Cooking Eggs

The Only Useful Tip to Work With Eggs

As you all don’t know, I live alone. And what activity does a guy do most frequently when he lives alone?… yep. I cook! Now, I know I am no Gordon Ramsay, Marco Pierre White, Jamie Oliver or Heston Blumenthal. Neither will you find my Instagram stories full of hashtags #instafood. I am not a food blogger or even a “foodie”. I don’t own a fancy set of knives and/or 10 different pans. I can neither pronounce Crème brûlée right nor distinguish between 101 different pastas. I can not distinguish my olive oil from popeye or brutus.

But I do eat food. And I want my food to taste good. So I have looked over the internet and experimented with cooking methods to make a tasty egg. Boiled, fried, poached, scrambled, baked, roasted on top of a bun, made up into a carbonara, mixed in with veggies; you name it. If cooked perfectly, the egg needs just a tiny touch of seasoning and it tastes heavenly. The only catch – they need to be absolutely fresh.

Just hen or duck eggs for me. I don’t prefer gamey eggs. Okay, the secret to a perfectly cooked egg is –  Low and Slow heat. Never cook them on a high heat. That’s it. Want to make a good omlette? Turn down the flame. Poached? Bring the water to a boil and then off the heat before putting eggs in. Scrambled eggs need to be taken on and off the stove for a good texture. Boiled eggs need to be kept in a low simmer.

This way, the egg doesn’t become all leathery and loose it texture. You may add cream or milk as per your needs. The result will always be an egg cooked to perfection.

 

 

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A Poetic State of Mind

I know I don’t write lovey-dovey poems, but this one is a recent creation and I don’t hate it as much as I did my previous works. I have been irregular with my posts (I prefer chaotic), but it really sucked that my little cousin’s blog got over 200 views in single day; on his first post. He writes about “fashion and style”.

While this poem was being written, my thoughts were wandering away at scenarios that will never happen. About how different we could be if we hadn’t gone through what we have gone through. I know, I sound like a teenage girl with a crush, or an old man with a regret. I am still debating which side I belong to.

 

After Goodbye

Two winters have already passed by

Two whole years without sadness, without joy.

The memories are still alive & fresh in my mind

Not alone, but still lonely most of the time.

 

Imagine a world where the past was different

Where we wouldn’t hurt each other

Our suns shone alone on different skies

Where our tears still rolled out

But not through each others’ eyes

 

A butterfly passes me by,

wings carrying storms of your place.

Sunlight reflects on its wings.

As if a long forgotten melody it sings

 

Carry on, as if it doesn’t matter.

We have been long alone together

 

Carry on, it doesn’t really change.

The fact that our lives we live are strange.

 

Carry on, Carry on till the piper plays.

Carry on, till the our paths cross again.

 

– The End

The Small Things

Wow! Two posts, on the same day! Is it Christmas already? Yeah, it was. But, you know what I mean.

I was reading something about history and wondered how the people lived in the old days. I have looked at paintings, focussed on the photographs, bent my head over books written in a dead language and even listened to stories from my grandmum and grandad. They seem to remember only few ridiculously unimportant details of their past. I wondered what an average day would feel like in the life of a person 200 years back?

What food would he eat? What type of clothes would he wear? What was an average day in his life like? What would he do for social interaction? What did his bed look like? . . . Then I had a brilliant idea to put down my little stuff (not talking about my small penis) preserved. I thought too much valuable information is being lost because all the people do it and it’d be considered foolish to take note of it.

Thus, my brilliant mind had an idea to change the way people write, to make sure no information is lost, ever , and to make millions and billions in terms of money…….. Only to find that what I was thinking of is a diary. A fucking diary. A small notebook which is generally found in the hands of teenage girls.

*Starts to question his own sanity and masculinity*

A Rant on Introverts

Against the Introverts, by an Introvert

I hate tags in all forms. Be it clothes, weblogs, lifestyle or price tags. No, not actually hate; I just don’t think they have a point except for prices and various other consumer details. I am sure you’d agree with me when I say that our society over-generalises everything nowadays. And now since I’ve got you to agree on this one tiny thing, you’ll agree with me that we introverts are what is wrong with the world today (because I’ve read about Ben Franklin Effect).

