Category: Humour

Frothing Filter Coffee

Ask any South Indian Brahmin who loves his coffee about Filter Coffee and you will catch him at his explanatory best. The rambling man starts his coffee train with enthusiasm and stops at no stations – no Sir! Not till he has exhausted his considerable coffee knowledge can he stop. Then, there are those who love the coffee but not really the talking type: the Grunters – these men have produced nothing but grunts as responses all their life, but the filter kaapi makes them blossom. They love it and will show you what grunt love is. I don’t suppose anyone has spent any time studying Grunt quotients (they should), but if they did, they’d notice some grunts have a certain amiability to it, while others are clearly signalling you to shup up. I digress to the topic of Grunters when in fact I want to talk about Filter Kaapi.

Point being that I am married to a coffee lover. While he does not insist on his cuppa in the morning, I can see the joy he gets when he spots a steel tumbler full of the frothing filter coffee.

I don’t blame the process. It is designed to titillate the nostrils and get even the non-coffee lovers to get just a little interested. That is why I put up with it. The coffee filter I mean. I will say this though – That blasted bit of twisted metal is designed to test the limits of patience on Gautama Buddha.

Before I get him the coffee frothing at the top like this:

I am frothing at the mouth like a bear whose honey comb just bit him:

By the time the coffee made its way to his mouth, I have only sustained the following injuries:
1) Slopped burning water over at least one finger
2) Spoilt my dress with a teeny bit of the mucky mixture that is coffee powder and chicory and boiling water.
3) Burnt my fingers while trying to dislodge the top portion of the coffee filter with the bottom portion
4) Bruised my ego with the fact that I can’t make coffee without making the kitchen counter look like a war zone when I can pull off whole meals with half the mess.

Here is the process: (For those interested : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_filter_coffee)
1) Wiggle nose at coffee powder
2) Take a bit of coffee powder and put it in the top portion of the filter.
3) To be truly successful, one must never be complacent and so it is with the coffee filter. If it sits smugly on the bottom, it won’t drip. So, it has to ‘sit on one butt’
4) Then take scalding water and slop it down over the top and half close the filter. Fully close, and the top part may get comfortable. Make sure that the lid will get some of the mucky mixture to spill over (onto your finger holding the filter preferably).
6) Gently tap a number of times with a spoon till you hear the steady drip-drip from within. If you don’t hear the drip-drip sound, holler at anyone talking in the near vicinity to keep quiet and try again.
7) The flaming coffee decoction is now ready. You can now use the liquid in the bottom to make coffee. But before that, you have to surmount the task of holding the insanely hot filter with a deathly grip and twisting the top and bottom portions.
8) If you are sufficiently undamaged after this, just pour this and some milk to prepare coffee.
9) Wipe that grimace from the face and give coffee.

I like Tea.

Olympic Jazz

Olympic Jazz

The general boasting of nations in the Olympic arena was too much for me. Not to mention that every single interview underlines the age. ‘Only 16 and so poised’
‘Barely 17 and already making the world sit up’

What’s the point of all this? Makes me feel like an aging rhinoceres whose rampage is slowing and hair is graying.

So, I turned to Music – I have been listening to Jazz on the radio. I am no Music Maestro (Apart from my performing on All India Radio a couple of times: https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/2006/10/16/background-music/) I have no credentials in the Music department. Yet, the Jazz spurred me to heights I hadn’t imagined. I would listen to a random song played by a Brazilian or a Spanish artist I hadn’t heard of earlier and words would leap into my mouth. There I was singing of Love and Life and Heartbreak with perfectly fitting words.

It was too good to be true. And then I realised what was going on. Everytime I had one of those flashes, some brilliant music director in India had already whacked the tune. All the old brain was doing was retrieving the cached data from the rusted corners and belting them out again. For some shining moments, I had envisioned my creative side flowing and A.R.Rahman coming to me for lyrics and tips. Sigh…

So, in the absence of seeing myself as the shining beacon to the music world, I have decided to devote my talents to analyzing our recent performance in the Olympics.

Some folks have come up analysis such as Medals per billion people, Medals ranked by GDP etc.

http://www.motherjones.com/media/2012/07/summer-olympics-medal-gdp-charts (the bubbles at the bottom of the chart represent India)

http://www.usnews.com/news/blogs/rick-newman/2012/08/10/the-us-olympic-medal-count-isnt-as-impressive-as-it-looks?google_editors_picks=true

Gapminder.org is a pretty interesting place to while away your time with stats and graphs by the way.

