I can’t seem to make tasty Indian food. Unfortunately for Phil and me, that doesn’t keep me from trying. The first time, I attempted Chicken Tikki Masala. I followed a recipe but, somehow, the chicken tasted too…. chickeny. I’m not sure I can better describe what I mean except that, with every bite, we were hyper aware that we were eating poultry. Anyway, two days ago I tried my hand at Chicken Curry with Peas and, I don’t know how I managed it, but the smell of the dish was reminiscent of my family Cockapoo after he escapes and returns from the neighboring marsh. Yes, the food reeked of wet dog.
The main problem in each of these cases is that I cook in bulk– and I don’t throw food away– so we’ve had to suffer through. Bite, chew, swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. Then we look in the refrigerator, see three remaining Tupperware full of leftovers, and swallow again.
Yesterday at lunch, I plugged my nose and pushed my way through a bowl of marshy curry– then I went off to a pole dancing class.
Because my grandmother reads this blog, I must emphasize that I am not interested in a career change. It’s just that, last year, my girlfriends treated me to a pole dancing class during my bachelorette party, and it was quite possibly the best exercise I’ve ever had. Combine that with the winter weight I’ve accumulated this season and the fact that I can’t resist a deal: I purchased six pole dancing classes from Living Social for the price of two.
But this class was not like my bachelorette party where we giggled and made funny faces. This class had actual strippers in it.
I walked in wearing basketball shorts and a white t-shirt that’s yellowing under the armpits. The other girls wore shorts booty-er than boxer briefs. They let their hair hang loose while I tied mine in a high ponytail. They looked sexy, and to say that I looked like a stereotypical butch lesbian would be an insult to stereotypical butch lesbians.
Alas, class began. We danced a little and swung a little. They climbed the poles– I sort of jumped at the pole, clung for dear life, and then slid to the floor like the fat kid on the rope in gym class. As expected, it was a good work out and I was sweating. That’s when I first smelled it. A familiar fragrance. Exotic and pungent. Not just body odor, not just something you might expect in a workout environment. More like….
Or more specifically, marsh curry.
The spice wafted from my pores together with my workout stink.
There were real professionals in the room. Talented strippers. Legitimate athletes. At one point, one of the girls climbed up, pinched the pole between her triceps and torso, released all four hands and legs, flipped upside down, and hung– held up by only her arm! And there I was, smelling like Mumbai. I swear the girl I shared a pole with sniffed me and wrinkled her nose. Then she got a paper towel and wiped down the pole.
Yup, I grossed out a Long Island stripper. I guess I can scratch that off my bucket list.
One class down, five more to go.