Boundless and Unfiltered

Author: SM

  • Why do we crave adventures that make us question our sanity?

    Having recently completed the Everest Base Camp trek, I find myself haunted by a few burning questions: What is it about seeking risk, danger, and extreme conditions that makes us feel alive? Why do we voluntarily throw ourselves into situations where comfort is a distant memory, and sanity seems like an afterthought?

    I mean, I just spent weeks trudging through some of the most unforgiving terrain on Earth, battling subzero temperatures and the smell of my own unwashed self (we’ll get to that), and yet… here I am, already planning my next misadventure. Because apparently, climbing a mountain that doesn’t even have a shower at the end isn’t enough for me.

    Limits, Schlimits

    There’s something about pushing yourself –physically, mentally, emotionally – to the absolute brink that makes you feel more alive than ever. It’s like life pulls back the curtain and says, “Oh, so you think you’re tough? Let’s see how you handle frostbite and a desperate need for deodorant.” And somehow, you thrive.

    But it’s not just about the personal challenge. No, trekking to Everest Base Camp also brings some philosophical ah-ha moments. Like realising how hilariously insignificant you are.

    Picture this: you’re a tiny speck on a spinning rock in an infinite universe, worrying about your patchy lawn or that pimple on your chin. Meanwhile, the Himalayas don’t care. They’ve been standing tall for millions of years, laughing at us mortals and our silly little problems. It’s humbling. It’s mind-boggling. It’s also slightly offensive when you realise that, yeah, your grass or your pimple really doesn’t matter.

    The Cold, Hard Reality

    Now let’s talk about what really pushed me to my limits: the conditions.

    • Nightly temperatures: a brisk -25 to – 35°C.

    • Daytime temperatures: still very much below zero.

    • Showers: Oh wait, what showers?

    • Toilets: Let’s just call them “character-building exercises.”

    There was no warmth, no fireplaces, no heaters, no electric blankets. You’re cold? Tough luck. You layer up and pray that your thermal socks don’t betray you. I spent over a week in this freezing wilderness, realising just how little we actually need to survive. It’s the ultimate crash course in needs vs. wants.

    And honestly, I survived. We all do. Humans are surprisingly resilient creatures when there’s no other option. But let me tell you, there’s nothing like coming back to civilisation and rediscovering the joy of a heated room, a proper shower, and – bless the universe – Japanese toilets. Warm, magical, high-tech wonders. I wept.

    The Takeaway

    Adventures are amazing. They push us, challenge us, and give us a high that can’t be replicated. But let’s not kid ourselves – coming home to modern comforts is chef’s kiss.

    So, here’s my advice. Go seek adventure. Chase the treacherous paths, the lofty summits, and the questionable hygiene standards. But when it’s all said and done, embrace the soft towels, hot meals, and yes, that life-affirming button on a Japanese toilet. Because sometimes, adventure is about realising how great it feels to come home.

  • Khichdi: The alchemy of comfort

    Ah, khichdi. The golden, mushy marvel that deserves its own place in the pantheon of life’s great comforts. Not just a dish – it’s a state of being. A molten lava-like concoction of spiced rice and lentils that quietly heals and revolutionises your soul, one spoonful at a time.

    How does one exist without khichdi? Seriously, I’d like to know. Because for as long as I can remember, khichdi has been the backbone of my survival strategy. Breakup? Khichdi. Thunderstorms? Khichdi. Wallet thinner than my patience on a Monday? Khichdi. Open fridge, echoing with emptiness? Khichdi to the rescue.

    This humble, unassuming dish is the mothership we all return to when life’s chaos threatens to send us hurtling into the void. Joyful moments, too – though let’s face it, khichdi thrives in crisis situations. Like a wise maternal figure with a ladle in hand, it soothes, nurtures, and slowly nudges you back to hope, humanity, and the quiet conviction that everything will, somehow, be okay.

    And let’s talk economics here. A bowl of khichdi costs mere pennies to make, yet its worth? Absolutely priceless. It’s kitchen alchemy at its finest—turning pantry staples into a meal that feels like it was sent from the heavens. Rice, lentils, maybe a pinch of spice, and voilà! Breakfast, lunch, or dinner is sorted. Khichdi doesn’t discriminate – it’s there for you, 24/7.

    So, next time you’re teetering on the edge of existential despair (or just staring at an empty fridge), let khichdi be your guide. It’s not just food – it’s sustenance for the body, balm for the soul, and proof that sometimes, the simplest things in life are the most profound.

    Alchemy? Maybe not. Khichdi is the philosopher’s stone.

