The mood at VatulNet HQ is a bit somber today what with miserable southern weather, the western world in an understandable tizzy, and the second anniversary of friend Matthew Baker’s passing. Stewing in the heat of Houston himself, txyankee shares the eulogy he wrote for this intelligent and vivacious Stratfor analyst who was killed by a crazy neighbor.

Not a habitual cook, I ventured this past weekend into preparing an entire South Indian meal from scratch. The menu: dosas, sambar and payasam. KM’s charge was making the masala dosa, chutneys and pakoras. Thus, my esteemed colleague and I would bring together people of varying backgrounds to partake in the novel experience of South Indian home cooking. As it turns out,

a) I do have patience,
b) said patience works only on highly personal projects born of motivation, and
c) were Tamil Nadu to have a state fair with a sambar-judging category, my potent concoction may just win all possible ribbons.

Now, I relay some of my personal experiences as a modern-day, female scientist who switched a few big gears as she moved into the kitchen.

What Not To Do:

1. Do Not Freak Out When Grinding urad dal, parboiled rice and raw rice in a 12-year-old Braun blender. As much as the urad dal does not want to grind down and however coarse the rice initially seems, stop the emergency call to mom this instant, step away from the phone, and use the time to break the dal and rice into smaller batches. The stuff eventually grinds down and your tears don’t help one bit when it comes to the correct amount of moisture required.

2. The Low Flame Is Your Friend. Hence, the title of this post. No part of the meal tastes hurried, burned or undercooked when you let the pot absorb the heat slowly, instead of outright blistering and shriveling your food into oblivion. Take heed, ye wannabe Tamilian cooks, the thalichukottal (tempering of spices in hot oil before adding to meal) is amazing when you let it take its time and let all of the mustard seeds pop and the urad dal cook to golden perfection.

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After all the hooplah and hand-wringing, Hurricane Dennis hit the panhandle of Florida, deflated into a tropical depression, and took swirly-patterned rains and winds into my old home, the Midwest.

New Orleans wasn’t entirely spared. We sustained heavy winds, unnecessary rain, and many falling objects. These included tree limbs, metal frames, and drunken tourists in the FQ. Don’t yell “Timber!” at the Spur Station.

Lake Pontchartrain, 26 miles across and 30 feet deep, hosted raging waves and threw up its usual fare of salt water, driftwood, and assorted trash. Our visitors from WI sat with D and me inside the safety of The Dock to enjoy hurricanes with the hurricane.

All in all, Dennis didn’t do much to New Orleans, or Louisiana for that matter, but may have caused massive destruction to one of BP’s platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. In reality, officials aren’t sure what caused Thunder Horse to tilt into the water by 20-30 degrees, but for now, we may blame everything on the hurricane, even bad grades and toothaches.

Never fear, the Quarter isn’t under 20 feet of water. Yet.

Fiddlesticks, here we go again. For the record: Tropical storms we can handle.

Cindy, the model tropical storm, did what is expected from a model named Cindy — she threw a tantrum, and, literally, rocked the house.

Let me put it this way: the rain came down so hard last night, one half of New Orleans got washed into the other. While driving into work this morning, I watched as a guy from a cleanup crew raked fallen leaves INTO a city drain. D-OH! And we wonder why we flood every year?!?! At any rate, there are leaves, branches and debris everywhere on our driveway and porches — hot date with the deck broom this evening!

Looks like Dennis (refresh your browser for latest info, if it doesn’t automatically) is turning into a hurricane and is headed our way (following Cindy’s trough — that sounds bad, for some reason).

There is a chance of us evacuating to Tex-ass this weekend. Attention, attention: I REALLY DON’T WANT TO.

Ivan the Terrible … Dennis the Menace … If this keeps up, they’ll have to name one Maitri the Downright Unfriendly.

As if wading through this morning’s torrential downpour wasn’t fun enough, we’ll be doing it again tomorrow morning with borrowed vigor.