Tomorrow the world will end.
No, you say? It's all a misinterpretation, you say, by ghoulish doomsayers whose ambition in life is to go down with a placard saying, "I told you so!" The fact is, you say, that it is a very normal rolling over of a calendar. If the world didn't end on 31/12/1999 when the Gregorian calendar rolled over, or whichever dates the Hindu calendar, or the Sumerian, Vanuatuan, Martian, Andromedan, etc calendars rolled over, it's unlikely it will end tomorrow.
Sure, but come on, admit it. There is a tiny voice inside all of us that goes, "Ooh, but what if it is true? Wouldn't it be most exciting?! I'll get to see whether Hollywood does a decent job of forecasting human behaviour in a disaster situation. Will my neighbour look at my stricken face while time slows down all around us, wipe away a tear from my dust-caked face (look, we're all the same colour, Ma!), and risk a severed limb in order to pull my little one out from the nursery window?" (Real life scenario is probably more like this - "Damn, I forgot that my baby is stuck in the nursery! My neighbour legged it hours ago having shown me the finger when I asked for his help pulling out my prized Eames lounge chair from the collapsed house. Should I risk mutilating myself trying to pull out little Sassy? ... Ah, stuff it. The world is going to end anyway, and if not, I'm still fertile, I can produce many more Sassies if I save myself and keep my body fit and in working order." And with those misplaced priorities and that twisted logic you join the fleeing masses in no particular direction, cursing gravity for resolutely keeping you glued to the planet that is going to explode into smithereens any time now.)
Annyhoo, so if the world ends tomorrow, what would I like for my last meal? We don't give much importance to these things, but we should take a tip or two from the judiciaries around the world, who, unless it is an urban myth like Satan's tail and horns, allow prisoners with death sentences to have a last meal of their (the prisoner's not the judge's) choice.
If I was a foodie, I would have said, I'd eat a meal as follows -
Starters would be slow-roasted organic free-range plum tomatoes... (yes, you heard right. The society for prevention of dietary discrimination ruled that non-vegetarians cannot have monoploy over the term 'free range'. If you allow your tomato vines to grow as they wish without restricting them to the lattice in the corner of the garden, they can be certified free range. They taste better because they're free and happy.)
OK, where was I? Ah, yes, slow-roasted organic free-range plum tomatoes with mozzarella made from milk drawn gently from a 8-year-old Italian buffalo at dawn (it makes such a difference), and lightly seasoned with Lake Titicaca salt (quite a rarity as the lake is freshwater).
The main course would be mashed heritage potatoes, preferably from a seed bank in Peru, preferably a variety that is extinct outside the seed bank. Also, tri-coloured quinoa salad with goji berries, chia seeds, cultured vegetables, activated almonds (thanks for introducing me to that, Pete Evans!) and maca root. (Get it? The South American theme? My tribute to the Mayan prophets.)
For dessert, I would have creme brulee made from organic free-range eggs (which means the eggs are allowed to roam free in the farm, you numskull) and organic free-range milk and organic free-range sugar (you figure it out). The flame to caramelise the sugar also has to come from organic free-range fuel, of course.
And finally I will have siphon coffee made with beans grown on the southern slopes of the Andes, watered only at sunset with the urine of the one-eyed sloth. I know, I know, elephant dung coffee is all the rage now, but I find it a little too earthy for my taste. I like the bright tang of my sloth urine coffee better.
BUT...I'm not a foodie. What I will REALLY do for a last meal is charter a plane to Bombay right away. I won't give in to the temptation of eating at my childhood home because it will take weeks to eat my way through all my favourite dishes that Mother makes. Instead I'll have chaat at Matunga (Central, market), wada pav at Dadar (Central, near the circle), dahi misal at Dadar (West, Kelkar Rd), and finish off with ras malai at Wadala (West, near the station).
Then I can wait happily for the end of the world.
No, you say? It's all a misinterpretation, you say, by ghoulish doomsayers whose ambition in life is to go down with a placard saying, "I told you so!" The fact is, you say, that it is a very normal rolling over of a calendar. If the world didn't end on 31/12/1999 when the Gregorian calendar rolled over, or whichever dates the Hindu calendar, or the Sumerian, Vanuatuan, Martian, Andromedan, etc calendars rolled over, it's unlikely it will end tomorrow.
Sure, but come on, admit it. There is a tiny voice inside all of us that goes, "Ooh, but what if it is true? Wouldn't it be most exciting?! I'll get to see whether Hollywood does a decent job of forecasting human behaviour in a disaster situation. Will my neighbour look at my stricken face while time slows down all around us, wipe away a tear from my dust-caked face (look, we're all the same colour, Ma!), and risk a severed limb in order to pull my little one out from the nursery window?" (Real life scenario is probably more like this - "Damn, I forgot that my baby is stuck in the nursery! My neighbour legged it hours ago having shown me the finger when I asked for his help pulling out my prized Eames lounge chair from the collapsed house. Should I risk mutilating myself trying to pull out little Sassy? ... Ah, stuff it. The world is going to end anyway, and if not, I'm still fertile, I can produce many more Sassies if I save myself and keep my body fit and in working order." And with those misplaced priorities and that twisted logic you join the fleeing masses in no particular direction, cursing gravity for resolutely keeping you glued to the planet that is going to explode into smithereens any time now.)
Annyhoo, so if the world ends tomorrow, what would I like for my last meal? We don't give much importance to these things, but we should take a tip or two from the judiciaries around the world, who, unless it is an urban myth like Satan's tail and horns, allow prisoners with death sentences to have a last meal of their (the prisoner's not the judge's) choice.
If I was a foodie, I would have said, I'd eat a meal as follows -
Starters would be slow-roasted organic free-range plum tomatoes... (yes, you heard right. The society for prevention of dietary discrimination ruled that non-vegetarians cannot have monoploy over the term 'free range'. If you allow your tomato vines to grow as they wish without restricting them to the lattice in the corner of the garden, they can be certified free range. They taste better because they're free and happy.)
OK, where was I? Ah, yes, slow-roasted organic free-range plum tomatoes with mozzarella made from milk drawn gently from a 8-year-old Italian buffalo at dawn (it makes such a difference), and lightly seasoned with Lake Titicaca salt (quite a rarity as the lake is freshwater).
The main course would be mashed heritage potatoes, preferably from a seed bank in Peru, preferably a variety that is extinct outside the seed bank. Also, tri-coloured quinoa salad with goji berries, chia seeds, cultured vegetables, activated almonds (thanks for introducing me to that, Pete Evans!) and maca root. (Get it? The South American theme? My tribute to the Mayan prophets.)
For dessert, I would have creme brulee made from organic free-range eggs (which means the eggs are allowed to roam free in the farm, you numskull) and organic free-range milk and organic free-range sugar (you figure it out). The flame to caramelise the sugar also has to come from organic free-range fuel, of course.
And finally I will have siphon coffee made with beans grown on the southern slopes of the Andes, watered only at sunset with the urine of the one-eyed sloth. I know, I know, elephant dung coffee is all the rage now, but I find it a little too earthy for my taste. I like the bright tang of my sloth urine coffee better.
BUT...I'm not a foodie. What I will REALLY do for a last meal is charter a plane to Bombay right away. I won't give in to the temptation of eating at my childhood home because it will take weeks to eat my way through all my favourite dishes that Mother makes. Instead I'll have chaat at Matunga (Central, market), wada pav at Dadar (Central, near the circle), dahi misal at Dadar (West, Kelkar Rd), and finish off with ras malai at Wadala (West, near the station).
Then I can wait happily for the end of the world.
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