2 15-oz cans of diced tomatoes or dice 3 fresh tomatoes
1 diced onion
2 tsp of mashed ginger
2 tbsp of mashed garlic
1/4 cup of ghee
2 thinly slit serrano pepper or other chili pepper
1/4 cup of water
8 curry leaves
3 bay leaves
2 tsp of garam masala
2 tsp of turmeric powder
1 tsp of curry powder
1 tsp of cumin seeds
red chili pepper flakes
salt and pepper to taste
cilantro as garnish
1. Melt ghee and heat it over medium heat. Toss in cumin seeds (it’ll be hot enough when they pop).
2. Add in garlic, ginger, curry leaves, onion, red chili pepper flakes
3. Cook until onion is translucent and then add 2 cans of chickpeas, garam masala, curry powder, bay leaves, tomatoes, water, and remaining ingredients leaving 1 can of chickpeas aside.
4. Cook for 30 minutes and then immersion blend after removing curry leaves and bay leaves
5. Add last can of chickpeas and cilantro, stir constantly and add water if needed for 45 minutes
The other day I was thinking about how terrible racial slurs are.
I mean, for a white guy.
Are you honestly going to look me in the face, in rage, and say cracker?
I’m going to respond, yeah it’s in aisle 14 next to the cookies.
You’re calling me a honkey?
I’m going to say, Uh did you mean donkey?
And if so, just shorten it up and call me an ass.
Don’t try to be high-brow with some iota of class.
Paleface?
Really?
Where is Pocahontas?
And I’m talking for white men, not white women.
White women can be called bitches, sluts, whores, hoes, or worse Tiger Woods wife.
But you can be every shade of the rainbow and get that nametag – except for Tiger’s wife, he doesn’t roll that way.
White guys get the pass with the bullshit tags.
Can’t we get better insults than these?
Do you realize almost every serial killer is a white dude?
Call me Dahmer! I’ll promise not to think you mispronounced dumber.
How about Bundy? It could be mocking Ted or Al, and I’m sure at least a few will be upset.
You can say stuff like wigger, 8 Mile, and redneck
And I promise that I’ll hold in the laughter.
For serious this stuff doesn’t hurt.
None of what I said has the power or velocity of the N-bomb, or um wait this makes me uncomfortable.
I seriously read that people bust on white dudes by calling them Crisco.
Really? Is that even supposed to make a dent?
The slurs suck because we hold the keys
There is no pain behind them.
Years of slavery for white dudes don’t exist.
Intolerance seems to only occur for the ones not in charge.
I say fuck that.
White guys, we need to unite and get our own N-word.
We need to feel that pain.
We need to know that hurt.
We need to understand.
I want someone to bust on white people but feel slightly uncomfortable doing it.
You know why? Because it means the power is distributed.
People are more equal.
How great would it be to say the W-bomb.
Live in a mansion, in my own wing, cook on occasion, clean, and do some errands.
All for $1000 bucks per week plus room and board.
How sweet it is.
I didn’t think that I’d ever land the job of course.
My boyfriend encouraged me. Do it, you never know.
So I wrote an email, sent my resume over, crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.
I got a reply back asking to see a picture of myself.
Thought that was odd, but my boyfriend said, dear that’s probably because they don’t want to filter out the weirdos.
Send the nice one from the beach last summer, you look cute and innocent!
Got a reply, can you interview next Thursday?
Oh boy, I thought, so I showed up in a nice dress because I have no idea what a maid in a mansion is supposed to wear – those maid uniforms in the movies can’t be real right?
I met the husband – he said the wife was away and would be living in their other home attending to business for the next few months.
The interview went well – could I start next week? Let me show you where you’ll be staying.
You have free run of the house, you may have guests over – and we encourage it. We want people to think people are home more often than we ever are.
He told me, you’re young and I’m sure someone will try to get you to throw a party here – we realize that. It’s okay just make sure you tidy up afterwards.
The house was a spectacle. All the latest technology and gadgets.
My room was nice, sparse, but well-lit, with its own bathroom – a very large one.
Time went by and I rarely saw the husband if at all. Always on business trips, never around.
He paid me in cash, every week there was an envelope slide under my room’s door. He said it was to avoid paying taxes and told me to keep quiet about it.
No problem I said, this is a dream job!
After a while I got more comfortable in my living space, my boyfriend would come over, stay the night sometimes.
We had some of my college roommates over for small gatherings – I was always careful to clean up afterwards and make sure things were in their right spots.
I remember when my boyfriend first sent me the link, saying, Oh my god you have to see this!
It’s you.
Couldn’t believe my eyes.
$9.99 per month.
I looked at the preview pictures, some of them looked like me sure, but come on.
Then I noticed the bedside lamp.
It was mine.
I joined the site because I wanted to know more. Was this me? Was there a camera on me?
It saw me dressing in the morning – I liked to sleep in the nude because unlike most women my body temperature always seemed too hot.
It saw me showering, and bathing, putting on my makeup.
It watched me through the mirror when I would sing along to my favorite songs.
It did close-ups when I was having sex with my boyfriend.
It watched us be intimate.
It heard me say I love him and him reply the same.
We waited till the next time he came back.
We kept it quiet.
We washed down the walls and only wore gloves for the days leading up to my next pay day.
The waiting was worse than knowing that people were watching – but the show must go on.
He finally arrived to pay me, once again sliding an envelope under my door.
An oddly non-intrusive way for paying for unfettered access to every detail of my life.
We sprang on him.
Tied him up.
Let them all watch.
Stabbing someone for the first time is this weird rush of anticipation, dread, and instinct.
The second, third and fourth times were similar just with less.
After you’ve done it multiple times over, it becomes a chore almost.
You’re relishing every moment in your mind while your muscles are asking you to stop.
Some people say sex sells, well murder doubles the profits.