But nobody sees the bucking pace that India is setting.
This is US’s performance in the Olympics over the past 20 years:

THIS is India’s:

Look at that graph and wipe the Usain Bolts and Michael Phelpses from your mind and tell me India is going the right way. (0-4 in 20 years, but nobody can deny that that trend is what we are looking for)

Help! Hindu God of Olympics!

I know why India does not win the Olympics. Hinduism, for all its openness and boasting of having over 3000 gods does not have a Major God for Sports. A random page says The God of Sports is Lord Subrahmanya.

http://wiki.answers.com/Q/Who_is_Hindu_god_of_sports
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murugan

A Mythology refresher: Subrahmanya is the one who was challenged to a race around the world thrice against his brother.(http://hinduism.about.com/od/lordganesha/a/Ganesha-Tales.htm)

Subrahmanya had a peacock and flew off, while his pot-bellied elephant brother had a mouse to run around the world. Long story short, Subrahmanya and his peacock lost the race to the elephant brother and skulked off to brood at a hilltop in Tamil Nadu. (I don’t know why Wiki answers proclaims him to be the God of Sports) Anyway, I thought the Lord Subrahmanya was only famous in Tamil Nadu, which is famous for idlis, filter coffee and curd rice (none of which are exactly high up on an Olympic sportsman’s diet you will agree).

In other news, Karnataka is in drought and Rs. 17 crores have been set aside for drought relief. When it comes to drought relief, what are the measures you can take to alleviate the water problem? Illogical solutions to this question will not be tolerated easily.

Think.

Right answer: 17 crore rupees is being set aside for performing pujas at temples across the state to entice the rain god to perform in the State. Nobody is gullible enough to spend all that money on one temple: 34000 temples across the state will perform the same puja on the same day and rain will come.

http://www.ndtv.com/article/south/karnataka-temples-to-hold-prayers-for-rain-today-bill-will-be-17-crores-248142

Now you see why we need a famous God of Sports having at least 34000 temples? If we had set aside an Olympic Coaching Fund and organised a prayer to appease the Sports God at the same time, while feeding our athletes curd rice and idlis, we might have won the Olympics. Alas! Hinduism in 5000 years did nothing towards this end and we are forced to pray to Gods who have to cut themselves free of their main task and take on Sports overtime.

Olympian Diet
Olympian Diet

What’s an Indian Olympic Athlete to do against these enormous odds?

Slimy Brazil Sprout Rice Recipe

Given the recent claim to fame my flaming Slimy Brazil Sprout Rice has received; I have decided to share the recipe with my readers. You are welcome.

Ingredients:
Brazil sprout (You can either ask any Brazilian where to get them or mine through some really dense cabbage farms to find these. If either of these methods don’t work for you, you can ask for Brussel sprouts instead)
Snails or Earthworms (Snails preferred)
Yucky vegetables

Method:
Chase the snails as fast as you can – actually as fast as they would go, and collect the slime they leave behind. Scoop into a cup and set aside.
Cut the yucky vegetables into a size of your liking
Crush your spirit along with the snails slime
Mix them all together with rice and cook in a pressure cooker.
Serve it hot with a dollop of Ghee to your daughter.

My daughter’s teacher probably thinks I am an ogre who lives in a swamp and gathers mush and slime to make the vegetable rice for her and I don’t blame her. This is what my daughter had written when asked to write a paragraph about food choices.

My mom makes Vegetable rice. It is a rice I hate because it has vegetables. Anyone who knows me well knows that I hate yucky vegetables. Sometimes she puts brazil sprouts and that’s the worst because to me, brazil sprouts is a mix of all the vegetables. Also my mom makes me eat a really slimy vegetable and watches me until I’m done. She said she knows I don’t like it. Now thats just being mean. It would be a little better if my rice doesn’t have the vegetables. Even though I don’t like them I have to eat. That is why I hate vegetable rice.

The teacher has asked for a substitute word for ‘yucky’ and has corrected Brazil to Brussel.

Teacher’s comment: Fun to read! Great description 🙂

If anybody has some kind words of consolation to say to me, please head on over to the swamp where I am languishing in the mush collecting ingredients for dinner.

Potato Vs Radish Miming Competition

A Gujarati lady (let’s call her Geeta Ben) comes in and helps me with the cooking once in a while. She talks in what she thinks is Hindi and I do the same. I think my Hindi is better though. I told her to use very little oil and no sugar in her dishes. The ‘No sugar’ was a bit of a blow to her, but she bore it stoically, shook her head and added a disclaimer that she was not sure how the dishes would turn out without sugar and very little oil. She tried anyway. They turned out to be fabulous.