Yes, we have always shyed away from the spotlight, but know who holds the reins when it comes to working behind the scenes. Majority of artists, writers, scientists and internet trolls are us. We seem to be quiet around people. But give us anonymous masks and see our true colours shine through. We can be the most obnoxious people you will ever meet in your pathetically short life.

Introverts are self obsessed to the point that it hurts those who watch them. Look at us fumble, tumble and rumble as we keep our heads down and walk around. We NEED to stay alone, we don’t LIKE to stay alone (just as I need to wash myself daily, I don’t like it). We stay in our ivory towers, looking down on people who are a bit more social than us. We like giving off orders and make sure to punish those who don’t follow them.

We tend to belittle others because well, we have been made fun of too. We would have made an ‘Introverts Club’ and met regularly, but our natural inclination won’t let us be around so many strangers. The only support you see us giving to social causes is a share button. We may prefer texting over talking and staying outdoors with a book. You may find us in Libraries or swimming pools or taking a hike or painting or even conducting a scientific research. But generally we are behind the screen of computers and mobile phones.

All I am trying to say is, the world may see introverts as shy and awkward people; we are. We like to show ourselves as being holier than everyone; we aren’t. But we are all much more. We all are. That includes the extroverts too.

 

 

 

 

 

A Short Story

This is an excerpt from the story ‘The Shepherd Boy’ by Brothers Grimm. The narrator has added his own style to it. A similar speech has been used in the series Doctor Who in the episode Heaven Sent.

 

“How many seconds in eternity?”, you ask.
“There’s a mountain just outside the feilds of Svithjod, made of pure diamond. It takes an hour long to climb it, and an hour to go around. Everyday, a little bird comes to sharpen its beak upon the mountain and wears it away little by little, day by day. When that final piece of diamond would have chiseled away, the first second of eternity would have passed.”

 

Some people listen to the story and think, “Well, that’s one hell of a long time”.

Some people listen to the story and think, “Well, that’s one hell of a bird”.

How to use shampoo

A guide to using shampoo properly

Yes! I am that jobless! But in my defence, I haven’t written for more than a month and I didn’t want my digital ink to dry out. I could say that I missed you guys but I didn’t.

Now every idea has a story behind it. Mine was shampoo running out at an alarming pace. Yes, I use product in my hair, I am a modern man. I even use conditioner after the wash. Top that! Anyway, I live in a dusty town. Not like the wild west where sand blows dramatically, but we still manage to suffer from the dust and dirt.

Being a frugal man, I am alarmed by the increasing cost of everything. Be it your day, girl child, your recent document, your money or even your latest game, I believe in saving (I think I have said it earlier too). Hence the post. Save shampoo while showering.

Steps:

1. Rinse and soak your dirty hair with water.

2. Take 1/3rd of the amount of shampoo you generally use and wash away the dirt.

3. Rinse your head again to remove the scum.

4. This step is for those who use conditioners as well – apply your conditioner right now (try to use half of what you normally use). Leave it on for as long as you deem it worthy.

5. If your conditioner is one which asks to be left on the scalp after use, throw it away.

6. Apply more shampoo (about 1.5 times you used earlier) to completely remove the conditioner and wash your hair perfectly.

I have used this method and made my 500 mL shampoo last for 6 months, which is very sad. It is. Very, very sad.

 

 

 

 

 

A Song

A Review of a Song

Coke Studio Season 10 – Episode 2
Title: Faasle
Link:
https://youtu.be/9sekgEXGm-E
I am not a music lover. I tend to hate most of the songs now produced. For me, music was better when ugly people were allowed to make it. So I don’t listen to new artists because I end up never listening them again if I didn’t find them interesting on the first try. Hence I don’t review songs; or any art. I just enjoy it.

But, there are songs and then there are songs. I can pretty much treat songs on the former category with indifference. It is the second category that kills me. They stir an emotion that can not contain itself inside me. It makes me want to share that feeling with everyone around me. So here I am, sharing that feeling with all of you.
Introduction: This is a song of unrequited love, of love found and love lost. It is a song of remembrance, a blessing to the beloved, an ode to the times they have shared. This song laughs in the face of fate who has forced the lovers to be apart.

Lyrics (as per YouTube captions)(translated from Hindi/Urdu):

A chasm has opened up
All paths have failed
What cure is there now for broken hearts?
The happiness that always remained beyond my reach
May you be blessed with it wherever you may go
I pray fervently that you continue to prosper in life
And that all your hopes and dreams may come true
May your world never reflect the barrenness of mine
Never reflect the barrenness of mine.

