Thursday, August 06, 2009


Indian food is like sex. (I warned ya.) Vindaloo, Paneer, Tikki, Masala, Tandoori, Basmati studded with seeds, Lassi- these sound like dirty words to a fair skinned maiden. Think about it from every sensual perspective; the passionate tastes, full of color, the smells, the intense craving, and the even more intense satisfaction.

I've been craving it for a few weeks, since I last took my brother-in-law to Shalimar, downtown Ann Arbor. That was my virgin experience in an Indian restaurant. I had made some dishes myself from a cookbook and chosen Indian from the Plum Market hot food bar, yet eating at Shalimar (this isn't really a restaurant review because I'm so much a virgin) connected the dots for me.

So I sheepishly called my hard working husband at 5 p.m. and asked him to go out of his way to pick up Indian tonight. I couldn't hold out against the craving any longer. He acquiesced and agreed to be there by six to pick up anything that I ordered. Wonderful. I hate having to beg.

It was fabulous. All that I expected, plus some. Left me satiated and happy, and slightly out of breath.

Consider me addicted, having only licked the top of the iceberg. Slowly.

1 comment:

Lilies of the Field said...

I'm a little turned on...

Here are my favorite lines,

"I hate having to beg."
"... And slightly out of breath."
"Having only licked the top of the iceberg".

You dirty girl. You know what they say about ice chewers.