The usual fare is some chappatis, a few aloo parathas for the daughter and a side dish or two. I don’t think our conversations can bear any more than that.

A sample of our conversation is presented for your reference:

Once our small talk is complete Geeta Ben asks for “Aadu” (‘Aadu’ in Tamil means ‘goat’ incidentally. I can be pretty sharp when I want to and rule out the possibility of Geeta Ben asking for a goat to make a vegetarian dinner. )

“Aadhu?”

“Haan aadhu – soonth na adhu”

Apart from the “Haan”, the rest pretty much washed over me. I try to clear my fuzzy brain by guessing that she has the chillies, she has the garlic, it must be ginger that she is asking for and say “You mean Adhrak?” Years of fantasizing about ‘Adhrak Chai’ leave me in no doubt that Adhrak is ginger. But Geeta Ben disagrees.

“Na – aadhu – aaisa” and she mimes a ginger for me.

I’ve played dumb-charades in my time. (I can’t say I am stellar, but I manage. I have some blogs on Dumb-C that I will have to get to one day), but I have to admit ‘Ginger’ would have had me stumped. How do you enact a piece of Ginger for the audience? Yet Geeta Ben doesn’t flinch. She gives off a performance of a carrot, but I reach for the ginger anyway. She congratulates me on my quick wit (in Gujarati) and I beam. She could well be calling me a dumb ass but she would not do that. Geeta Ben is too sweet for that – she has an innocence about her that makes it hard for people of her caliber to call people dumb-asses.

And so it goes: Geeta Ben gets her laugh; we get tasty food.

Some friends of ours had come to stay with us for a few days and it so happened that Geeta Ben wanted to come in at a time we were not sure we would be home. But our friends(Mr and Mrs Friend) said they would be home then and off we all went after telling Geeta Ben to hop on over. I could have told her that my friends would be home, but I did not want to risk saying something like that on the phone. Once before I got chatty on the phone with her and she thought she was not supposed to come and went off to the Temple. So, Geeta Ben knocked and my friend opened the door. Poor Geeta Ben’s smile went halfway through and then recognition hit. Her smile froze when Mrs Friend welcomed her into the house. She first tried peering past her to see if she had the right house. The decor seemed to indicate the right house.  She asked her, “Shoma Ben?” Mrs friend assured her it was my house and welcomed her once again.

Poor Geeta Ben took a few steps into the house and stopped hard in her tracks. See, she could take a friend opening the door, but she hadn’t really bargained for the next scene. There was Mr Friend lounging around on the sofa with a glazed look on his face in his banian. Mr Friend was working, and when working, he dons a look that stumps the best of us. It knocked the wind out of Geeta Ben. She ran past him into the kitchen and took refuge in her work. Just when Geeta Ben put her mind to rest and started off with the dishes, Mrs Friend conveyed my request to make Mooli Parathas(radish parathas).

“Mooli?”

“Haan Mooli.”

“Nahin aloo na aloo”

“No – aloo nahin – mooli paratha”

“Magar mien Aloe paratha hee banathee hewn”, (I always make aloo parathas) says Geeta Ben making round ball like movements with hands – falling to her time-tested habit of miming potatoes when in the presence of the weak Hindied. The miming catches on and Mrs Friend tries miming a radish.

 

It was during the radish vs potato miming competition that the husband walked in and Geeta Ben breathed again. At least she was in the right house. She knows better than to ask for clarifications to the husband in Hindi. An encounter in Hindi with the husband is not for the weak of heart. She makes a brave face that all is not lost in the house and Radishes or Potatoes, Mr & Mrs Friend or no, she will make what she is told before the husband starts explaining in Hindi.

She almost hugged me when I came into the kitchen and half apologetically asked me whether Mooli parathas was what I conveyed. I nodded and her heart resumed beating at a normal speed again. Bless Geeta Ben!

Am I a busybody or am I busy?

Everyone loves being busy. My son, for example, spends many hours being busy. For one so young( a year old); one would wonder why he is this busy. All one has to do is walk into our home when we are loading the dishwasher to see the domestic chores he has to handle. (Try constantly climbing onto the dishwasher lid when the relentless mother is pulling you away from it, or face the frustration of having his unloading efforts thwarted at every stage) He has the additional responsibility of identifying objects of a questionable nature and then tinkering with them. Working on finding questionable items of high impact require several skills at once. Tinkering with the empty battery charger, for instance, is a low-medium voltage exclamation mark from the parent, opening the vaseline bottle and looking like a shimmering idol in the evensong after liberal application a medium exclamation – the real crowd pullers are the remote and the phone.

