pretty and enjoyable toy that provides seemingly endless hours of entertainment. With it, I can: check e-mail; noodle around on Facebook; store, purchase and listen to music; take, store and share and edit photos and video; find the nearest open gas station; and so many other things that attempting to list them here would be a lengthy, if interesting, exercise in futility.

This purchase, as much as I resisted it, has changed my life in the space of the last two days. I know that’s dramatic, but it’s true.

One of the ways it’s been transformative is by demonstrating in a concrete way that it is good for me to occasionally buy myself the best of the best, my heart’s desire, something nice. I give my husband Mowgli (not his real name) majority credit for this; he is, as I like to say, a fancy lad, and tenaciously persuasive about many things.

With this particular item, he’s been working on me for a year. Get it. We can afford it. Get it. You’ll enjoy it. Get the biggest one.

And so, after gradually realizing that he was right and I did actually want the thing pretty badly, and having verified both online and via a surprisingly decent customer service line that I was eligible for an early upgrade, I called a store near us and guilted them into reserving one for me. Then I called my husband to giddily give him the good news and outline my plan for the two of us to spend a romantic evening at the phone store.

The guy who greeted us there frowned a bit when I said I’d reserved one earlier that day, but came back from a locked room with “the last one.” We were there for an hour, I think, making changes to my service, talking about the warranty, picking a shell for the device (purple and pink, much to Mowgli’s chagrin), and getting a tutorial on the basics of the phone’s features.

During the 15-foot walk to the car, I got a little dizzy from walking with my eyes glued to thescreen. I sat in the driver’s seat, setting up the voicemail and trying out voice dialing. I’m pretty sure I had started drooling when I heard a question from somewhere off to my right: “Do you want me to drive?”

I said no, and about 15 seconds later, unable to tear my attention away from the thing, I said yes. Mowgli drove us the 150 yards to the next store, I put the phone in my bag with great tenderness and delicacy, and we shopped. When we got out of the store, I took a few photos, and spent the entire drive home trying to figure out how to post them to Facebook.

At home, Mowgli put the groceries away (usually a tag-team effort) and I went out on the deck with the phone and the dogs, downloading apps, playing with said apps, and generally trying to run the thing out of juice as instructed by the phone store guy. Eventually I moved inside and sat on the couch, fiddling with it as Mowgli watched TV. Occasionally he’d ask me something, and I’d answer on a 30-second delay, without looking up.

Then I heard laughter from my left. “What?” “It’s like when you tell me you want me to pay attention when you talk to me and I’m watching TV. Only I’m trying to get your attention and you’re staring at the phone.”

Ladies and gentlemen, my iPhone changed my life – by turning me into a man.

Mowgli Prepares to Take the Plunge

Now and then during our engagement, people would ask me if my Indian-born fiance was a citizen, which I took as a polite way of asking if I was marrying him so he could remain in the U.S. I would reply that he wasn't, but that he had his green card. For those who didn't know me well and/or seemed unaware of the implications of that, I'd add that he didn't need to marry me to stay in the country.

In a nutshell, once you have taken the necessary steps to get a green card, you may come and go as you like, and live legally in the U.S. for the next 10 years. After that, if you haven't already become a citizen, you have three choices: renew it, return to your home country, or apply for citizenship.

My darling husband Mowgli (not his real name) is taking the third option, so yesterday, we went to a camera shop to get passport-style photos of him to send with his application. He took great care with his grooming, ironed his crisp white shirt for approximately one hour, and worried about his handsomeness level -- all business as usual for him.

Once the application is filed, he'll be notified about when to show up for the naturalization test, which consists of a reading and writing test of English, and a verbal civics test. Once upon a time, it consisted of a list of 20 questions, but now there are 100, all about the branches, history and mechanics of our government. Ten of those 100 are asked during the interview, and you have to get at least six right to pass.

Since Mowgli is known in certain circles as an American History trivia team ringer, I don't think he'll have any trouble with that. But I'm not sure I could pass that test if I had to take it today.