Your each and every memory is etched into my heart
The way you would smile at me
The way you would whisper to me that “you belong only to me”
God only knows how it came to this pass
How we came to be driven apart.
I abandoned everything for you
I burnt all my boats to come here to you
But you never became mine
You simply walked away
I don’t know where you disappeared, taking my heart with you.
Where would I go?

I’m still right here
I’m present in every beat of your heart
You’re in my dreams when I sleep
In my thoughts when I’m awake
At each and every moment, you’re with me.
My heart beats for no one but you
Now it will never belong to anyone else
I am saying goodbye
I am saying goodbye….

The Philosophers Stoned, as we like to call ourselves, have had a discussion on this song. We all have been through heart-breaks, we all have someone we call our ‘the one’. After a few hours of “discussing”, one of us made an observation.

This song is not about a love lost. The love was still in the heart of the lovers. There is now a physical distance between them. Emotionally, they are still together. Even the singer says that he is in the beating of her heart. While she is in his every waking thoughts and sleepless dream.

“The lover gives his heartfelt blessings to her, she is ready to abandon everything for him. This really is a straight forward song, not too complex. One is supposed to laugh at such childish things,but after listening to him, I feel empathetic and even jealous of the kind of love he has.”

“After all, one can’t simply move on. The ones we love don’t leave us, not really.”

I know, this may sound a bit too lovey-dovey to you. But you can’t argue that there is something magical in that composition. The slow vocals of Ms. Quraitulain Balouch seem to stop the progression of time. Kaavish’s (the singer-guitar duo) sound is free from the mainstream crap and sounds very genuine. No part of the song seems to be forced upon the listener. I have listened to this song countless times and still couldn’t figure out how 5 minutes have actually passed. This song isn’t great, it is good, in the absolute sense of the word.

An Interview

In case I ever become famous (which is very probable and will happen very soon), I don’t want to be that person who wastes his time surrounded by reporters and photographers all the time. My time will be used up in more productive persuits like making dehydrated water, refillable refills, re-lightable matchsticks, a seven shot pistol, mascara that fades away after 6 hours, a clock that rotates anti-clockwise, etc (you get the general idea).

Naturally, the media will be after me, trying to get my story published, earlier than their competitors. Well boo hoo! I beat them all to it. I have interviewed myself. You guys can use the interview to generate more traffic for your blog.

Moving on, let’s waste some more time. I want to give you the perfect buildup. Our world has a very limited time. People want to waste it very sparingly. The main point of an interview is for the audience/visuience to know the interviewee. (I could have written an “about” page. But since when did I start following my own thoughts?) So here I am, giving you the much unawaited interview. Just a little disclaimer though: All questions and answers in this “interview” are fictional. But that does not make them untrue or fake. I have tried my best to keep the questions offensive,but I can’t please everyone; I am not a pizza. (Re-re-reading my blog, I DO HAVE an about page. Well, I fancied another section about me. Shoot me!)