The point is: he is busy.

The daughter is busy too. Her priorities are different from the son’s, but she is busy nevertheless. She is busy playing with her friends, busy making her room a mess, busy making cards that her callous mother throws away.

Which brings me to the husband and I. We are busy too.

Being busy is exhilarating. Makes you feel wanted and keeps you occupied, which is why so many of us fall into the busy trap.

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/06/30/the-busy-trap/

The article, like many others, made me stop and ponder about our lives. How much of what we do is necessary and how much of it is noise? How do we identify the chaff from the grain when we are busy running after the chaff and the grain in the whipping winds?

Carwaas Saar Carwaas Carwaas!

I got into a friend’s car and they both apologized for the mess in the car and removed one toy from the seat. I cringed. Everything else about the car was spotless. No rubber-bands and dried leaves on the floor, no spare jackets on the seats, no books peeping out of every pocket – not even a chocolate wrapper on the floor and they apologized for the mess. I made a mental note to compose something proportionate when I gave them a lift. I don’t think mere words are enough. The cars interiors and exteriors have led to intense arguments about what is a reasonable mess quotient for a car in our family. Ever the sensible voice in the family, the daughter suggested that we take an adventure of sorts and get the car cleaned by going to that fun car wash down the street. So, off we went jibber-jabbering the whole way.

The automatic carwash is the one thing that had my eyes positively popping out in all directions when I first came to the US. Perhaps I have told readers about my brother and his love for vehicles on wheels. For refreshers, please hop on over to his blogpost – if that doesn’t convince you about his love for vehicles, I don’t know what will

http://my-unused-mind.blogspot.com/2010/01/falcon-to-burgeran-autograph.html

Point is that as long as I was with him, I had to just take my vehicle and go wherever I was going. He’d have it cleaned, he’d fill the petrol tank (except on one occasion that I shall blog about soon), turn on the ignition and hand over the vehicle to me with a longing in his eyes. I would then get on and simply move-it with a wave to the dear fellow. Moving to the US has altered all that. There is no brother at hand to take care of my car for me. The car needs washing, I wash it. Sigh! From the opening paragraph it is all too clear that I am not doing a stellar job at it either.

The daughter and I enjoyed the carwash and on our way back I couldn’t help telling her about how I felt when I went for my first carwash in the US.

“You mean – you have never seen an automatic carwash till you came to the US? You’re kidding right?” she said incredulity dripping out of every syllable. I then explained car washes to her as done in India.

A carwash in India has as many flavors as the spices and the industry thrives on a number of best practices. Only none of them are documented.

The marketing slogan used is:

Saar Saaar Saar Saar – carwaas saar carwaas saar carwaas

Volume:

Adjusted to traffic and surroundings. Decibel levels should allow for marketing slogan to be heard inside rolled up car windows.

Location:

Some places I know have “saloon caarwaas”, “jest fast carwaas” and regular deals. The saloon carwashes are the ones done with foaming soap and water. While this is done with a regular service, the owner has the option of sipping tea (hand-delivered with a finger in your cup) or leaving the car there. Best done with reliable dealers or mechanics, for we all know that spare parts are hard to come by.

As for the Jest Fast carwaas variety, I’ve seen them done in minutes while waiting for the traffic signal to turn green. A bunch of guys throw some water on the car and another bunch climb on with towels and scrub clean. One time the signal turned green and the guy on the front windscreen was not done yet. He kept wiping while the impatient mistress honked to let him know. This guy should be identified and recruited by any organization worth its salts, I have always maintained. For Rs. 5, he simply wouldn’t let a bird dropping go. He scrubbed and scrubbed. He screamed to the driver – “Madam – keep moving! I will scrub and then jump off at the next signal. Don’t worry!”

So, the lady drove gingerly with this guy squatting on the hood and scrubbing the windscreen with all his might. It is a pity I hadn’t a cell-phone to snap a picture with me right away, but I shall always, always carry that image with me.

As expected the daughter guffawed at the whole story and said she preferred the automatic variety. I was not so sure.