I know that the President vetoes bills and that FDR was President during World War II, but if they asked me when the Constitution was written, I'd be all like, um, after 1776? And while I was happy to see questions about Native Americans and Susan B. Anthony in there, I think the one about the Pledge of Allegiance is a mite tricky.

The INS provides a free booklet of the 100 questions and their answers, and you can go online to get free flashcards. But if you take a look at the photo of my old copy of "Our American Government" below, you'll see how seriously I took civics class.

Mowgli and the Chore Chart

The other day I wrote about the bread baking event at the family reunion. Today I'm writing about something less exotic: the chore chart at the family reunion, pictured above.

If you count up those names, you'll get 47 (this is what happens when two people have eleven children, who then each have between one and three children apiece and get together 30 years later). So the chart is a necessary part of gathering for a weekend -- but it's also fun.

It is work, sure, but preparing food with someone is one of the best ways to get a feel for them; chopping vegetables, frying bacon and scrubbing pots have a way of exposing the ins and outs of a personality. I saw humor, management techniques, frustration and cubic tons of love in that big, bright room. If it had been possible, space-wise, I am dead sure that everyone would have been in there for the entire three days. As it was, we settled for scooting past each other to get at blueberry buckle, ice cream, soda and yes, children, alcohol.

Back to the chart, though. Everyone above the age of 14 or so was assigned to a team, and each team was assigned one meal and one cleanup. My husband Mowgli (not his real name) was on a team that drew breakfast duty on Sunday. I had my doubts (he is NOT a morning person), but he made me immeasurably proud when he told me, as I stumbled into the kitchen around 8:30, that he was the first one there.

The word on the street is that he made a whole mess of French toast -- my mother, who was on the same team with him, even claims to have photographic evidence.

Big loaves of thanks to the family

My husband and I just returned from a family reunion on my dad's side that was lovely in many ways and about which I will write in greater detail later. For now, I feel compelled to tell you about one particular incident.

There is a bakery in the family, and thus several bakers were on hand. These are people who make bread for fun, and tend to pass along the baker's art at family reunions. The bread we learned to make is legendary in this clan: Dilly Cheese -- it's exactly what it sounds like, and mere mention of it sent a roomful of folks into raptures.

I took approximately 8 million photographs of the bread-making process, but one of my favorites is of my husband's hands in dough. This was an unexpected development and hopefully the start of a bread-making trend at Masala House.


Below is my other favorite photo: cousin Matt, showing us how it's done. Deep thanks to him and the rest of the clan for welcoming us with open arms, and teaching us how to make something that nourishes body and soul.

Common Language

When I was in my early 20s, I dated a Liverpudlian. We argued playfully about the usual British vs. American English words: lift vs. elevator, car park vs. parking lot, sidewalk vs. pavement.

Now I'm married to a South Indian. We don't argue about Indian vs. American English so much as translate them in our heads. Sometimes he says fingers when he means toes, and he knows that when I say stroller, I mean perambulator.

Last weekend, we were dividing up the cleaning, and I said I'd vacuumed the basement, the stairs, the hall and the kitchen. Hours later he was puzzled about why there was dog hair on the dining room floor if I'd already cleaned it. I said I hadn't. He looked confused and said yes, you said you vacuumed the living and dining rooms, the basement and the stairs.

Enh?

And this is how I learned that for my husband, "hall" means living room and dining room.

Yes, We're Together

My husband and I don't often go shopping together, for various reasons. But when we do, about half the time, a checkout person will not realize we're together. "Oh, I didn't realize you were together," they'll say as I scoot my toothpaste up the conveyor belt with his razors. This, despite the fact that we've been talking about personal things and standing roughly half an inch away from each other. And probably holding hands or something smooshy like that.

I generally put it down to the level of distraction in the store. A checker must have a million things to keep straight, those registers are full of tricks, and sometimes the poor thing is wearing an earpiece blaring God knows what sales messages into their brain. Still, it's bothersome.