The Interview:
Me: Hello and welcome. Our readers would like to know a little bit about you.
Also Me: Thanks for having me. I am not a very interesting person to know. Just your average guy next door. I write blogs and read them too. In between, I manage to run a small business.
Me: How did your writing journey began?
Also Me: I began writing in my elementary school. The teachers tell me that I was very bad at it. I was intrigued by that. I wanted to do something I am bad at. Seriously though, diary and journal writing was a habit I had to develop over time. I had read that many great leaders used to maintain their daily records, I wanted to become great like them. It all started with writing down lyrics from favourite songs. Once or twice I wrote down things that were bothering me. Something magical happened at that moment. Writing became my therapy, my outlet for unnamed emotions. Suddenly I could take my thoughts out and re-think them as per my requirement. It was handier than a pensive in Harry Potter.
Me: Wow thanks. Although I’d prefer you give out short answers. Good for the featured list and radio friendly too.
Also Me: ,|,,(-_-),,|,
Me (After a pause) : Any particular influences that helped define your writing style?
Also Me: Not any one particular blog. I have taken influences from various authors, bloggers, lyricists, poets, content writers, painters, drawers (they who draw), reporters, journalists (they who write a journal) and many more. Feynman’s Lectures on Physics, a very popular blog called unbolt.me , Ayn Rand’s Fountainhead, Sherlock Holmes’ stories and Methods Of Rationality changed my perspective drastically. My writing style is borrowed, stolen, inspired and modified form of all the things I have read. But somehow, everything feels so personal too. I would have hated myself if I merely copied them. Instead all of their thoughts, their way of expression were interpreted by me and are presented here in the things I write.
Me: Any recommendations for the new upcoming blogger?
Also Me: Yes. Stop writing!
Me: Excuse me?…. I mean… Please elaborate why shouldn’t they write.
Also Me: I think writers, authors, bloggers, musicians and all artists in general, try to shove their points down others’ throats. I get it, Mundane Monday Challenges, Hundred word story Challenge, A quote a day challenge, Typing with your left hand challenge are fun; but their aim is to let the writing juices flow and not become the only thing people talk about. An artist creates his art to express what is inexpressible using day to day tools. If there ever was a time where you thought that you’d explode if you didn’t let the idea out, then you know what I am talking about. So yeah, don’t write because you can. Write because you can’t not.
Me: That’s really deep. Especially coming from someone who’s blog has URL “a chaotic state of mind”
*Sound of punching and breaking vases on interviewer’s head*
Me: I meant that it was a very unusual title. Why did you choose such a name?
Also Me: I have tried to think about thinking and its processes. The hows, whens and the whys of thought formation and their transition to actions and memories. Some thoughts become memories because of emotional attachment, some because of their utility while others because of their absurdity. Once these memories are stored, they become strangely attached and intertwined. The only way I can define these memories and thoughts is through the word chaos. Hence the name.
Me: Looks like someone has been using a lot of thesaurus lately.
*Sound of slapping on cheeks*
Also Me: Well, you were asking for it.
Me: No way. All I asked for was an interview.
Me: Referring to the so called “deleted” post, who was that girl?
Also Me: She goes by the name ‘none of your business’. That story is mind’s version of whatever had happened between her and me. Nothing more, nothing less. Now be a good Elsa and let it go.
Me: Okay. All right. Let’s talk about the weather.
Also Me: Something about the Interview please.
Me: Yeah.. Thanks for the interview. It was really…okay-ish.
*Sounds of pushing someone out and banging of door*
*Angrily murmurs*

You are ‘mean’

An Average Story

All my life I have been defined as an average kid. Not a normal one; just average! Average by looks, built, smartness and pathetic in terms of coolness. But I never let it get to my heart. I worked hard and showed them that they were right.

I got myself thinking, what exactly people mean when they called me average? Do they mean that I was the sum of the total human beings divided by the total number of human beings? Or was I the most frequently occurring human being that they know of? Or somehow I had all the traits found in human beings? Or maybe that everyone was exactly like me. As usual, I went to the great reddit library where all the masterminds of the internet come to discuss useless ideas. I came up with the following information:

Average = Total of elements/No. of elements

or Average (geometric mean)= nth root of product of n numbers

or Average (harmonic mean) = Number of elements/sum of reciprocals of elements

or Average (median) = The middlemost value in a sorted array

or Average (mode) = The most frequently occurring value in a sample

Not sure where to proceed with that, I logged out of my account and decided to have a nap. But as usual, I stared at the ceiling for a few hours thinking up some clever idea to have fun with ‘mean’. Consider a case of marks of 10 students in an exam : 10,8,7,7,6,7,6,8 ,8 and 7 (the teacher wont give marks in decimals and there was a point for trying). The average of these values comes out as:

Arithmetic mean: 7.4 Geometric Mean: 7.32 Mode:7 Median:7 Harmonic Mean:7.24

Here, the means gave me no means to make sense of the data. I mean none of the students got 7.4, 7.32 or 7.24 marks. I am pretty sure if there was a different set of data, I wouldn’t have gotten proper values for the median as well as mode.

Majority of the people got lower than 7.4, 7.32 or 7.24 marks (a total of 6). This might imply that majority of the people are below average (contradictory to what you might believe).

The median did not divide the population strictly into halves. Only two people were below and four were above the median. If there were no duplicate marks, it’d have done that.

The geometric mean and harmonic mean would have failed miserably when even one of the students got zero marks (just consider it for my sake this time).

The closest I’ve come to a real explanation is here. But they say that the term geometric mean is the arithmetic mean of graphs and I lost my mind (actually I think I lost it long back).