The Best Laid Plans of the Brave & Hopeful

She was 3 and 1/2 years old when we first sat and watched a movie together in a movie theatre. The movie was Ratatouille. That was the daughter and that is if you don’t count one failed attempt. I don’t count that because I placed it on the record that she was not ready for a movie at 8 months. A Baby Einstein airing – possibly, but a Tamil movie definitely not. The husband, mother-in-law both insisted that she would fall asleep within seconds of the movie starting. Of course, nobody listens to the mother, who was not interested in the movie in the first place, and off we went. I hear the movie was good. I was there for the title sequence and then for one song that she liked to shake her bum and dance to. The rest was spent in the corridor next to the tea and coffee vending machines on the floor. One vendor felt so sorry for me; he actually came and offered me a free samosa. He started it. After that, there was no stopping me. In regular intervals, I went for samosas, tea, coffee and ice-cream and still the crowd did not come pouring out of the theatre. Which was when I thought of a topic that would immensely help Tamil movie makers – Brevity. The movie wore on for 3 hours and not a moment of background music time was wasted. I wasn’t even in the theatre and I had a head-ache.

Given the scar of events past, one would think I would hesitate to brave a movie with Tucky clocking in at a year old. I did hesitate. But Disney Pixar’s pull is far too great. After considerable thought, we selected the 10:15 p.m. show of ‘Brave’. With a one year old, sleep times are unpredictable at best. So, I hung onto his eyelids from early evening onwards and made sure he did not sleep. Then gave him a warm bath laced with sweet vapors to soothe and soothe like no man has ever been soothed before. Never one to leave anything to chance, I played him some Mozart as well. I must admit Mozart makes me incredibly sleepy too. So, I was yawning football sized yawns by the time the movie started, but little Tucky was fast asleep and I was hopeful.

I wonder whether you have seen great strategists in action. I have heard of them. Now, I mustn’t boast, but we certainly gave the best of them a run for their money at that theatre. We took in a bulky carseat because I wasn’t going to tickle a sleeping dragon just when ‘Brave’ was starting. I had with me to use at a moment’s notice the following:

1) Thermos Flask with warm milk

2) Blanket to tuck and pat

3) I couldn’t really use the Mozart music as people might have noticed the difference in sound tracks in the theatre.

Finally, no tumbling into the best seats for us. I carefully selected an aisle seat ready to take flight to the corridors at the slightest whimper. (We are extremely conscious of people’s experience of a movie and don’t want to spoil their shows with crying babies)

So, there we were – trailer after trailer came on and just when I popped off to sleep myself, the movie started. I wonder why – but just before the movie starts, they give you an eerie minute of silence that completely ruins the plans of the parents of sleeping babies in carseats. See – the constant drone of noise is the trick. Just keep up with the trailers and the music and the baby sleeps on. Why introduce a moment of suspense before the movie?. Then, the slightest noise seems jarring. No one consults me while doing these things – sigh! After all those hours of Mozart and sweetening soothing almond oil showers, he stirred when the movie started after this tense moment of silence.

Without hope there is no life. I continued hoping that he’d fall back to sleep, but he gave a great chuckle and an energetic giggle at a horse on the screen and settled down to watch. I exchanged a meaningful glance at the husband and we agreed to stay as long as he kept quiet. I must say, the dear was absolutely charming. He watched it like he understood the storyline perfectly. Clapped when people cheered, laughed when people laughed.

Towards the very end, he grew a bit antsy at which point a warm milk bottle was shoved into his mouth and he watched with interest again after that. It helps that the movie was only 90 minutes long. That was the story of his first movie.

 

What the Well Dressed Man is Wearing

After my recent appearance at the first birthday of my son, I am now qualified to submit a piece on ‘What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing’ or rather what the woman is wearing. I posed for photographs, like my lead fashion designer said, “Red carpet style”. I can see some of you tutting and asking me where my humility is.

Allow me to explain. But before I start, tell me whether you have ever worn a curtain before.

In my chronicles so far, I have mentioned some talents about the mother. She is an amazing cook, excellent teacher at Maths and impressive with solving calculus problems while stirring the sambhar. (There have been times when I would ask her about a particular problem that I was having difficulty with, and she would nod and say she will help me out later. All the while making chappatis with speed and efficiency machines would kill for. Then a few minutes later, she pipes out the answer. She’d have tackled the problem in her mind. That in Algebra or even Trigonometry is okay, but in Integration & Differentiation is another ball-game) I digress.

Point is she has another hobby – sewing. We were often at the receiving end of her experiments with cloth. It goes with the free calculus package.