It's not even the blatant racism of it that bugs me the most. It's the negation of us as a couple, a reminder that here in the Midwestern U.S., the marital combination of our skin tones will always be seen as an anomaly. Not that a handful of people being blind to our coupledom matters that much in our day-to-day lives. But it still shocks me a little bit every time, and the really sad part is it shocks me a bit less each time.

Even Dogs Play Favorites

We have two dogs, both mutts, both delightful in their own ways. Georgie is a Rottweiler mix, aloof and protective, and so densely built that strangers assume she's a male. She once barked at clothes that were hanging on the back of a door; I suppose they looked ominous to her, and to be fair, they had appeared without warning. When I walk her alone at night and Mowgli calls out, "be safe," I giggle.

And then we have Jim, the pretty sweetie-pie of the house whose most dangerous feature is the stench of his breath. He loves human contact so much that he will let you rock him back and forth when he is standing. I once compared him, fairly, to Inspector Clouseau.

Jim is Mowgli's favorite dog. He has proclaimed this loudly, in front of both dogs, on numerous occasions, so at this point, every creature in the house is aware of his canine preferences.

My morning routine is to feed and walk the dogs, and then work on writing projects, with the dogs cruising by for pats and scratches. Sometimes I ask their opinion of this or that sentence, but they're generally reluctant to comment beyond a yawn. This goes on for an hour or so, and then I go upstairs to get ready for work. When I come down, Jim is inevitably waiting as you see him above, tucked into that corner between a speaker and an overstuffed chair.

This is his view:

He doesn't budge when I come down to gather my things. Why would he? He's waiting for his favorite human.

Mowgli-Approved Dal Recipe

Toor dal, a/k/a pigeon peas, are our bean of choice for dal-making.

My husband Mowgli (not his real name, I mean come on, that would just be silly) is an infamously picky eater. In fact, he's so picky that I sometimes consider changing his blog name to "The Man Who Will Only Eat Five Things," but that's just a mite cumbersome. True, but cumbersome.

This July, the usual hot-washcloth-in-the-face effect has been blissfully absent, and yes I know I just jinxed it, sorry about that. But it's been close enough to soup-eating weather that yesterday morning, my thoughts turned to dal.

As I work full-time, and dal takes a couple of hours to make the way we like it, crock-pot dal seemed the way to go. I'd never tried it, but if you've read about my massive dosa failure, you know I don't shy from a kitchen challenge. Also, beans are cheap.

So without any futher ado, I present to you this blog's first practical offering: a Mowgli-approved dal recipe.

Get your crock-pot out; if you don't have one, get ye to a Target and shell out 18 clams like I did.

Put 4-6 cups of water in the crock (4 makes a thick dal, more makes it thinner). Wash 1.5 cups of beans (lentils, toor dal, moong dal, yellow split peas, whatever, doesn't really matter) and add them to the water.

Add the following spices:

1/2 t. turmeric
1 t. ground cumin
1/8 t. cayenne (or a couple of dried red chiles if you have them)
2-3 curry leaves -- totally optional, you won't miss them if you don't know what they taste like, and they're only available at Indian or international groceries.

Turn the crock on low and go to work, or sleep, or whatever. Mine went for 9.5 hours and was just fine.

When you get home, or wake up, turn the crock off and add about a teaspoon of salt. Remove the chiles and curry leaves if you added them earlier. If you're feeling fancy, add 1 teaspoon of garam masala and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice. For the record, I did neither last night, though I had both on hand, and it was still delicious.

Start your rice, and get out a small frying pan, some cumin seeds, ghee (butter or oil will work, too) and an onion. Dice the onion and saute it over medium heat with a teaspoon of cumin seeds in 2 tablespoons of whatever oil you choose. You want the onions to turn out soft, but not brown, so count on at least ten minutes of cooking time. Add the onion mixture to the soup, stir it in, add more salt if you like, and enjoy over rice.

The onions should be just a bit more done than this.

