as long as someone does it for me, that is.
There was a certain time, when I was about to embark upon lets just say an unusual journey, where relying on my own abilities was to be of utmost importance. I had managed to learn the ancient art of creating nearly edible common indian staple food including rotis with imperfect circumference and messed up salt ratios.
Surely being 'the male' I'd be easily exempted from it?
turns out it somehow boosts your metrosexuality, apparently.
Anyway, three years went by and not practicing enough led me to forget it. The time had come for me to to add some garam masala to my unused competencies yet again.
"Sanjeev Kapoor will worship me by christmas," I bragged on for a month. Unfortunately for me, like the government's promises, it um didn't quite happen. It wasn't long before hunger led desperation started to kick in. By then, I knew how to make a half-decent sandwich. and an omelette.
Getting bored of the same old crushing white balls and playing around with bread, I started going out. Met new people, made new friends—meet Mr. Food. Junk Food. Mrs. Frozen said hi.
Immediate ancestors have had a history of blending the symphony of spices just right; Mother says I should have it in my blood. But then, she was a topper unlike the relatively average scorer yours truly is.
Some have suggested I should try and combine my passions.
Or maybe I should blog about it.. you know, with pictures and all.
As for now, lets just put it this way—cooking to me is what a good hairstyle to Himesh Reshammiya is.
Update: Man I love coincidences. The DailyMail reported yesterday a rise of the 'gastrosexual' as more men are taking up cooking to seduce women.
As much as I'd love to seduce her