I still remember the time I went visiting the sister in college. There she was, out in the big, bad world by herself. (The big, bag world had barbed wires on the fences and on the tongues of the nuns overseeing the place, but still) I traipsed into her room wearing a skirt stitched by my mother, and hugged her friends who had come up to our home in the Nilgiri Hills a few weeks back. They pampered me (the little sister) like they always did, but they kept looking at me with quizzical expressions on their faces. It was a few minutes before one of them made the connection. Never one to hold back, she piped, ‘So that’s where I’ve seen it before. Isn’t this the curtain in your living room?’ I was aghast. I was shocked. I told her in a loud, firm voice that the curtains were still in the living room, and she was welcome to come and see them. And in a smaller voice acknowledged that the remaining cloth had been put to use by the mother. You see I tried my best to not wear that skirt at home when the pattern matching algorithm is blatantly simple, but I never thought someone would remember the cursed things a 100 miles away.

I am still a little scarred with complimenting people on their choice of curtains. I do it of course, if the curtains really lift the mood of the room, but with a little twinge of fear that gnaws at the corner of my heart.

So that is my claim to fame in the fashion department. I’ve worn a curtain. Have you? From there to wearing a dress that has the world turning their heads is bound to get to anyone’s head what? Anyway, here is the algorithm to ‘What the Well-dressed Woman is Wearing’

Step1: Get a brother-in-law who is not as fashion demented as yourself and your husband.
Step2: Get the brother-in-law to marry a girl who is not as fashion d as yourself and your h.
Step3: Leave the rest to them.

That is what I did and I must tell you the awesome twosome have done a wonderful job thus far on making us look as little like curtains and bedsheets as possible. The clothes are always stunning, and this time came with a best present of all (the gift of their time and presence.) They are here a-visiting and that is one among the many reasons I have been dawdling on the post frequency.

T is for Temperature or Thermometer

I have about as many thermometers as a respectable hospital should have. Yet, everytime somebody in my family runs a temperature, there is a mad scramble for thermometers. We will scoop up a dozen and thrust the infernal things under children’s arms, into their mouths and now even the ear. The scene always starts out as either the husband or I feeling the forehead. Then, just to show off, I will guess the temperature.
“Must be 100.5”
The husband thinks it is 99.6. Precision. That is what we are going for in thermometers.

We look at the pile of thermometer sticks lying and select the newest looking one.
Beep
Beep
Beep
“Why does this thing show an ‘L’? Can’t it just show a – or something, so I am ready to start? What is this L?”
“L is for Love Amma” The daughter pipes in.
“Just put it fast- fast.”
One can hustle me, but one cannot hustle a baby. He needs time to smile at you, grab at the thermometer that you are trying to thrust through his clothes and play tug-of-war with it by which time the ‘L’ has gone on the display and your temperature has risen a wee bit too.

The next time, Iappease the baby first; give him a thermometer to play with, and then press:
Beep
Beep
Beep
Wait for the ‘L’ and fumble through baby clothes again. You place the thermometer there and see an amused looking baby chewing one thermometer and looking patronizingly at the glowing one under his arm.

The one in his mouth gets wetter and finally the underarm thermometer glows and shows 99.5.
“This must be wrong. He definitely feels hotter than that!” I declare. I wonder if people remember the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where Debra falls ill with the kids and Marie checks the right temperature by kissing the forehead (like that, only not half as impressive)

We repeat the exercise with Thermometer#2 and under the other arm (You want a reason for switching the arm. Fine! Here it is: What if the cold tip made the spot colder than it is.) This one shows 96. Now that definitely can’t be right.

“He isn’t colder than he is supposed to be you dimwit, he is hotter.” I say directing a cold stare at the thing.
“Just put that one away – everytime this happens we say we will get rid of the useless ones and we just manage to accumulate more and more thermometers.”

So, I gingerly place it separately. My crawler leaps at it and takes it to his mouth. He just manages to draw two large slurps out of it when I realise that that was the thermometer right under his feverish arm a minute ago. Not cool.

Attempt #3:
I get the ‘L’ and the L for Love girl takes it to her arm. “I don’t have a fever – I’ll check if this one works and then you can use it.” she says helpfully.
Which seems like a sensible idea, only that this particular thermometer is precision itself, and it reserves its act for once a day. After that no matter how often you press, you only hear the beep, and no display.

By attempt #5, we get a reading that can only be partially right since we have a very impatient baby on our hands. HE does not like having sticks stuck under his arm and is intent on removing it every 3 seconds. Still we get a reading of 100.1.
“Close enough.” I say and start towards the fever reducer, when the exasperated husband says he is going to buy another one to check properly.

Sigh!

PS: Tucky is fine now and we added a fine model thermometer to our priceless collection