International Cocktail Hour

Last week I was grocery shopping with my husband Mowgli (not his real name) when he started prowling the liquor aisle. I knew what he was looking for: Hpnotiq. And no, that's not a string of typos, that's how some brand guru decided to spell it -- you can check out the bottle below for confirmation.

Now, if you've met Mowgli, you may know that his favored hard liquor is Wild Turkey. Being a man who's confident in his choices, he does not care one fig that others find his love of both Wild Turkey and Hpnotiq incongruous.

Despite the fact that it is bright blue and can accurately be described as tasting like a SweetTart, "Product of France" proudly adorns this blend of vodka, cognac and "exotic fruit juices." The stuff is so beloved by the patrons of our local grocery store that it was behind the service counter, from whence it is difficult to steal.

Back at home, we delivered it to the fridge. I cozied up to my Sunday night show with a small amount of the stuff, but was not enjoying it as much as I might due to the tart end of the SweetTart factor. Later, I perused the fridge for a mixer, and my gaze fell on the bottle of super-sugary Indian mango juice we had also picked up.

And thus the green concoction on the left was born. I like to think of it as the Shazam because that was the thought in my head when I realized how well the two liquids would go together, but I'm taking suggestions for names.

Two-Word Tamil Lesson

My husband Mowgli (not his real name) speaks three languages. English is his first (in case you're curious -- he gets a lot of questions about that), and at home, his parents speak a mix of Tamil and Telugu in addition to English. So if I want to understand and converse the way they do, I'll need to learn two languages as well as the particular mixology at work in my in-laws' home.

For now, I've decided that learning Tamil, slowly and randomly, is the way to go, since they live in Tamil Nadu and I should therefore be able to use it both in the house and in public the next time I visit.

One word I've learned, from doing yardwork with Mowgli, is the word for "snake," because we have garter snakes and he is not fond of snakes in any form. When he sees one, he will point and use the Tamil word for snake.

Not long ago, when a nature show ad came on, and there was a gorgeous close-up of a tongue-flicking snake in the ad, I proudly trotted out one of my five Tamil words. "Ooh, honey, look at that big bad tombu!"

That's when the laughing started. Tombu means "thumb." Pombu is "snake."

And now I know two Tamil words really, really well.

India Diary, Part Two

If you're just joining us, today's post is a continuation of Thursday's post, which consisted of excerpts from the diary I kept when I went to India last year for a reception thrown for us by my in-laws. Again, this is verbatim except where noted by brackets.

On the endlessly fascinating street life:
"We saw a bunch of bullock water carts -- tanks of water on wheels being hauled by bullocks with brightly painted horns, some with decorative horn-covers:"

By the way, it turns out these water carts are supplemental -- the city provides water on specific days at specific times, and it's up to you to fill your tanks with as much as you need. If you can't get enough, or need more, you contact a supplemental water company, which then dispatches a bull-drawn tank.

On our one trip outside of the city:
"Went off to the waterfall -- about 40 KM away, north of the city. Passed farms w/grapes, bananas, sugar cane & rice paddies, in between villages with stall-stores at the edge of the road, schools, coconut vendors, groups of women, men & schoolkids. Lots of goats, stray dogs, cows (some on leads), and donkeys. Saw a donkey fight in the middle of the road -- awesomely funny."

My husband Mowgli (not his real name) told me later that donkeys eat newspaper, and something in the ink makes them crazy. I still wish I'd been quick enough with the camera to get a shot of the donkey fight. Most of the animals we saw, including horses, were wandering down the street. Cows tend to be tied up because they're very valuable; goats are allowed to wander because they'll eat as they go and it's cheaper to keep them that way; and the dogs are just semi-feral and everywhere, and not to be messed with.

On wandering around town and visiting a grocery store (at my request):
"Had a Coke at Domino's after taking pix of the delivery motorbikes outside and attracting the attention of the owner, who was amused by my tourist ways, but v. nice. [Mowgli] had suggested a juice bar, but I couldn't decide to save my life (Chickoo?!) and was nervous since mom's incident. And something familiar just sounded good.
Went to a grocery store -- Nilgiri's -- to check it out -- narrow aisles, and lots of choices just like in the U.S. Sort of like a Target in that they had housewares, dog stuff, toiletries, etc. [Mowgli] said later that produce was next door."

