Benefits Of Pressure Cooking, Long White Wrapping Tape Poetry, Subcontinent Blues

benefits of pressure cooking

Bought a pressure cooker the other day. When it arrived and I unpacked it I realised quickly that lowered expectations would have served me better. But how low? This is not the continent, I remembered. Lower your expectations, my thoughts repeated. Sub and sub-par. One of the security guards who watches over our little gated community just sneezed. I can see him from outside my worst-writing office window. He sits in a stool glaring into nothing while watching the/our grounds. What is he thinking, I think. But he can’t be more than twelve years old, I add to my thoughts. At least he looks no more than sixteen. On the other hand, he has a job. Is it better to have a job watching over those from the continent or, perhaps, cooking in a shabby restaurant along side other earthly refugees? That was the last place I saw a boy that looked almost like a man–twelve or sixteen? He prepared my meal the other night when I went out alone to a local western-like mall. My better half was away on business. I need to get out. That’s what this place is starting to feel like. Not getting out but getting… I’m starting to feel confusion boarding hysteria–it’s getting me. My minds-eye therapist says: that’s perfectly normal–unless, of course, they deliver your golf club membership this week. But I digress.

Where am I? I’m on a subcontinent of earthly refugees. But before I get too far off subject. Our only protection from the wolves of the starving classes and their bigoted expatriates is a sixteen year old that looks twelve. I’m not sure if that will do. Golf anyone?

While getting used to this new culture I started wondering who cooks with a pressure cooker anymore/these days? I thought everything was done here with a microwave. You can tell how often they use microwaves here. Just count the amount of times the power goes out. I want to ask our napping security guard about how life is here. My therapist doesn’t think that’s a good idear. Reason, she says, he’s even further away from my language than the rest of them–that live here. You’re here as a guest, she reminds me. Besides, she adds, to think I thought that English was pretty prevalent here, I hope I’ll be proved wrong, but you are a bit naive. You know, she continues, with that colony history not all that far in the past, perhaps they don’t like English. Thinking twice before answering her, I say to myself, Oh but what kind of person would I be to ask a rinky-dink rent-a-cop about subcontinent cooking utensils and life as an expat? Besides, I have a read a book or three about this place to prepare me for being so far away from home. Conclusion? Men on the subcontinent don’t cook. If they do cook, they certainly don’t use a pressure cooker. Unless, of course, they’re paid to do it. And some of them are obviously paid well. That’s what all my books say. Pay well inside your pressure cooker. Don’t you know.

I was told by our maid… Wait. I was told by our housekeeper… Yes. That’s the politically correct way to put it. Is there anything politically correct in this part of the world where pressure cookers rule the day? Which brings me to the income-plete question: the things that come out of pressure cookers is what? Such questions don’t matter anymore. Hence, once again, before I forget while staring at our security guard who is still wiping the snot from his leaky nose and completely indifferent to the mannerism where I come from… But I’m off subject yet again.

I was told by our housekeeper to get a pressure cooker. So I did what any digitally aware sentient would do. I ordered it online. Even though delivery here is slow and painstaking, it arrived. The twelve-sixteen year old accompanied the delivery boy to our door. Yes, everything here is pains-taking. That’s clear to me now. Such pain and takings are probably best felt/seen/learned in the girl that packaged our package–it even confused the youthful security guard–who is probably not unlike our packager, if you will. And get this. The tape that sealed up our package was wrapped around the box perfectly and neat. None of the tape overlapped, crossed, showed sign of breakage or was anywhere pinched together. I mean, come on, dear worst-reader. Don’t you hate that when you are trying to wrap something and the tape tapes itself?

The tape was white and had some kind of handwriting on it. From stern to bow, from east to west, the tape was filled with handwriting that was done with a black magic marker. Of course, that’s not really the shocker here. The shocker is, the writing was in English. Still, I couldn’t make heads or tales of what was written. Was the packager practicing? Was she taking notes? I proceeded to remove the tape from the box and put it to the side. Since the side wasn’t long enough I stretched the tape on the floor. We have a thousand foot long living room that is connected to the dinning area. That should be long enough. But it wasn’t. I found a place on the tape that would allow a carriage return and then cut the tape. Lined side-by-side, the tape stretched one and a half times the length of our stone ground floor. The only other problem is, I couldn’t break away from the tape and what was written on it–even though our maid…. Even though our housekeeper was waiting in the corner of the kitchen for me to provide her with the cooking utensils she needs. How hungry was I going to be in a few hours, I thought. Hunger must take a side-seat.

Language is confusing enough and some day I must provide input here about what the packager, yes, she was female, wrote on that tape. Till then, I’m busy elsewhere. And so. I finally got through the package to the packaged pressure cooker inside. At that moment, which I guess could be a moment of truth, I realised that I wasn’t as far away from home as this whole trip may seem. Three thousand miles here or there, the consume-to-survive world knows no boundaries or nationalities or bigoted usurpers. In all my passivity our new housekeeper tripped me up and grabbed the packaging of the new pressure cooker. She left with the online delivery and its confused packaging. That surprised me. What was I to do with yet another box from Amazon?

The housekeeper said, while she freed the new pressure cooker from its factory packaging, in Indian-English gibberish, This is good, sir, I can save time preparing your Dal, sir, and if you like I’ll even start cooking for your dog, that way you can save more money to pay for me, industrial dog food is bad for the little guy. The only thing I could think about, as my dog slept in the corner that was infested with ants, how the hell is she really gonna save time? Obviously that question actually came out of my mouth. Within a few seconds my new housekeeper put the instructions from the pressure cooker box in my hand and showed me a small piece of paper. There, she said, pointing. There, she repeated, pointing. I read the small paper where her finger left a blemish. Indeed, I thought. She is right. And she should be right. This is her country and her pressure cooker was even made in her country. Within a blink of an eye she was off again whizzing around the kitchen, preparing my Dal.

We are scheduled to be here for three years, I thought to myself while sitting in the corner above my dog watching our housekeeper cook. We are at the front of a three year quest. The end of that quest has never felt so far off, though. How time doesn’t fly when you’re having fun, eh. Our contract says that we will be in India for three years. I bet my bottom dollar that that’s not possible. A high price to pay, I say to my better half. Not a price too little or too big, she says back to me. Now I’m worried about saving my housekeeper time when she cooks us Dal and also wondering how long it will take before our security guards stop sneezing or grow up–because there has to be an end to this (for lack of a better word) adventure sooner or later.

I was trying to worst-write about having purchased a new Indian pressure cooker. The thing is, when it arrived and I unpacked it, our housekeeper was all over it. She cleaned the new cooking device and put all the parts together, remarking that I need to eventually go to the store to get an extra o-ring. Can’t you get that, I asked her. She stared at me with those dark eyes. There was a glistening of jewellery that she hadn’t yet removed because she hadn’t started cleaning yet. That was her thing, you know. When she cleaned she removed her jewellery, when she cooked she put it back on. To top things off, she knows that the o-rings wear out quicker than one should assume. It’s the pressure and the heat, she said. The pressure and the heat kill the o-ring. She then proceeded to stuff the new pressure cooker full of Tuwar Dal. Aren’t you gonna put other ingredients in it as well, I asked. She turned to me, one hand sweeping the floor and the other stirring the Dal in the heated water. No, sir, she mumbled as though chewing on a mouthful of soft marbles. Listen, sir, hear me, on Tuesday when I come, not Monday because Monday is a big cleaning day, on Tuesday, I will show you how to make Dal. And it was at that moment I thought about what brought us here. We were brought here in a pressure cooker. A nice pressure cooker, at that. Probably made out of bronze with copious wings and a singing pressure valve lid that, when used precisely, will actually levitate in the releasing steam just above the valve–what a sight! Yes. I’ve seen the pressure of our cooker and it’s mesmerising in the odds of it all. Or something like that.