I think the average is just a mathematical concept, not existing in real life. You might never meet the average person, the average score of a player doesn’t give you any useful information except that he/she is a regular at scoring high. The “average ” person has lesser than two eyes, the average good weather can definitely ruin an outdoor picnic. The whole concept of ‘mean’ makes very less sense to me.The statistics and percentage figures leave me with a sense of bewilderment.

The ‘means’ are definitely mean. Perhaps some of you would care to explain the concepts to me.

The Decline of Poetry

PS: I have written this piece over a year ago. I deleted my old blog (still not sure of the reason). But this one was the favourite one of mine.

Have you ever tried reading Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Shelley’s Ode to the west wind, Poe’s The Raven, Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening or Tennyson’s The Brook? If you did, you might have enjoyed the imagery, the symbolism and the overall general flow of the written words. Those were the days when poems were not written, but created. They had this musical quality about them, something that made the poem linger on in our minds even after we stopped reading or reciting them.
The poets of that era were true romantics, they found beauty in things such as a lonely maiden on the hills, the flowing of the river or a stroll through the woods. The poems were refined, untouched by vulgarity and were written with a sense of purpose.
The modern poems undoubtedly, posses these things, but to a very less extent. The evolution of poems have caused a massive mutation which has made them ugly, for lack of a better word.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep…
And Miles to go before I sleep

Did you feel the smooth, buttery flow of the words, just like the delicious softness of a red velvet cake? I find the modern poetry lacking this aspect of the art.

For example, if someone wanted to write about sunrise today, it’d go something along the lines of.

The sun
Rising in the east
Spreading its warmth
The morning wind blows
It feels good
Much wow, such morning, very fresh.

and…. it’d be a best seller. The most important part of being a poet was being poor and misunderstood. The only poems worth their weight were written by poets who had been dead at least for a good 100 years.
The younger poet was frequently found in his opium den, wasting away his nights, waiting for an idea to flash through his mind. Being a poet was a full time job. You had to have earned your living only through selling your poems. You couldn’t own a business or be a doctor by the side.
But alas, this culture came to an end. Nowadays there are more poems and poets than readers. Lawyers, teachers, doctors, actors, engineers, etc have now taken up part-time poetry as their hobby. Many have even published their works. Sad part is, they themselves do not read the modern poems and complain when others don’t read theirs’. Nowadays, poems are written just because people want to amuse themselves. There’s an aspiring poet in every house who is waiting for his next chance. Where have the good ol’ days of smoke filled rooms gone?
I know some of you may feel offended by this. This article is meant for entertainment purposes only. (Just like your Poems). I know my poems aren’t exactly in league with the classics too. Hell, I know they are downright pathetic. But it hasn’t stopped me from writing. I know you won’t stop too.
But this is about the general downfall of poetry, not the poets. It’s still men ( or women) that write poems. Only the art that was passed down has been changed. Poets today lack direction, not talent.
I do like the different writing styles and the challenge they posses for poet as well as the reader. But if I come across something like:

Left
Is what you did to me.
Right
Is what I’ll never be.
Up
It’s where I look to see.
Down
Is all I’ve got to feel.

… it makes me throw up on the inside. I mean C’mon! That isn’t poetry. It is just a random collection of words that does not even make sense. It doesn’t even qualify as a sentence.

Putting the dressing on salad; I would like to request for one more time, to kindly keep on doing whatever you are doing. I had the idea for this post while I was going through some poems which I wrote myself. I thought, why not make fun of my own piss poor works?

A VPP( Very poor poem):

Ur brown eyes are like cups of coffee
So sweet like fresh toffee
You come in my life as a dream
Just like I add some cream
Oh you look lovely in that dress
Just like fresh coffee from the french press.

Whatever your name be, Martha or Margaret,
I enjoy you like I enjoy a cigarette.
Just like my fav beans, u r fine
My favourite cup, u r mine.

You make me feel alive, u r not like others.
U aren’t decaf for sure, say my brothers.
Sweet and light, just like coffee cup
If I ever met you, I’d say Sup.

Whether it’s Monday or Sunday.
I’ll take you home, some day.

If u r Irish, I’ll add some whiskey
I’d lock myself with you and throw away the key
And if you are vegan, I’ll have a latte of soy
Oh my love, you bring me so much joy.

………..
(shoots himself)