  • The sauce of life: Why sauces deserve a spot on the pedestal of culinary greatness

    Let’s be real: life without sauce is like a party without music – a sad, flavourless affair. Whether it’s the fiery zing of Hungry Jack’s spicy sauce or the velvety richness of béchamel, sauces are the glue that holds our meals together (literally, in the case of lasagna). And if you disagree, well, I suggest we settle this over a very dry, gravy-less roast.

    Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Aren’t sauces just condiments in fancier clothes?” Wrong. Sauces are an art form, a philosophy, dare I say, a religion. The French understood this when they crowned béchamel, espagnole, velouté, tomato, and hollandaise as the mother sauces. Not “aunt” or “second cousin twice removed” sauces – MOTHER sauces. That’s the level of respect we’re talking about here.

    Take the English roast for example. A quintessential classic, yes, but without gravy? It’s just a collection of well-intentioned ingredients looking for purpose. It’s a team with no coach. A symphony with no conductor. The gravy, my friends, is the soul of the roast. It turns a plate of meat and potatoes into a full-on experience.

    And let’s not forget the unsung heroes of the sauce world – those little packets from fast-food joints. Who among us hasn’t dunked a fry into a suspiciously orange sauce and thought, “This is what happiness tastes like”? Hungry Jack’s spicy sauce could probably broker peace treaties if given the chance.

    But sauces aren’t just about taste. Oh no. They’re a lifestyle. A philosophy. A declaration to the world that you demand better from your meals. That you won’t settle for “meh” when “magnificent” is just a drizzle away.
    So, to all the sauce sceptics out there, I say this: embrace the sauce. Let it runneth over your roasts, drizzle down your burgers, and smother your pasta. Because life is short, and meals without sauce are just… sad.

    In conclusion: sauces maketh the meal. They maketh the experience. Heck, they maketh me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some béchamel to perfect.

  • Supernormal: Out of this world every time

    Stepping into Supernormal feels like walking into a space where great food, impeccable service, and good vibes collide. Whether you’re there to celebrate a special occasion or just grabbing a casual lunch, this gem promises – and delivers – a memorable experience.

    What makes Supernormal so extraordinary is its ability to make every guest feel welcome. It’s not just about the fantastic dishes (which are a delight in their own right), but the way the staff treats you like a VIP, no matter how you show up.

    Denim shorts and a t-shirt? No makeup? Full glam? It doesn’t matter. You have the freedom to show up 100% as your true self, in whichever way that is and Supernormal’s team ensures you feel comfortable and valued, bringing the same warmth, care, and attention each time. This kind of consistent, inclusive service is rare and sets them apart.

    You leave Supernormal not just full but already plotting your next visit. It’s like they’ve sprinkled something addictive in the air – or maybe it’s just the dumplings. Either way, Supernormal isn’t just out of this world; it’s the kind of place you’ll wish was just around the corner from your house.

    If you haven’t been yet, fix that. And if you have, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

  • Curry-ing disappointment: A Kerala foodie’s tale of broken paratha promises

    As an Indian, stepping into a restaurant promising Home Style Kerala Food sets my expectations soaring—like a coconut tree reaching for the sky. And why not? I’m here for prawns so immersed in spiced coconut broth that they might as well have been marinated in it for generations. I want a chicken curry that doesn’t just smack my face with heat and spice but gives it a Bollywood-worthy slap of joy. And the raita? It should be a cool, velvety oasis sprinkled with crisp cucumber jewels to soothe my taste buds after the curry’s fiery festival.

    But alas, at Toddy Shop – a fantastic name, by the way – those dreams withered like a stale dosa. My hopes were dashed when the prawns swam out flavourless, the chicken curry merely whispered, and the paratha? Oh, the betrayal of a frozen paratha when my soul craves the flaky embrace of one made fresh!

    Even my husband, who after years of consuming real-deal Indian cooking, has achieved honorary masala connoisseur status, left deflated. The service was lukewarm, the flavours tepid, and – dare I say it – no brown hands in the kitchen crafting the culinary magic.

    Look, it’s not that I’m against innovation or other cultures making Indian food. But when the result is less “Kerala masterpiece” and more “spiced-up mediocrity,” I can’t help but mourn.

    Thank goodness for places like Dishoom in the UK, where the curries sing, the spices dance, and authenticity isn’t just a word on the menu. One day, Australia will get its Dishoom moment – a place where you can’t wait for the next bite of that chicken curry. Just… not today.

    Dreams dashed, but hope simmers on.