Rant on.


Another Do-It-Right Check For #Eurowasteland


Aaron Swartz would be proud? The only problem is, what would make him proud ain’t happening where it should be happening. I mean, who cares about #eurowasteland anyways? Nothing comes out of #eurowasteland except new fangled ways of implementing centralised government and nifty ways to tax the sh*t out of people. On the other hand, while #americant continues down its path of Darwinian greed mongering, literally turning society into a cesspool of Mad Max movie extras elbowing each other in the eyes, #eurowasteland, every once-a-once, does throw a glistening light of hope into the ether of worldly greed. Yet, in the context of information being free, worst-writer has this question:

How do you differentiate between what is publicly funded vs what is privately funded?

Which raises another question.

If privately funded research results in discoveries that benefit society, shouldn’t that research also be freely available?

The problem in both the US and Europe is that conservative, neoliberal politics has so successfully merged public (government) with private (corporate) interests that information has become a commodity, informing has become a privilege and Mickey Mouse is the ultimate form of evil because, well, its copyright will never die. It’s a really good thing that #eurowasteland at least attempts to free information from the tyranny of greed, although I doubt this will make much difference in the end. Stupid will always be freer than… But I digress.

Rant on.


Link that lead to this post:

Pumpkin Head And The Misogynistic Nation Of Dips And Dimwits

Crying Girl

A worst-reader sent me a email this morn. In the email I was asked the following question: What is the essence of evil? While eating breakfast, drinking too much English Breakfast tea and surfing the Interwebnets, my mind drifted to the following in its quest to find an answer.

  • Is the essence of evil murder or rape or pillaging?
  • Is it war or politics or meddling wives?
  • Is it the opposite of right or worshipping the devil?
  • Is the devil the essence of evil?
  • Is the devil actually a woman who set up her own email server to protect herself from the piranhas of Washington DC politics?

After clearing my system with a grand morning constitutional, and like most other challenges in life, I gave up on finding an answer to one of my three worst-readers. Reason, I must by a woman hater. I mean, just look at the sh*t that came out of my mind–as transcribed in the bullets above. Wow. I need to take a break–from being an #americant.

Break is over.

The question and the answer are moot. For one thing, conjuring evil by finding its essence is like finding out what the core of a baseball is in order to understand the game. In other worst-words, evil is not a  grand thing. If it were, then, I believe, nature, a’la Darwin, would have somehow rid evil from our species. Or are other living things plagued with so much evil–like we are? Which brings me to the female part of this.

(You see, there I go again. So I really should move on.)

Couldn’t help but notice a correlation between two articles I read this morn and the/an attempt to answer an innocent albeit naive question by just giving up on it. That said, the hate for Hillary Clinton is deep and I’m wondering more about how deep that hate is more than the essence of evil. Or. Perhaps. Maybe hate is the essence of evil. Hey! I think I found it. And just in the nick of time. I found that the essence of evil is hate because, well, so many people just hate women–and I’m not one of them. Or am I? Oh no. My last blog post is about giving up my love for Hillary.

On that note, allow me to add this. Donald Trump has been married three times to women that are so similar one could surmise, if one were a psycho-analyst-type, that he has an infatuation that borders on the psychotic or he never learned during that stage of life where boy turns to man that you really have to put some effort into finding the right woman on account, well, since it’s all pink on the inside, you might as well get something different on the outside. But enough of my worst vulgarities.

Hillary Clinton was able to save her marriage and keep her family together as the misogyny of an entire nation weighs upon her without remorse or consideration.

Oh my.

Rant on


Links that motivate this post:

Apple Pie, Pumpkin Sky, Bern It To The F'n Ground Already

Repeating myself goes like this: I wanted Hillary in 2008. Not repeating myself goes like this: I wanted Hillary in 2008 but…

That may bring you, dear worst-reader, to ask the following question: Why the “but” and why now? Well. I suppose most of the/my reasoning for wanting Hillary can be traced to a bus ride in DC in 2010 where I attended the Rally To Restore Sanity. When I got on the public bus it was already filled with young rally goers on their way to The Mall. One of those goers was passing out pieces of tape that, once written on with a black permanent marker, could be put on your hat or your clothing and thereby you can declare your favourite Barry-O political accomplishment. When the young rally goer turned to me to ask if I wanted to join the group in supporting Barry-O, I nodded my head and said: But could you please write on mine: Hillary ’08. Suddenly the commotion and enthusiasm of all the young rally goers in the bus stopped. They all stared at me as though I was alien. As quick as they were called-out on the lie of the(ir) democracy, they also lost interest in the middle aged sour puss with an odd sense of humour.

I was against Barry-O as president for three basic reasons:

  1. He’s from Chicago
  2. He’s a neoliberal
  3. He’s naive

I can now state without remorse that Barry-O is the single greatest president in my life time. I love the guy. I even went out of my world travel way to vote for him–twice! Btw, I did the same thing voting against dipshit Dubya Bush. Which means, somehow and in hindsight, the greatest thing Barry-O has done is that Dubya enabled him to be elected. I know. I know. That last sentence doesn’t make much sense. But lets run with it.

Now that the republican field has been cleared of all its sh*t stains, except one, it’s time to focus on the other side of the same coin. With that in mind, allow me to interject this: I like the American bipartisan political system. I like the US Constitution, which is also kinda bipartisan. No other place on earth is as politically cool as the US–which I endearingly refer to as my beloved united mistakes of #americant more often than I probably should. That said, I’ve been having a hard time supporting Hillary like I used to support her. Does that mean Bernie has changed me politically? No, it doesn’t. Does that mean I believe all the BS that’s being spewed about email servers? No, it doesn’t. Do I even have anything negative to say about Hillary and her record? No, no, no. Yet, I’m starting to drift. Or. I’ve just boarded a DC bus. The girl turns to me and asks: what would you like on your piece of tape, sir? I look around the bus at all the automaton millennial faces that make up #americant and say: Please, young lady, write on my piece of tape: I’m feeling the Bern.

The above video is not overly convincing. In fact, it feels like a repeat of the other time Bernie Sanders was on Maher’s show. Yet, over the past few weeks I’ve been more and more weary of throwing my useless eating vote Hillary’s way. But again, I’m not defecting from Hillary because of all the BS that’s said about her. It’s just that, she’s not been moved enough by all the right (as in correct) BS that Bernie says. I’ve lived long enough in socialised countries to know that if Hillary can’t wake up to the reality that Bernie is stirring in the US right now, then maybe she’s not the right candidate.

Wow. It almost hurts for me to worst-write that.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll vote for whomever gets the Democratic nomination. But in the last couple of days I’ve been hearing the call of Bernie 2016 more than the call of Hillary 2008. And if you’re wondering what I think of Trump if Hillary doesn’t get the nomination? Well, I’ve been giving that some thought, too. You know, maybe it would be better if Trump, i.e. pumpkin head, wins against Bernie and not against Hillary, i.e. a used apple pie. Why? The phoenix cannot rise without its ashes.


Rant on.



Populace, Popularity, Pregnancy And, Don't Worry, You're With Stupid

I'm with stupid t-shirt

Time for proof of how it’s more difficult to get rid of The Stupid than it is to get rid of ants in India or lice in dirty kids’ hair or that stupid Chewbacca mask. Congratulations are (might be) at hand. Even though it probably won’t topple your favourite stupid Chewbacca mask, #americant has something else to put on its popularity of stupid t-shirt. A highschooler just dropped a water bottle on a table and he’s really, really popular. (Pause now. Take that in.)

That worst said, is it possible to actually get rid of the The Stupid in a society? According to the most recent popular video contest, probably not. But then again, #americant hasn’t really ever graduated from high school. On the other hand, if we look at history, it might be possible to get rid of The Stupid. It was got-rid-of in Germany. It wasn’t completely got-rid-of in Japan. Which brings me to this little tangent.

One of the reason the atomic bomb was dropped on Japan was because of how radical the Japanese were regarding the divinity of their emperor. They would not unconditionally surrender because the emperor couldn’t. They actually believed a God cannot surrender to men. Talk about… The Stupid. Nomatter. When we dropped those bombs on Japan they were already defeated–just not in spirit. But I digress.

The Japanese have certainly made good headwinds in their long struggle to bring their emperor bullshit back down to earth, i.e. limit their Stupidity. So. If a populace that believes so deeply in something as noble as a divine emperor can get rid of, at the least, most of their Stupid, how can #americant begin to deal with it? Whether its a political issue like abortion or head shaking popularity i.e. Kardashians or Honey Booboo–and I mean, come on, those three things together really do represent #americant stupidity–how can this be got-rid-of? Well, worst-writer has an answer for you. Ready?

It can’t. Even if #americant doesn’t elect the ultimate stupid in the upcoming presidential race–and I really thought that #americant couldn’t get any worse than Dubya Bush–Donald Trump is proof of how Stupid a population can actually get–without being run by dictator or a god-like emperor. Which means, I suppose, my beloved #americant does have a god-like dictator that rules its collective conscience. It’s called the almighty dollar. And whatever the almighty dollar wants (greed) the All-Sttupid delivers.

Rant on.


Links that motivated this post:

The Things They Can Do You Don't Want To Know About Because You Think Your Vote Matters

The #Brazil way or the #Americant way? Raise awareness of what conservatives are capable of. In Brazil they are blatant about it whereas in #americant they just take advantage of an entire moronic voting and non-voting public that is too stupid to figure things out on its own. I don’t know about you but even as you contemplate voting for a new president or, goodness forbid, a congressman, do you still believe your vote matters? Look what they can do–what they’ve always done in S. America. So don’t worry. Brazil is far away and the people there talk funny. That’s why you think you’re not part of the stupidity. But indeed you are. You swim in it. You breath it. Now go buy something with it.

Rant on.


Link that motivate this post:

When Investors Cash Out, Mitt Already Made A Killing And Bankruptcy Is Not On Your Side

sports authority sucks and mitt does too

Hi-larry-us, dear worst-reader. I mean, I don’t mean to mock all the people that will ultimately lose their minimum wage jobs here. But then again, maybe they should be mocked. For the life of me, I’ve never understood why people work at a store like Sports Authority. I understand that due to #americant democracy equalling stupidity times a gazillion, people have to work for their crumbs. But why don’t they go out on the streets and

  1. vote out political conservatism (which is obviously the cause of #americant)
  2. demand dignity?

Oh well, so much of this world is beyond me. Then again, #american’t almost voted for Mitt Romney a few years. Anyone remember Mitt? Anyone know why Mitt appears in yet another worstwriter blog post along side a really krappy retailer that deserves to go out of business? Well, now that one of the worst retailers in history is going bankrupt, perhaps a bit of history about where this company came from is due. Or maybe not.

Simply put, Sports Authority is a product of Bain & Company. Bain is Mitt Romney’s shell company where he was able to rob american’t of so much of its resources via M&A deals galore stemming out of the 1980s. For you see, dear worst-reader, this is how the smart-asses from Wall Street really screw you. Seriously. They don’t screw you by providing you with loans that you are too stupid to realise you’ll never be able to pay back. Nor do they screw you by being bailed-out because, well, there were millions more suckers than anyone could dream of who were willing to take loans that they didnt know they wouldn’t be able to pay back. Indeed. The likes of Mitt/Bain screw you buy taking advantage the corporate needy and the corporate desperate–and let’s not forget the children of capitalist pigs who have now, pretty much, inherited everything post The DotCom boom. Inheritance, btw, is the true culprit of the Dubya Bush tax cuts that have bankrupted the country. But on that issue I digress and wish all the suckers out there: good luck–you haven’t earned it.

Rant on.


Links that motivated this post: