Fatale Abstraction

Today was another nicely cloudy, darkish sort of Monday, which I always love, as you may have noticed. I went to my favorite Indian restaurant in town with a book, Herself, which is an autobiography of the brilliant and fascinating English actress Elsa Lanchester, who married Charles Laughton and is probably most recognizable as the Bride of Frankenstein. I picked and chose from the buffet a lovely curry chicken, vegetable pakoras(which would no doubt send my orthodontist shrieking from the room) and upma with tamarind and mint chutneys and raita, and finished up with a bit of kheer (lovely rice pudding with almond slivers, cardamom and flavored with rose water) and a single gulab jamun. With this dessert, I had a nice steaming cup of that wonderfully fragrant hot tea called chai. Chai is a strong tea filled with finely ground spices and sweetened with a generous dose of milk. It's not overtly sweet, just wonderful in the same way Earl Grey tea is enhanced by milk or cream. My practice with Indian dessert and tea is somewhat ritualized and I always carefully skim the creamy scum of spices from the surface of my tea and lick the back of the spoon--that's the best part. Funny how something I describe as scum is my favorite bit? How very me.