I'll leave you with sketches of some of the gifts we received at the reception. The Shiva was too heavy to bring back, but the Ganesh came with us and now resides in our living room.

India Diary, Part One

I blame the jetlag for my fascination with the lightswitches.

I recently rediscovered the diary I kept during our trip to India last year for a reception that my husband's parents threw to celebrate our marriage. My mother and older brother went with us, and we traveled together from Newark to Brussels to Chennai (Madras) to Coimbatore. On the longest leg of the flight (9 1/2 hours) we all slept, though I noted that when I woke up I was so groggy that my husband was worried (we had only been married for six months).

Here are a few excerpts, verbatim except where noted with brackets.

First impressions of Madras:

"On the way to the hotel I was in back, trying to see as much as possible. Lots of dust, roadside shops/bars serving taxi drivers. I noticed that if I breathed with my mouth open, I could feel a fine coating of silky grit. Lots of honking. People driving fast, auto-rickshaws, scooters, trucks. We passed a modern gas station, just like ours -- big, well-lit, neon, lots of pumps."


The entry/new bride welcoming proceedings at my in-law's house in Coimbatore, which were attended by several aunts and uncles. Just before this, we'd done the entry ceremony, wherein I'd had to be the first to enter the family courtyard and house, stepping with my right foot first. Mowgli was scolded for trying to enter before me, but to be fair, we'd just traveled for over 30 hours.

" ...I lit the lamp in the family shrine. I had to strike the match with my right hand -- kind of tricky for a southpaw. All of this took maybe five minutes, then we ate, served by the ladies. I held a silver tray with dishes of kumkum and turmeric. [Amma (mother in-law)] put the gift on it, they daubed themsleves and me, then I offered the gift and they took it."



On my mom crossing the street:

"Mom's freaked out about crossing the street. There are no crosswalks and nobody stops, but nobody gets hit either. Everyone also honks. Mom stops when she should keep going."



On beggars:

"Saw a few beggars -- little kids, and an old dwarf man. [Mowgli] gave the man some money but shooed the kids away. I have to ask him why he gave to one and not the other." Note: He told me later the kids are working for a boss, so he didn't give because the money wouldn't help them.



On waiting for our driver* to pick my mom and me up at a hotel:

"Saw a few Westerners, but mostly Indians lounging, standing in groups, going here or there. Had a false alarm thinking Babu [his real name] had come -- the doorman laughed at us when we shrugged at our own eagerness. He had a great moustache:"

*My in-laws hired a driver to take us wherever we wanted, pretty much whenever we wanted, for the duration of our stay. At first it felt uncomfortably luxurious, but after about five minutes of being driven calmly through the maelstrom that is Indian traffic, it seemed more like a necessity. He also kept an eye out for unsavory types and answered all of my silly, curious traveler questions with grace.

International Art in the Living Room

One of the perks of being married to a guy from India is all the Indian art that's included in the man-dowry. I've picked up a few international items over the years, too, so the sculptural items in our living room are a veritable melting pot of art.

A sweet little peacock from India. He's made a few flights down those stairs you can see a bit of in the lower right-hand corner.

A Hummel given to me by my great-grandmother when I was 5 or 6. (For those of you who will want to know: Grandma on Ryan Road.)

Detail from a plate depicting Lakshmi, the goddess of spiritual and material wealth. Those are elephants on either side of her -- according to this site, they represent the name and fame of wealth, that is, you shouldn't keep wealth to yourself, but share it to bring happiness to others.

The classic flute-playing Krishna; this is the first piece of art I remember asking about during one of my first visits to my husband's apartment.

I believe this is Kathi, a character from the classical dance theater form Kathakali from the state of Kerala in Southern India. He represents "heroes who are not particular about the means they use to gain their needs."

A laughing Buddha to keep us happy. The story goes that he's laughing because he's just learned the secret of enlightenment.



I love the heft of this elephant; it's only about a foot tall but its bulk makes it seem enormous.

A festive clay horse. I asked Mowgli if it had special significance, and he said, "It's just a horse."

The Ashoka Pillar, symbol of India.

The Buddha again, serene this time, and made from a coconut.

Two crystal vases from a trip to southern Poland (Krakow, Zakopane, Auschwitz, the Wieliczka salt mine) with my mom in September 2000. We were there for the nine days between our birthdays, and we spent at least five of those days looking at crystal, amber, blouses and lace. We spent the other four eating, looking at castles and murdering the gorgeous Polish language.

My favorite representation of Ganesh (we have at least four or five), given to us during our reception in India, though I have no idea by whom. His elephant head represents the soul, his human body earthly existence, and his trunk is om, the sound of the cosmos. He is known as the Lord of Success, and destroyer of evils and obstacles.

Indian Death Traditions

New York, 2 a.m., March 2009

Sometimes it's hard to think of concrete exmples of how my husband has changed my life beyond the obvious things like living together and developing a set of inside jokes. But last Friday, on the way home from a visitation, I found myself looking forward to a shower.

Bathing after a funeral or visitation is an Indian tradition that he must have introduced me to the first time we went to something like that together. It's a purification ritual, but for me, it's also comforting and provides a much-needed transition, since my emotions tend to be right on the surface after being around grief. Which is fine and natural, but not something I enjoy for extended periods.

To do it completely by the book, you'd bathe outside and wash your clothes separately. I settle for inside and in the laundry basket, followed by quiet conversation with my husband.

There are many other distinct Indian and Hindu traditions around death. Washing and preparing the body for burial is an honor performed by a close family member. The family observes a period of ritual impurty during which they cover religious icons and do not visit temples, go to see friends, or attend marriage ceremonies. Hindu rituals are performed at various intervals after the death according to family traditions. In my husband's family, it's 3 days after, 11 days after, and 31 days after the death. I think there's one more interval, too, but after that, the death is observed annually.

My father died a few years ago, in March, but we had a service for him over a year later on his birthday, June 22. The Father's Day onslaught has been getting to me more than usual this year, so I'm considering borrowing (and probably modifying) another tradition from my husband, and hoping that if I do, it will help.

Going Dutch

Johannes Vermeer's "The Wine Glass"

My husband Mowgli (not his real name) has a friend who has lived in Amsterdam for several years. He swings through town to see family every so often, and we get to enjoy his company over a meal and drinks. It’s a fine, relaxed time that feels like the best parts of college – zesty, deep, respectful debate about everything from the birth of open source software to religion.

Naturally, we tend to talk about life in the U.S. versus life in the Netherlands. Here’s a list of what I learned:

 The housing market there is unsettling people because prices are fluctuating by 10% or so in either direction.

 It’s equally easy to be a vegetarian in either country, although it used to be harder here.

 Europeans don’t wrap up nearly as much of their identity in their jobs as Americans do.

 Temporary resident aliens have the right to vote in the Netherlands. Thus our friend was able to vote for the next Water Commissioner, which might not sound like much, but it is -- 25% of the Netherlands is below sea level and under constant threat of flooding.

 Our friend was the first employee to refuse a company car – in Amsterdam, you really can’t have one because, he says, there’s just no room. Also, when you have four markets, a cheese shop and two bakeries within walking distance, and the bars are a tram ride away, you don’t need one.

 He described the Dutch language as the intersection between English and German. There are two ways to say “cheers”: prost, and gesundheit (if you pronounce the first syllable like you are a Jewish grandma saying “challah.”)

The Joy of Appliances

We have recently been made ridiculously happy through the acquisition of a new washer and dryer. The old ones were starting to hobble, and it turns out my company's discount on them is significant. Add to that the tax credits available for Energy Star items, which pretty much everything is these days, and we were off to the races.

Here are the space-age machines, stacked because A) they can be, and B) our laundry room is more of a laundry cubby, and expanding the usable space by even a few inches makes our lives much more pleasant. Take special note of the gas line on the left, which I think of as more of a bruisemaker than a gas line. That red knob is 2 feet, 6 inches from the right-hand wall, and while I often curse the idiot who put it there, I am glad they made it sturdy.



Mowgli has a collection of approximately 1.5 million tools and is not at all intimidated by things like the possibility of getting electrocuted, so we opted to have him handle the installation. I admit to being nervous -- you never know what you're going to run into, even in an 11-year-old house, and I had to resist the nightmare scenarios that popped into my head unbidden. I conjured up floods of water cascading into the basement from the first-floor bathroom through an open pipe that could not be turned off while Mowgli yelled instructions to me and I did my best not to scream at him. Which actually happened, years ago, in my old house.

But happily, history did not repeat itself, and everything went relatively smoothly, i.e., we got through it with only two mid-project trips to the big-box hardware warehouse. One of those was for dryer vent parts. I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say Mowgli had some choice words for the folks who built our house. He was pretty diplomatic, though: "They're not supposed to do that" and "Those idiots!" were about as salty as he got.

Once everything was hooked up, we inched the six-foot-tall technological wonder into place by shoving our bodies against it in precisely choreographed little bursts. We tossed some clothes in, consulted the manual, poured the right amount of detergent in the fancy little additive drawer, and gingerly pushed the necessary buttons. Then we sat down to watch.

That's right. We sat on the linoleum floor of the laundry cubby and gazed in wonder at the clothes as they tumbled back and forth, making comments like "What's it doing?" and "That's amazing." and "Wow."

The next morning, I found a stack of folded clothes, and a note. Here's a closeup:

In case you can't make it out, it says, "The dryer is so awesome that it even folds the clothes!"

Now that's a good dryer.

We Heart the Spelling Bee

Over the holiday weekend, my husband Mowgli (not his real name) ran into reruns of last year’s Scripps National Spelling Bee, which could only mean one thing: it’s time for this year’s bee.

Go ahead, call us geeky, we don’t mind. We know what you may not: the national bee is an amazing piece of theater.

ESPN aired the semifinal round last night, and by the time ABC televises the finals (tonight, 8 p.m. Eastern/ 7 p.m. Central), the remaining 9- to 15-year-olds will have been whipped into a nervous froth of adolescent yearning. But it’s all good, clean fun: they’re competing for brainiac glory, and money.

The top prize includes a savings bond, $2,800 worth of reference works, a scholarship and an engraved trophy as well as a check for $30,000. If you take second place, you receive $12,500. Even kids who misspell in the first round of the semifinals get $250.

Being a former rule-writer, I checked those out. Here’s my favorite: “The speller must not have repeated fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth grade for the purpose of extending spelling bee eligibility.” Imagine, for a moment, the hilarity of exactly how one would intentionally repeat a grade in order to qualify for a spelling bee. You’re ridiculously smart, and yet, and yet, advancing a grade will erase forever your last shot at holding the big, shiny trophy… oh, the agony!

The statistics about the spellers are fascinating, and sometimes counterintuitive; 44 are only children, 63.5% of them attend public schools, there is one third-grader, and 30 spellers are related to a previous national finalist.

And here’s one to chew on: "English is not the first language of 33 spellers, and 117 spellers speak languages other than English." Imagine that for a moment. Create a picture of yourself at 12, 13 or 14, in France, on a stage, on national TV, spelling French words. Merde!

But as you may have guessed, it’s the kids of Indian descent that really float my husband’s boat. When they're at the mike, he likes to reminisce about his own school days and imagine how they prepared, especially when they cut to the parents’ section of the stage. It's a nice bit of side theater for me, seeing my husband dissolve in fits of laughter while imagining the arduous path that led these kids to the bee. For a taste of this, you can check out the documentary "Spellbound."

And yes, in case you’re wondering, we did watch the reruns; we were hoping to see this moment again: